Randall #01 - The Best Revenge

by Anne R. Allen

  “Any nominees for husband number seven?” said Plant, hooking her free arm.

  The Crown Room was already packed, and an orchestra played Cole Porter as Camilla entered the grand ballroom with her two escorts.

  Her mother stood with a group of elderly ladies in Sunday hats.

  “These are some friends Violet met on the number twenty-four bus,” her mother said with only a little irony. She was dressed entirely in black. Long strands of jet beading caught the light as she moved. Her hair was several shades lighter than usual and cut very short.

  “You’ve lost weight,” her mother said as she appraised Camilla with a cool glance. I’m so glad. I thought you looked a little plump on Johnny Carson’s program.”

  “It’s nice to see you, too, Mother.” She would never change.

  “Joan! So lovely to see you again,” said Plant, stepping forward to smooth the waters. “I’d like to introduce Jonathan Kahn, the publisher of the San Diego Sentinel—”

  “Jonny!” her mother said with an astonishingly warm smile. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Stokes,” Jonathan said with a formal handshake.

  “Joan, please,” said her mother. “After all, we’re going to be family, aren’t we Jonny? Now about the wedding…”

  Before Camilla make sense of her mother’s use of the nickname “Jonny,” or her sudden warmth, they were all silenced by a roar of applause. The crowd parted to make way for the small, white-haired figure of Violet, dressed in a spectacular gown of mauve peau de soie. She entered the room on the arm of a portly man in a rumpled dinner jacket.

  “I hope you approve of the gown, dear,” her mother said as she clapped. “You know how Porfirio hates purple, and we had the most awful time getting him to compromise on the mauve. I was terrified Violet would wander off and buy something off the rack.”

  “That crazy old lady certainly has done herself proud,” Plantagenet said. “I can’t believe she’s really pulling this off.”

  “Just a moment, Plant,” her mother said. “Violet is not crazy. Poor people are crazy. Millionaires are eccentric. Billionaires are trendsetters. Violet Rushforth is definitely a trendsetter. You’ll see. Vogue will be overflowing with mauve peau de soie next season…”

  “We read that she’s now the country’s fifteenth richest woman,” Jonathan said.

  “Fourteenth,” said her mother. “You’re going to have to learn to pay more attention to the obituaries, Jonny.”

  A drum roll from the orchestra drowned the rest of his words as the rumpled man helped Violet climb the steps up to the stage that had been set up at one end of the grand room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Violet said into the microphone. “I hope you’re all having fun helping me celebrate my eighty-fifth birthday. I’m up here making a fool of myself on account of I’ve got something else to celebrate tonight. I guess you all know I’ve spent the better part of the last twenty years looking for my grandson, the baby my daughter Rose had back when I disowned her on account of I was young and stupid.”

  Jonathan pulled at his bow tie. “If some jerk is conning her, I’m going to kill the bastard.”

  “Not if I kill him first,” said Plantagenet.

  “I’m here to tell you I’ve finally found that baby,” Violet went on. “You want to come up here, Mr. Fink?” She gestured to the rumpled man, who climbed the two steps to the stage with creaky difficulty.

  Jonathan whispered in Camilla’s ear. “How can that geezer be her grandson?”

  “He’s got to be sixty-five if he’s a day,” Plantagenet said.

  “Let’s just be polite for now.” Camilla tried to concentrate on what Violet was saying.

  “Sherman Fink here is a private detective, and over a month ago, he gave me the proof I needed. It hasn’t been easy to keep my mouth shut this long, let me tell you.”

  Jonathan draped an arm around Camilla’s shoulders as Violet launched into her story. “I hope this won’t be one of her long stories.”

  “It seems that after Jacob Kane died—that was my daughter Rose’s husband…”

  The crowd stood in uneasy silence as Violet told her rambling tale. A couple of times, Jonathan grabbed Camilla’s shoulder rather too tightly, but she didn’t respond. She didn’t want to encourage his skepticism.

  “…the baby was sent to his cousin Harold, who spelled his name different, and then he died, too, so the baby was left with Harold’s widow, Esther, who never knew anything about my Rose, so little Jonny grew up not knowing any mother but his Aunt Esther, and he called himself Kahn, not Kane. To make a long story short, my grandson is here tonight, and I’d like him to come up here with me so you can all meet him.”

  Jonathan’s face, which had gone pale at the mention of “Aunt Esther,” now turned crimson.

  Violet grinned and reached out to him.

  “Jonny, would you come up here with your old Grandma?”

  Camilla’s head felt as if it had detached from her body.

  Jonathan’s grip on her shoulder felt like a vice.

  “I can’t go up there,” he whispered. “Hell, I can’t even move.”

