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- Herausgeber: Kotu Beach Press
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
Snarky, delicious fun! The Camilla Randall mysteries are a laugh-out-loud mashup of romantic comedy, crime fiction, and satire.
Perennially down-and-out socialite Camilla Randall is a magnet for murder, mayhem and Mr. Wrong, but she always solves the mystery in her quirky, but oh-so-polite way. Usually with more than a little help from her gay best friend, Plantagenet Smith.
This prequel to the Camilla mysteries romps through the glitzy 1980s, when 19-year-old Camilla loses everything: her fortune, her gay best friend, and eventually her freedom.
When she's falsely accused of a TV star's murder, she discovers she's made of sterner stuff than anyone imagined--herself included.
In typical Anne R. Allen fashion, the plot twists and turns from one hilarious misadventure to another, leading to a finish sure to catch the reader by surprise.
"…while laugh-out-loud funny, it carries a message about how we view ourselves and how others' views of us may conflict, yet make us grow."
"An engaging Hollywood caper set during the 1980's pits a fashionable New York debutante against a hard-nosed reporter who's had a bad day. I don't even know what to classify this book as -- thriller, romance, comedy, drama, whodunit, who's going to do it -- it has everything!”
"Fans of Marian Keyes will love Camilla!"
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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THE BEST REVENGE
a 1980s comedy
# 3 in the Camilla Randall Mysteries (The Prequel)
by
Anne R. Allen
This edition copyright Anne R. Allen 2014.
––––––––
Published by Kotu Beach Press.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Forward to the 2014 Edition
Chapter 1—The Color of Fresh Money
Chapter 2—Debutante of the Year
Chapter 3—Something in the Woods
Chapter 4—King of the Chickenburgers
Chapter 5—Boring Poor People
Chapter 6—Back to the Closet
Chapter 7—Born to Run
Chapter 8—The House of Nevermore
Chapter 9—Debutramp
Chapter 10—Not Clint Eastwood
Chapter 11—Avocados in the Hot Tub
Chapter 12—Gidget Goes Punk
Chapter 13—Green Slime
Chapter 14—Chocolate Pudding and Other Drugs
Chapter 15—Bad News and Good News
Chapter 16—The Loneliness of the Shoe
Chapter 17—Mr. DeMille's Bad Dream
Chapter 18—Homeless
Chapter 19—Biting Burglars
Chapter 20—Mighty Mice
Chapter 21—Busses and Bosses
Chapter 22—Living Well
Chapter 23—Lila
Chapter 24—Encounters: With Penguins and Others
Chapter 25—Bad Manners Contest
Chapter 26—New Furniture and Old News
Chapter 27—The Right to Arm Bears
Chapter 28—The Doctor is In
Chapter 29—A Birthday Party
Chapter 30—To the Rescue
Chapter 31—Two Cubes, No Water
Chapter 32—Dinner for Two
Chapter 33—Real Self
Chapter 34—I Think I am a Camel
Chapter 35—Dinner for Four
Chapter 36—Clark Gable's Ears
Chapter 37—La Traviata
Chapter 38— Political Prisoners
Chapter 39— Mrs. Lester Stokes Does Not Go To Bergdorf's
Chapter 40—Dr. Lavinia's Secret
Chapter 41—Friends in High Places
Chapter 42—Phase Two
Chapter 43—A Polka Dot Submarine
Chapter 44—Life in Aspic
Chapter 45—Footsteps in the Dark
Chapter 46—A Valley Girl Gone Wrong
Chapter 47—The Manners Doctor
Chapter 48—Pink Mink and Other Disasters
Chapter 49—Tough-Bitch Little Reporter
Chapter 50—Old Friends
Chapter 51—A Celebration
Chapter 52—A Free Woman
Chapter 53—Kissing Mr. Smith
Chapter 54—Chocolate Pudding
Chapter 55—Making Whoopee
Chapter 56—A Discussion
Chapter 57—Violet Rushes Forth
Chapter 58—Almost Like Old Times
Chapter 59—The Triumph of Dr. Lavinia
Chapter 60—A Proposal
Chapter 61—Justice for Mr. Stokes
Chapter 62—Living Well is the Best Revenge
Forward to the 2014 Edition
THE BEST REVENGE was my first novel. The first one I finished, anyway. When I wrote it, I had no thoughts of turning it into a mystery series. It was the heyday of chick lit, and Camilla Randall was intended to be a chick lit heroine.
But she turned out to have more grit than I knew. Camilla and her "inner great aunt" Manners Doctor persona have earned a place in people's hearts.
I decided she deserved a more polished debut.
