School of Fortune (32 page)

“Why would someone be that mean?”

“It's easier than being nice.” Pippa tried to buoy Leigh's spirits by taking her to Picasso at the Bellagio for an edible lunch. “Why don't you personally collect checks from all those ladies who got their pictures taken with Michael Phelps yesterday? It's the perfect opportunity to meet some club members one on one. Just be yourself. Charm them.”

“But what should I wear?” Leigh moaned.

“We'll go shopping. Leave everything to me.”

Presuming that anyone who wore a purple sombrero and those outlandish glasses was a very important player in Las Vegas, the maftre d' at Picasso led Pippa to a prominent table. As she followed him through a sea of curious stares, Pippa realized that she rather enjoyed playing the role of Cosmo du Piche. For once her alias did not feel alien. Cosmo exuded a confidence that had hitherto appeared to her only in fragments. His bizarre charisma actually bent others to his will. Pippa smiled: so this was what it felt like to be Thayne.

“Did Dusi really get her boobs in Rangoon?” Leigh asked after they had ordered.

“Last June.”

“How do you know all this, Cosmo?”

“It is my business to know. The better to serve and protect you.”

Leigh put her hand over Pippa's. “I think you're terrific. Don't ever change a thing. Not even that mustache.”

They were discussing how to inform Moss of yet another blowout party when a comely but drunk woman, minus a shoe, sloshed to their table. Each hand was wrapped around a martini glass. Pippa vaguely remembered her from Titian's birthday party. “Wyolene!” Leigh gasped. “How nice to see you. Please join us.”

“I jus rezeived a note,” Wyolene revealed, weaving like a reed in the breeze. “Hand delivvrd while I wz playn brij.”

Pippa and Leigh eventually pieced together the disjointed segments of Wyolene's story. After spending three hundred thousand dollars on parties, gifts, and abject brownnosing, Wyolene had just learned that her application for membership in the Las Vegas Country Club had been denied. All Dusi could tell her was that someone had written a letter to the committee, alerting them to the fact that Wyolene owned a Shih Tzu named Mambo. Naming a dog after a corrupt dance raised concerns about Wyolene's character.

“I wz blackBALLd!” Wyolene shouted, draining both martinis.

The maître d' hurried over. “Is this woman bothering you, sir?” he asked Pippa.

“She's had a bad shock. She'll be all right.”

“No aright!” Wyolene staggered into the next table. One of her martini glasses fell into someone's cream of celeriac soup. “I goin' back to Palm Bich! Screwwww Vegaz!”

A waiter led Wyolene away. “She didn't get in because of
Mambo?”
Leigh asked, barely eking out the words.

“Your dog is named Titian,” Pippa reminded her, signing the check. “Let's get out of here before we run into any more rejects.”

Unfortunately they ran into Esmeralda at Armani, Karla at Fendi, and Bibi at Simayof, all of whom had just received hand-delivered notes similar to Wyolene's. All three women were crushed. Not one had a clue as to why her petition to join the country club had been blackballed. Pippa couldn't figure it out, either: these were wealthy, elegant, socially responsible ladies. Their dogs were named Rembrandt, Dwight, and Eiffel. Esmeralda had taken Dusi to Madrid to see a bullfight. Karla had given Dusi a triple-strand necklace of nine-millimeter Mikimoto pearls. Bibi had not only given Dusi a Warhol to hang in her mudroom but she had bought a stuffed pony for Caleb. Evidently none of these gestures had been enough to turn the tide. “Did anyone actually get into the club?” Pippa asked.

“Wallace and Peggy Stoutmeyer,” Bibi sobbed, handing a credit card to the cashier. She was purchasing a little pick-me-up cocktail ring for eighty thousand dollars. “He's a damn chicken farmer. She looks like a tractor.”

“That means there's only one space left,” Leigh said.

“Don't get your hopes up,” Bibi snapped, stalking out.

