Randall #01 - The Best Revenge by Anne R. Allen Read Free Book Online

in her checking account to keep it open over summer vacation. The cash in her hand felt good. If only she’d thought to empty her savings account in Darien before she left. There ought to be a few thousand in it, left over from her last birthday present from Dad.
    Dad. She wished she had real facts about how he had died—and could prove Lester Stokes had something to do with it.
    After the bank, she stopped at the dry cleaner’s where she’d left her furs for summer storage. She had no idea if she would ever need a lynx coat or a fuchsia mink bomber jacket again, but she managed to stuff them in the trunk. No point in leaving them here.
    Rosewood was a college for rich girls, and she wasn’t a rich girl anymore.
    She stopped for gas before getting back on the freeway. Spotting a pay phone, she called the information operator and asked for the number of Plantagenet Smith in Laguna Beach, California.
    “I have a J. P. Smith on Cypress,” said the operator.
    “That’s it! That’s it!” She remembered that Plant’s first initial was “J”, although he would never tell her what it stood for. Feeling revived, she dialed the number and listened to the phone ring on the other end.
    In California.
    Taking deep breaths, she tried to calm herself. She would hear Plantagenet’s voice, and all would be well.
    But nobody picked up. She counted to twelve.
    J. P. Smith was not at home.
    She looked at her watch. Eleven A.M. Was it earlier or later in California? Maybe Plant was at work. If he wasn’t living with Edmund anymore, he’d have to be working somewhere. Maybe in Hollywood. Was Laguna Beach near Hollywood?
    No matter. It was in California. And that’s where she was going. She was not waiting for Superman.
    ~
    Two, maybe three days later—time had ceased to have meaning—she sat in a small diner somewhere near Amarillo, Texas. She had finished a chicken fried steak, grayish green beans, and tasteless grits—but she was still hungry. She looked around the dingy room and thought longingly of Votre Maison . 
    Even meeting Jonathan Kahn hadn’t been as depressing as Texas.
    She had been driving through the Lone Star State all day, and the flat, brown land showed no signs of turning into New Mexico or Arizona, or whichever one of those states was supposed to come next. Pushing away her plate, she took the map out of her purse and tried to read it in the flickering light of the fluorescent tube that sputtered and buzzed above her head. She found the words “Laguna Beach” printed in small letters close to the purple blob identified as Los Angeles. It was many folds from the spot called Amarillo, Texas. She sighed, wondering how many more days she would have to drive before she wouldn’t feel like an extra in a Clint Eastwood movie.
    As a waitress with large orange hair refilled Camilla’s coffee cup with mud-like liquid, Camilla asked for the nearest pay phone. Her motel was so low-rent it had no telephone. The waitress pointed to a shadowy spot at the end of the diner.
    Fishing out her supply of change, Camilla dialed the number she now knew by heart. She counted the rings, planning to let it ring the usual twelve times, just in case. But after the eighth ring, she was startled to hear a voice.
    It was a woman’s voice. Deep and rich, but definitely female.
    Camilla’s mouth went dry. J. P. Smith wasn’t Plantagenet after all. It was Janet Prudence or something. She stammered his name.
    “Right place, wrong time,” said the voice. “He used to live here, but he left for Samoa last week. I’m afraid I don’t have a number for him. They’re filming on location.”
    “Samoa? Filming? On location?” Camilla tried to sort out the words. “I have to see him. When will he be back? Are you the maid?”
    The voice laughed.
    “Sometimes it feels that way. I guess you could call me the landlady. But I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea when he’ll be back. I’m sure he doesn’t, either, poor dear.