This book is a comedy: part mystery and part coming-of-age story. It's played for laughs and not intended to be a realistic depiction of life in the 1980s. It's the story of two friends—a straight woman and a gay man—who come to know each other—and themselves—as they endure over-the-top personal disasters and their own roller-coaster relationship.
The timeline is not intended to be mathematically accurate. If Camilla had been nineteen during the timeline of this book, she'd be nearly fifty by 2010, when we meet her again in the first of the official Camilla Randall mysteries, Ghostwriters in the Sky. Instead she is perpetually in her thirties, like Sue Grafton's Kinsey Millhone (and of course Camilla's socialite friends with good plastic surgeons.)
The changes I've made are not to the characters or the plot, but I have rewritten it for a 21st century audience, with shorter chapters, more mystery, and a little more foreshadowing of who Camilla is to become.
Anne R. Allen, Los Osos, California—June 2014
Manhattan: 1985
Chapter 1—The Color of Fresh Money
AS THE MÂITRE D' LED them to their usual table at Votre Maison, Camilla fought her rising panic by clutching Plantagenet's strong, Armani-clad arm.
She had no idea how any debutante survived without a gay best friend.
Plant seemed to read her mind, as always.
"Stop worrying, darling. You look beautiful. Heartbreakingly beautiful. Any lurking Italian princes will be consumed with remorse that they let you slip through their cold, Eurotrash fingers."
Camilla kissed him on the cheek. Dear, dear Plantagenet. He was her fashion consultant, crying shoulder, and all around Gibraltar. She couldn't have made it through the horrors of the past month without him.
Plus he was the handsomest man in the room, which made it so much easier to face the possibility of running into her maybe-former boyfriend, Prince Aldo de Saxi-Cadenti. Aldo hadn't called since her father's funeral—with the same inexplicable cruelty as every other A-list friend she used to have.
As they were seated at their lovely, well-lit table, Camilla envied the underdressed nobodies seated in the dark corner near the kitchen. Nobodies were allowed to hide in shadows—and even appear in public with puffy faces and red eyes—without anybody from the society pages commenting on how they were wallowing in grief.
But Camilla was a Randall. Randalls did not wallow.
She squeezed Plant's hand. "Is the make-up still covering the red around my eyes? I can't let Sybil D-D know I've been crying. She'll use it as an excuse to talk about Aldo."
Plantagenet gave her another look of reassurance as he ordered champagne. He was letting her blame the weepiness on her disappointment about Prince Aldo—although they both knew she'd been planning to dump his highness anyway.
Plant was the perfect friend. He always knew when not to pry.
"You look serene and happy, Camel darling. The prettiest girl in the room. Sybil D-D will turn positively chartreuse with envy." He gave a stagy look at his watch. "How can that scrawny old cat keep the Debutante of the Year waiting?"
Camilla prayed Sybil Diaz-Dreyfuss, the columnist from the New York Guardian, wouldn't show up at all. The whole celebutante thing was getting old—and Plantagenet was right about Sybil being a cat. After all the strange coldness from her so-called friends, Camilla feared Sybil might have something nasty in store.
Even though Plantagenet had dressed Camilla in Porfirio couture—a silk suit in what he called "the color of fresh money," and done deft things with green eye shadow and bronzer, she knew she didn't look her best.
Her life had been turned upside down and inside out by her father's mysterious death. It made no sense that such a safety-conscious man had died in something as stupid as a gun-cleaning accident.
Besides there was that something—or somebody—she'd seen leaving the stables the night she found her father's body. Something huge and shadowy, carrying a rifle, like a well-armed, galumphing bear.
The thing her mother refused to let her talk about.
Mother seemed to think sudden death was affront to good manners—a subject not to be discussed in polite company.
And of course Mother's company was always polite.
Plant grabbed Camilla's hand with sudden urgency.
"Good God. Look who's here." He gestured at a khaki-clad man now making something of a stir as he entered the glittering dining room. "Park Avenue isn't exactly his stomping ground."
Camilla didn't have to be told to look. Although the khaki man wasn't quite as beautiful as Plantagenet, and wore clothes that would have sent Prince Aldo jumping off the Castel Sant'Angelo, he had a profile special-ordered from Mount Olympus, a tanned, muscular body, and quantities of unruly black hair that a stylist would die to tame.
"That's Jonathan Kahn," Plantagenet said. "He's the reporter who leaked the classified papers on nuclear dumping. It's because of him the President says the Guardian should either shut down or register as an agency of a foreign power."
Camilla laughed. She hated politics, but she did enjoy President Reagan's jokes.
Plant leaned in to whisper.
"He went to Nicaragua with that pro-Sandinista group of Angela Harper's. Got himself shot by the Contras."
"He seems to have recovered," Camilla couldn't help saying. "Very nicely, in fact."