  “Of course you can.” Camilla urged him toward the stage. But as she watched him move toward the stage, her mind whirled with confusion. Could any of that nonsense possibly be true?

  Jonathan stepped up to the stage gasping like a caught fish. Violet put an arm around him and kept talking. She took what looked like an old black and white photograph from the rumpled detective and handed it to Jonathan.

  “That’s Rosie, Jonnyboy. Your mom. Now wasn’t she a corker?” said Violet.

  Jonathan looked as if he might cry.

  “Do go up there and see that he doesn’t make a silly sentimental speech, Camilla,” her mother whispered. “Scenes like this can get so gooey.”

  Camilla lurched toward the stage, but as she tried to negotiate the steps in her floor-length gown, she caught sight of a familiar, terrifying face in the crowd. There, sipping champagne and licking her lips like a satisfied cat, was the Dreaded Sybil D.D., hooked onto Plantagenet’s arm. Feeling like the awkward sub-deb she’d always been in Sybil’s eyes, Camilla caught the toe of her beaded pump inside the hem of the stiff brocade of her skirt, and her already rubbery legs gave way.

  “Camilla!” Jonathan’s voice boomed above her as she fell onto the stage with her feet dangling above the steps.

  “A little much dear,” her mother whispered, close to her ear.

  While Camilla scrambled to get herself into a more dignified position, Jonathan squatted on the stage floor beside her, his face lined with deep concern, Violet hovered above.

  “What happened?” Jonathan said. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course she’s all right. Camellia just fainted,” Violet said. “Now there’s a girl who knows how to react to a real good surprise.”

  Camilla stood on wobbly legs and leaned on Jonathan as she descended from the stage. There was no way to avoid the Dreaded Sybil as she came at them.

  “Jonathan, so nice to see an old colleague,” said Sybil. “Would you and Camilla give me a short interview? How does it feel to discover you’re the heir of the country’s fourteenth richest woman?”

  “Thirteenth,” said Violet. “You’ve got to learn to read the obituary page, Miss Fiddle Dee Dee.”

  Violet pulled them aside and pushed something in Jonathan’s hand.

  “The keys to my penthouse at the Sands in Vegas,” she said. “If you two know what’s good for you, you’ll go get married before Joanie turns your wedding into some big old society brouhaha full of cats like that Miss Fiddle Faddle. It’s people like her that keep me living nice and simple most of the time. Now go on…Oh, look who’s here!”

  A familiar Dennis the Menace cowlick had appeared behind Sybil.

  Plantagenet turned pale.

  “Glen!” Camilla said, stepping forward to take his hand. “I didn’t know you were a friend of Violet’s.
”

  “We met while I was handling your case.” Glen, underdressed in a business suit, looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry I’m late, Mrs. Rushforth, but I’m here, as promised. I was tied up in court. I just got an acquittal for an abused wife who drowned her husband in a toilet bowl. Her name was Ronnelle Brown. She seemed to think she knew you, Camilla….”

  Everybody stood in awkward silence until Camilla’s mother appeared, with a cowed waiter trailing behind her.

  “Here we are everybody. Champagne.”

  “Nothing like a glass of Dom Perignon to restore one to health.” Her mother took two glasses from the tray and handed them to Jonathan and Camilla. She handed two more to Plant and Glen.

  “Hello, Mr. Jones, said Plantagenet stiffly.

  “Hello, Mr. Smith,” said Glen.

  “Now boys,” Violet said. “Will you cut it out with the Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones crap? I happen to know that you two boys are good friends, so why don’t you make up, and stop being pig-headed?” Violet grabbed both men’s wrists and brought their hands together. “Go ahead,” she said. “You can hold hands—this isn’t the dark ages.”

  “Joan, dearest!” Sibyl’s rasping voice intruded on the moment. “Isn’t it nice to see you and Jonathan so cozy. As I recall, the last time we lunched, you were plotting revenge on poor Jonathan for making a botch-up of some interview. Camilla, did you know your mother had your fiancé blacklisted…?”

  Camilla looked helplessly at Jonathan.

  “Camellia and Jonny have to leave now,” Violet said. “Camellia has that column of hers to write.”

  “Oh, yes. You write that funny little column, ‘Living Well’,” said Sybil.

  Jingling Violet’s keys in his pocket, Jonathan put an arm around Camilla and hid his laughter by kissing her ear.

  Plantagenet raised his glass, still grasping Glen’s hand.

  “I think we should drink a toast to Dr. Lavinia and ‘Living Well’.”

  “Yes,” said Jonathan. “Let’s drink to ‘Living Well’, because as my grandmother has taught me—taught all of us—tonight, “living well is the best revenge.”

  ***************end****************