"Look, but don't touch, Camel darling. He broke Angela's heart. Her comeback album Blood Red Roses was all about their break-up."
Camilla couldn't picture that gorgeous man with some hippie folk singer. She was about to ask for the dish when she felt one of Plant's Guccis jab her shin.
She looked up into the steely blue eyes of Mr. Jonathan Kahn himself.
Chapter 2—Debutante of the Year
"CAMILLA RANDALL?" THE man in khakis offered his hand. "Jonathan Kahn. New York Guardian."
Camilla squeaked, feeling like some idiot sub-deb.
"But I thought Sybil D-D..."
"Ms. Diaz-Dreyfuss is on her way to London. An emergency with Princess Diana's wardrobe, I understand. I'm her replacement. Editors do like to have their fun."
Camilla let out a giggle. But Mr. Kahn didn't even smile. In fact, he studied her with such concentration she had to touch her shoulder to check if her bra strap was showing.
Plantagenet cleared his throat.
"Please sit down, Mr. Kahn," Camilla said, finally remembering her manners. "This is my friend Plantagenet Smith."
"The playwright?" Mr. Kahn shook Plant's hand. "I've still got the cast album from Boadicea! knocking around my apartment somewhere. You wrote that, didn't you?"
"The book and lyrics are mine." Plantagenet gave his most charming grin. "But don't hold it against me. I've outgrown rock music and naked dancers in blue body paint. I'm working with Edmund Quail now—on a musical about Alexander the Great."
Camilla always cringed for Plantagenet when he talked about Alexander! She knew he hadn't written a word since he moved in with Edmund over a year ago. He wasn't much more than Edmund's houseboy.
"So, Ms. Randall." Mr. Kahn took a notebook from his pocket. "Last February you were named 'Debutante of the Year.' How has the year been for you?"
"Nice. A lovely year." Camilla accepted another glass of champagne as Plantagenet and Mr. Kahn reached an agreement with the waiter about the entrées. She hoped Mr. Kahn wouldn't comment on the fact she was only nineteen.
"What's been lovely?" He turned back to Camilla. "The press coverage? Parties? Clubbing?"
"I adore parties and clubs." She relaxed a bit. Talking about night life was pretty safe territory. "They get a tiring sometimes, but mostly it's all fun. The press, well..." She searched for something tactful to say.
"Camilla wasn't happy about that photo in Vanity Fair," Plantagenet offered.
"The one with Mick Jagger?"
As if there had been more than one photograph of Camilla's derrière published in a national magazine. How much humiliation was she going to have to endure for that one moment when, nervous at meeting an actual Rolling Stone, she'd dropped her purse and bent to pick it up? Okay, she had been right at the entrance to Studio 54, but the press had milked that incident long enough.
"Anything to the rumors about you two?" Mr. Kahn actually looked serious.
"Rumors about me and Mick?" She let out another of the giggles that usually disarmed nosy reporters. "Oh, I certainly hope so."
"So all in all, you've had a lovely year, Ms. Randall? Your father's death hasn't affected your lovely time?"
Camilla's eyes stung, but she kept her smile in place.
Plantagenet put a protective hand on her shoulder. She was grateful for its warmth.
"Of course it's affected her," Plant said. "What kind of question is that?"
"Not such a lovely year then, Ms. Randall?" Mr. Kahn's eyes lasered in on her.
"Not that part. I didn't come here to discuss my father's death. It's not the sort of thing one discusses with strangers."
She realized she sounded like her mother. Or somebody's great aunt.
"What about the growing evidence that Howard P. Randall III killed himself?"
Camilla wrapped her fingers around the stem of her champagne glass and held on. Of course she'd heard the rumors, but her mother said they were "filth."
Kahn was relentless.
"Can you comment on your father's involvement with the savings and loan scandal? Or the accusations that his bank bilked investors out of millions?"
Camilla's face burned as she watched bubbles pop on the surface of her wine. Could it be true? She knew her father had owned banks, among other things. Could some money thing have made him want to die—more than his family made him want to live?
She heard a familiar voice call her name.
"Camilla, carissima!" Porfirio, swathed in silk and smelling of sandalwood, swooped down on their table. She squeezed the designer in a hug, grateful for the diversion, forgetting she was furious with him for his recent comments about her weight. He stood back and examined her, rearranging her collar.
Mr. Kahn harrumphed.
Porfirio turned "How do you do. I..." he offered his hand with a flourish "I am Porfirio."
"And I...am Jonathan Kahn," said Jonathan Kahn, in a tone just short of mocking. "Do I understand that Ms. Randall is wearing one of your designs?"
Porfirio stroked Camilla's shoulder as if she were a pet kitten.
"You understand correctly. Miss Camilla wears my designs almost exclusively. I understand her persona."
"Sybil Diaz-Dreyfuss claims you two had a falling out," Mr. Kahn said.
"Falling out? Sybil talks about my hair?" Porfirio touched his receding hairline.
"You were quoted in Women's Wear saying that Ms. Randall was getting plump, and as I understand, Ms. Randall swore never to buy another thing from you."
"That was all a joke." Camilla gave Porfirio her sweetest smile. She knew his new cutter had made the dress too tight, but this wasn't the time to discuss it. "Just a little private joke. I don't buy Porfirio's designs. He gives them to me."
"He gives them to you? You're rich—so you don't have to pay for your clothes?" Mr. Kahn paused and directed his gaze at Porfirio, but the designer was already in retreat.
Those icy blue eyes refocused on Camilla.
"It doesn't bother you to be given expensive clothes, when people are freezing to death right here in Manhattan because they have nothing warm to wear?"
"People freezing to death?" She must have missed something.
"On my way here, I saw the police taking a body out of the 42nd Street station. The man was wearing only a T-shirt and torn trousers. They found him under a pile of newspapers where he'd been sleeping. He'd frozen to death, Ms. Randall."
Camilla had no idea what she was supposed to say to that. Tramps were all very sad, but this wasn't the topic she'd expected. Besides, she was still reeling from what he'd said about her father.
"That dead man was homeless, Ms. Randall. Do you know how many people are now homeless in this city?"
"No, I guess I don't." She actually longed for the dreaded Sybil D. D.
"The number grows every day. This is our real 'Morning in America,' Ms. Debutante of the Year. They've closed down the hospitals and thrown the sick and the poor out in the streets. This is Ronald Reagan's America."
"That sounds awful, but couldn't we talk about something else? It would be so boring, wouldn't it? Me talking about politics? And poor people? "
"Boring? Oh, I certainly wouldn't want to bore you, Miss Randall. Now what is it you find interesting? I understand you and your family hunt foxes?"
"I like to ride, if that's what you mean. And we keep horses."
"And guns? Not much of a hunt without a gun, is it?"
Camilla gulped champagne as she watched Mr. Kahn's long fingers flip through a dog-eared notebook. She didn't like where this was going.
"Did you and your father go to hunts together?"
"When I was younger." She tried to keep her face stony as she remembered the few bittersweet occasions when her father had time for her. She'd hardly known him, really. She'd gone to boarding school since she was six, and during vacations, her dad always seemed to be off in Hong Kong or Zurich or somewhere.
Mr. Kahn stared as if he expected her to go on.
"He was a very busy man," she said finally. "He had business all over the world. And I've had a pretty full schedule for the last couple of years, too. I am going to college."
"Oh, yes." Mr. Kahn studied the notebook again. "Rosewood College for Women in Virginia. But I understood you dropped out when you made your début?"
"I took a leave of absence. But I start again next semester. It begins next week."
"And what are you studying?"
"Journalism." Oh, he was going to have fun with that one. She drained her glass and held it out to Plantagenet for more.
The waiter provided a welcome diversion, bearing three plates of fresh sole poached in chardonnay.
Mr. Kahn studied his with odd intensity. Camilla wondered if he were admiring its beautiful arrangement on a bed of baby vegetables, or hoping to transmogrify it into a pastrami on rye.
"Journalism," he repeated, just as she was hoping he'd forgotten. "You surprise me, Ms. Randall. Aren't you afraid you'll find that kind of career—uh, boring?" He picked up his fork and stabbed an infant turnip.
"Exquisite!" Plantagenet said. "The sole is superb. Do I detect a hint of aceto balsamico in the sauce?"
Things improved a bit over lunch. By the time the check arrived, they had exchanged some bland words on the subject of Camilla's charity work for the animal shelter.
The champagne finally helped her relax, and Mr. Kahn actually smiled as he poured the last of the second bottle into her glass. She smiled back, charmed by the surprising dimples that had appeared in his cheeks.
Until she registered the fact his last question had been about Prince Aldo.
"Yes, he's my boyfriend." The romance had made the papers a few months ago, so she had to be honest about it.
"Really?" Mr. Kahn arched an eyebrow. "I assumed the affair must be over, since you two haven't spoken to each other this afternoon."
Camilla turned to Plantagenet, whose drained face stared at the dark table by the kitchen where the underdressed couple had been replaced by a new, glittering pair: Prince Aldo di Saxi-Cadenti, sipping Dom Perignon—while looking into the famed lavender eyes of the international übermodel known as Regina. Aldo reached for Regina's slender, be-ringed hand and sensuously kissed the palm—exactly the way he had kissed Camilla's two months ago, right here at Votre Maison.
"Camel, darling." Plantagenet jumped to his feet. "Will you look at the time!" His Piaget watch nearly collided with Camilla's nose. "Edmund Quail expected us a half an hour ago."
Plant threw Camilla's jacket over her shoulders and propelled her out the door.
"I should have listened to you," she said as he led her along the icy street. "Aldo is Eurotrash. Nothing but slime. And Regina is ancient. A museum piece. She must be nearly thirty!"
"Closer to forty, I suspect."
"I hate that loathsome Mr. Kahn, too."
Plantagenet kissed her forehead. "Too bad he can't just keep quiet. He has a profile to die for."
She giggled. "And shoulders for days."
She turned to see Jonathan Kahn himself standing at the corner opposite.
"At least he didn't stay to pry a story out of Prince Aldo." Plant gave her shoulder a squeeze.
Camilla watched Mr. Kahn's tall figure cross the street against the light. A taxi swerved to miss him and spattered mud on the legs of his khakis. He jumped back and cursed, but as he caught sight of her, he gave a sheepish grin, showing his dimples.
She couldn't help it. She smiled back. Their eyes locked. He looked different—almost vulnerable.
For that one moment, she and Jonathan Kahn were the only two people in Manhattan.
Chapter 3—Something in the Woods
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, Camilla woke to the head-drumming of an incipient headache. She lay in bed fighting pain as dream-shards flickered in her brain: her father, riding to hounds, chased by a black-caped horseman, with the face of Jonathan Kahn, smiling so his dimples showed. And that...something in the woods. The lumbering thing she saw along the path to the stables the night her father died, carrying a rifle.
She woke up with her neck straining with a silent scream
She pried herself out of bed and started on a quest for aspirin. Packing to go back to Rosewood, where she was due tomorrow evening, was going to be a pain, even without the headache. She hadn't been able to decide what she'd need, so her entire wardrobe lay scattered around the room. She hated all her clothes. Nothing seemed right anymore.
But she'd be happy to get back in the dorm, away from reminders of her dad's death—as well as rude newspaper reporters and the odious Aldo. She'd be rooming with Waverly Nelson, who came from California and never took anything seriously. Wave would be relieved that Camilla had finally parted with her virginity, even with an insect like Aldo, and she'd think of something wildly funny to say about Jonathan Kahn.
She wouldn't mention the thing in the woods with the rifle. She couldn't say anything about it without sounding crazy. She'd tried to tell Plant at the funeral, but he just said grief could do strange things to people's perceptions.
She swallowed some Vicodin and threw on a green velvet robe she found dangling from her shower rod. Tiptoeing down the back stairs, she hoped for few moments of tranquility alone with the newspaper before she had to say sensible things to anybody.
The breakfast room was Camilla's favorite of the forty-two at Randall Hall. Bright morning light streamed through the mullioned windows as she opened the door. Unfortunately, Mother was already at the breakfast table, looking unusually businesslike for this hour of the morning. She wore an Ultrasuede suit of nearly-black violet and had done her make-up more emphatically than usual. She scrutinized Camilla with a critical gaze.
"Are you planning to pack that robe? What are those stains down the front?"
Camilla hunted for the newspaper to hide in.
"I probably spilled coffee on it."
"Coffee? Coffee is now arrived, Miss." Despina brought a tray bearing a silver coffee service and one Limoges cup and saucer. "More hot water, Madame?"
Unless she was entertaining, Mother consumed nothing but hot water until three P.M. as part of her battle against the ever-present enemy, cellulite.
"Despina, have you seen today's paper?" Camilla gulped coffee.
"Madame needs hot water." Despina nearly sprinted out of the room.
"Why don't you change into another robe, dear?" Her mother glanced at Camilla over the leather-bound "Things to Do" notebook that had controlled their lives for as long as Camilla could remember. "I'll have Phelps drop it off at the cleaners while Remy is doing my hair. He can pick it up tomorrow before you leave."
"There are dry-cleaners in Virginia, Mother."
"Don't tell me my daughter would travel with filthy clothes. I can't bear it."
"Despina!" Camilla called out in despair. "Where's the newspaper?"
"Don't bother her. She's busy preparing the bouillabaisse for luncheon."
This was not good news.
"Luncheon? What luncheon? Mother, I can't deal with a bunch of guests. I have to pack. Why didn't you tell me?"
Her mother gave her a pained look.
"Not a 'bunch of guests,' dear. Just one. Mr. Lester Stokes. He's going to be staying with us for a few days."
Camilla added another coffee stain to the front of her robe. Things were getting surreal.
"Lester Stokes? The Arkansas Chickenburger King? At Randall Hall?"
"Don't be rude, Camilla. Mr. Stokes has been very gracious about the Barbados property, and since he's going to be in New York for a few days while the house is being renovated, it was only polite to invite him to stay here."
"What has Lester Stokes got to do with our house in Barbados?"
"He bought it, dear."
Camilla's headache pounded.
"You can't sell the Barbados house! I've invited Wave Nelson and Pookie McGill for spring break..."
Her mother's eyes darkened.
"That house is too full of memories."
"I'm sorry." This was the first time her mother had even alluded to Dad's death in weeks. "I just wish you'd told me first."
"Give me the robe," her mother commanded. "Remy expects me at eleven-thirty."
Camilla removed the robe and shivered in the one-shouldered silk nightgown that had been her last gift from Aldo.
"Do get dressed." Her mother gave the nightgown a quick, scornful glance. "And toss whatever that is you're wearing. Rosewood girls do not dress like Vestal Virgins in heat. I expect you to be packed when I get back."
"When will that be?" Camilla adjusted the skimpy gown for more coverage. Aldo said the gown had come from an up-and-coming designer named Gianni Versace. But Camilla knew better than to waste this information on Mother, who considered Paris the only home of real couture.
"Sometime before one. That's when Lester arrives. What car are you taking to Rosewood? You should take the Volvo. You may run into snow."
"I'm taking the DeLorean. How do you know it's supposed to snow?" Her mother never turned on the radio or daytime television. Had she read the missing Guardian?
"That vulgar thing? I tried to make your father get rid of it ages ago."
"But he couldn't. It's mine. He gave it to me, remember?"
"But what if it breaks down? There can't be a garage in the country that has parts.... Here's Phelps." Mother grabbed her knock-about mink and swept out the door.
Chapter 4—King of the Chickenburgers
AFTER ONE MORE FRUITLESS search for the paper, Camilla headed for the east wing and the Herculean task of choosing what to pack. Now she wished she hadn't taken the Vicodin. Her pain had gone, but her body felt encased in lead.
As she climbed the circular staircase, she heard the gong of the front doorbell. She called for Despina, but heard no response. Despina must have left for the fish market.
The bell rang again.
She called for Augusta, who did the cleaning. But no. It was Tuesday. Augusta's day off.
Camilla was going to have to answer the door herself.
She ran back down to the entrance hall, cursing the impatient bell ringer. A delivery person, probably, who didn't want to bother with driving around to the service entrance.
She gave the heavy oak door a yank.
But the large, red-faced man at the door did not look like a delivery person. He wore a string tie, an item Camilla had never seen off the television screen—and a large cowboy hat. The hand he held out to her sported four tremendous rings.
"Lester Stokes." He flashed too-white teeth. "Joanie Randall is expecting me."
"I'm Camilla." She tried to smile as his beefy hand squished hers.
His grin widened as he looked her up and down. "Of course you are. I saw your picture in the paper." He gestured at a folded Guardian under his arm. "You're even prettier in person. In fact, you are one downright gorgeous little girl."
At that moment the impact of her mother's "Vestal Virgin in heat" comment hit Camilla's drugged consciousness. Not only did the asymmetrical neckline of the gown make chest coverage a challenge, but the side was slit to reveal upper reaches of thigh that even an ancient Roman streetwalker might have hoped to keep private.
"Is my picture in the paper again?" She pulled away with a stiff smile. She would give a good deal to have her robe back, stains and all.
"As a matter of fact, there's two of them. Here." Mr. Stokes set down his suitcase and handed Camilla the paper, carefully folded to show two photographs of herself, one looking plump and slightly tarty in the dress that Porfirio had cut too tight, and the other—of course—showing the rakish figure of Mick Jagger and her own bugle-beaded derrière in front of Studio 54.
No wonder her mother and Despina had conspired to make the paper disappear.
"You sure twisted that reporter around your little finger, young lady. See where he says you're 'curvaceous' and 'luscious'?" He pointed to the words with a beefy finger. She could smell the Brut as he moved in close. "And he wasn't lying. Not one little bit."
Camilla clutched the folded paper over her chest and took a large step backward.
"I'm sorry Mother isn't here to greet you," she said in as polite a voice as she could muster.
She led him toward the staircase.
"She'll be right back. I'll show you to your room, and then I'll have to leave you on your own. I'm going back to college tomorrow, and I haven't packed a thing. I have to drive to Virginia. And it may snow. I hate snow, don't you? Driving in it, I mean. Riding is different. My horse, Lord Peter, loves to canter in the snow. Do you ride? Of course you must. You're a rancher. Well, I suppose you don't ride herd on chickens the way people do with cows, do you?"
She wished her head didn't feel as if it had been stuffed with cotton candy.
Behind her, Mr. Stokes chuckled as if she were making sense.
"Do I what, honey? Ride chicks? Only in Nevada, sweet thing."
She had no idea what he was talking about, but pretended to laugh as she led him up the stairway, moving as quickly as she could without being rude. Unfortunately, the faster she moved, the more the bias-cut silk seemed to cling.
"Despina usually answers the door, of course," she tried to explain. "But she's buying fish. I hope you like fish."
She let out a stupid laugh. Mr. Stokes chortled and gave her a huge grin.
"Mother had Phelps take my robe to the cleaner's. She doesn't understand that there are dry-cleaners in Virginia. Arkansas, too, I'm sure."
Mr. Stokes was breathing heavily as he shifted suitcase hands—but still grinning.
"Oh, sweet thing, I'm in just as much of a hurry as you. I know your mama's coming back soon, but this good ol' boy's ticker isn't as good as it once was."
Finally she reached the room she hoped her mother intended for him.
"I think this is yours." It wasn't the biggest bedroom, but it was the one usually assigned to bachelor guests. It had heavy, dark Spanish furniture and a Picasso drawing over the bed.
Still clutching the paper over her chest, she opened the drapes and was relieved to see Despina had put fresh roses in the vase beside the bed.
"This is it! Your room!"
She waved her arms with what probably seemed demented enthusiasm and ran for the door.
"Now where do you think you're going, honey?" Mr. Stokes closed the door behind him. "We only just got here." He set his suitcase down directly in front of her.
She put on a firm smile.
"I have to change, Mr. Stokes." She tried figure out how to step over the suitcase without letting the side slit of her gown fall completely open.
"I don't see why, sweet thing. You look so good in what you're wearing."
That's when she realized the fabric of the nightgown, a pinky champagne—not her best color—seemed to have gone transparent in the morning sunlight. She stood in front of this large, grinning man virtually nude.
"Oh, my!" She stifled a gasp. "This won't do. I'm really not dressed."
"Then it wouldn't be gentlemanly of me to keep all these clothes on, would it?"
She watched with horror as Mr. Stokes reached for his silver belt buckle.
"And back home, people say Yankee girls aren't friendly...."
The time for good manners was over. Vaulting over the suitcase, Camilla pushed past Stokes' big body and yanked open the door.
"Hey, no more running, for God's sake!"
She broke into a run down the corridor, her feet skidding on the polished floor.
"Okay. I'll play. But you'd better be worth it, sweet thing."
Steadying herself against the carved balustrade, she ran until she reached the carpeted hall of the south wing, but she could hear Mr. Stokes behind her. She ran faster. When she finally reached the safety of her own room, she turned the lock and clutched at her heart, which felt as if it might pound right out of her chest.
The knob on the door jiggled.
"Hey, there, you little tease. This is getting old..."
Her head roared as she leaned with all her weight against the door.
"Open this door!"
She could feel the doorknob turn.
Chapter 5—Boring Poor People
CAMILLA FELT THE COLD mahogany of her bedroom door against her naked back as the doorknob jiggled.
"What the hell are you playing at, honey?" Lester Stokes sounded as if he was about to explode. "I can buy and sell you and your mama a thousand times over. You better get your head straight."
She couldn't catch her breath, even to scream. Thank goodness the lock held.
"Well, to hell with you, then," said Mr. Stokes. "I am not playing games with a girl who's Looneytunes."
She heard his footsteps thump down the hall back toward the east wing.
As she remembered how to breathe again, she finally relaxed the grip she had on her chest and realized she still clutched Mr. Stokes copy of the Guardian.
She stared at the photographs, wishing for the awful noise in her eardrums to stop—until she realized the sound came from the telephone on her nightstand. She rushed to answer it.
"Camel? Is that you?" said Plantagenet's voice.
She erupted in tears. Big sobby tears. She felt ten years old.
"I understand, darling. I do. It was a vicious attack. I'm so very sorry. I wish I could have stopped it."
She'd heard of ESP between close friends, but this was amazing.
"I think I'm safe now." She glanced at the door, praying the ancient lock would hold if Mr. Stokes changed his mind.
"Edmund does keep a handgun."
"No, don't shoot him! I'm pretty sure there are laws against it. Even when the man has the morals of an insect. And I guess it was partly my fault. This Versace thing..."
"And there are laws against libel. As decorative Mr. Kahn seems unaware."
"Mr. Kahn?" She had no idea what Jonathan Kahn had to do with her current predicament.
"I'm sure the Guardian will ban him from the society pages."
Camilla glanced at Mr. Stokes' paper and for the first time, read the words:
"POOR PEOPLE ARE BORING SAYS TOP DEB.
Camilla Randall, 19-year old great-granddaughter of newspaper baron H. P. Randall, drains her third glass of champagne of the afternoon, closes her heavily-made-up eyes and makes the pronouncement: 'Poor people are boring.' Ms. Randall, who was named by several New York publications as last season's Debutante of the Year, is wearing a Porfirio original of a cashmere knit that leaves little of her curvaceous figure to the imagination. She has long, silken blonde hair, large blue-green eyes, and a full, luscious mouth that seems permanently set in a pout. Although she 'loves' parties and nightclubs, Ms. Randall wants to be a journalist..."
"Camilla? Camel? Are you there?"
"It's horrible." She hurled the paper across the room. "He makes me sound like a tramp. With the I.Q. of a gerbil. I could just die."
"But you mustn't, darling. You must go on. Try to ignore it. Can I help? I know you're leaving tomorrow, but I could come out—"
"Yes, please. Right away! I've got to see you..." Her voice broke as she thought of having to face Mr. Stokes at the luncheon table.
"I'll be there as soon as the commuter train and a Darien taxi will carry me. I'm afraid Edmund has confiscated the Mercedes. We've had a little tiff."
~
CAMILLA TORE OFF THE traitorous nightgown, pulled on her oldest Calvins and baggiest sweater, then excavated under the bed for her luggage. She had to be ready as soon as Plantagenet arrived so she could leave for Rosewood today. She couldn't spend another minute under the same roof as Lester Stokes.
Tidying the room, she gingerly picked up the Guardian again. Unfortunately, there seemed to be more of Kahn's poisonous article on the other side of the fold.
"Ms. Randall claims to have a romantic arrangement with the jet-setting Prince Aldo di Saxi-Cadenti, but..."
Nasty, mean and snide.
She shredded the paper into small pieces and stuffed them into a wastebasket, trying to console herself with the fact he didn't print any of his creepy stuff about her father being a suicidal criminal.
That couldn't be true. She'd rather believe he'd been shot by Bigfoot.
Chapter 6—Back to the Closet
A KNOCK ON HER BEDROOM door made Camilla jump. She threw on her fuchsia-dyed mink bomber jacket. Even wearing her baggy sweater and jeans, she didn't feel covered after the terrible incident with Lester Stokes.
"Who is it?" She checked to make sure the chair was still wedged under the doorknob. Mother ought to be home by now, but she wasn't taking any chances.
"It is Despina, Miss Camilla. Madame is angry you did not tell her another guest is arrived for luncheon."
Camilla moved the chair and opened the door. Despina, wearing an apron over a five-year-old Halston, looked harried.
"Yes. Also is Mr. Smith here. Madame says what are you going to do with him?"
"Plantagenet is here? Thank God. Is Mother with that Chickenburger person?"
"Yes. He is most demanding. I told her last time he was here. I do not put branches in the bourbon. He gets olive, twist or cherry like anybody else."
"Last time? Lester Stokes has been here before?"
"Oh yes. In fact he came the day that Mr. Randall..." Despina stopped herself. "I am sorry. I shouldn't speak of it."
"That man was here the day my father died?"
Despina nodded. "Mr. Stokes went to the stables with your father. He came back huffy-puffy and drove away. I am not to speak of it. Your mother will cry."
So Lester Stokes did some sort of business with her father on the day he died. The visit couldn't have been social. Her father would not have invited a person like that to any kind of social event.
Maybe that's why Mother wouldn't let Despina speak of it.
Camilla thought of Jonathan Kahn's accusations. Had Stokes tried to get her father involved in something criminal? She wouldn't be surprised. Maybe that's why Dad had been careless with his gun.
She still refused to believe her father had done it on purpose.
Whatever had transpired, she could not be in the same room with Mr. Stokes again—ever. She surveyed her room. Most of the floor was still scattered with discarded clothes, but her matched Vuitton cases were neatly packed.
She was ready to go.
"Please send Mr. Smith up and tell Mother that neither of us will be having luncheon."
~
WHEN SHE OPENED THE door to Plant's knock, Camilla could see something was seriously wrong. The always-elegant Plantagenet wore a distinct stubble of beard, and a suit wrinkled enough for the impossible Jonathan Kahn.
She couldn't blurt out her troubles now; he obviously had his own.
"You look so sad and—rumpled. Was it a bad fight with Edmund?"
"It wasn't a good one." He squeezed her in a hug. "My darling Camel." He looked her up and down. "It is a sad and rumpled world out there, and obviously, we're both dressed appropriately."
"I didn't want to look, well..."
Would he understand how the Mr. Stokes thing made her want to go out and buy a nun's habit?