The mood in the Duesenberg was funereal as Pippa and Leigh headed home. “Under the circumstances, should we even go ahead with this Bentley ball?” Pippa asked. “Dusi's got a great little scam going.”

Leigh was nearly beside herself. “I have to give this my best shot, Cosmo. Moss is counting on in it.”

Pippa pulled into the driveway of Casa Bowes behind the Zappo Pool Sanitizers truck. The apricot Mercedes was parked under the portico. Pippa smiled: Cole was home. Unfortunately, so was Moss. “What the hell's he doing here at this hour?” Leigh demanded.

Pippa groaned: in her rush to dress Leigh for lunch, she had neglected to put the bills for Titian's party on Moss's desk. “Leave everything in the car, signora. If we're going to talk him into another party, the last thing he needs to see is ten Armani bags.”

They parked in the garage, where Cole was polishing a black Porsche. “Hello, ladies,” he called. “Excuse me. Lady and gentleman.”

“What are you two doing home?” Leigh repeated.

“I believe you and Mr. Bowes are meeting your biggest Lurex supplier for five o'clock cocktails.”

Leigh had forgotten all about that. “Yoo-hoo,” she twittered as she and Cosmo crossed the threshold. “Titian! Where are you, darling?”

Nowhere. They found Moss in his library inspecting a mound of black feathers under a halogen light. “Have you seen Titian?”

“I just sent him to obedience school. Caught him chewing on my best
Turdus merula.”

“You sent my dog away without telling me? Damn you!”

“He'll be back in a week.” With a few bruised ribs. “Where have you been?”

“At a long, productive lunch with Dusi,” Pippa said. “She lives in a spectacular castle filled with coats of armor. She showed us her doll collection and her—”

“Where are the bills from the pooch fest?” Moss cut in.

“I'll get them for you, signor.”

When Pippa returned with her folder, Moss had commandeered Leigh's wallet and was calmly totaling all the credit card receipts from that afternoon's shopping excursion. “Eighteen thousand six hundred ninety-eight dollars,” he remarked. “Was that before or after Dusi showed you her doll collection?”

“We only bought absolute necessities,” Pippa reported as bravely as possible. “Signora Bowes seriously needs a new look.”

“Shut up, Cosmo. Give me that folder.” Moss again went to work with his calculator. He added everything twice then strolled to the window. “Forty-eight thousand bucks and change,” he mused, staring pleasantly outside as if Botticelli's Venus had just stepped out of a clam shell onto his patio. Without warning Moss grabbed a globe and hurled it at Leigh. “For a dog's birthday party!” he screamed. “Are you out of your mind?”

Pippa, an experienced soccer player, made a diving catch, sparing both the globe and Leigh's costly nose. “Really, Signor Bowes,” she said, brushing herself off. “That was beneath your dignity.” She replaced the globe in its stand. “Now
you
sit down and shut up. I have something to say to you.”

Moss was so surprised that he obeyed. Pippa proceeded exactly as Thayne had over the last twenty years whenever her spouse got tetchy over operating expenses. “You are a very successful man, blessed by marriage to a beautiful and loyal woman who chose
you
out of all the eligible, handsome, and extremely generous men in Dallas.”

“Buffalo,” Leigh whispered.

“Wherever. Your wife must reflect your success or she is not fulfilling her sacred duty to your name. In exchange you must provide her with the means of maintaining a superior social position.”

“Says who?” Moss shot back.

“Please don't interrupt!” Pippa regretted that last warm martini at Dusi's; it was causing her to forget the most persuasive paragraph of Thayne's speech. “A few thousand dollars here and there are peanuts to a man of your good fortune. Furthermore, this isn't a matter of money. It's a matter of respect for the woman who has given you every ounce of her life and blood. This is your opportunity to be truly gallant.” That was all Pippa remembered of Thayne's “Burn Me at the Stake” monologue. If Moss was anything like her father, he'd be slamming doors any second now, so she plunged ahead. “You wish to become a member of the Las Vegas Country Club. You have put your wife in charge of that Mission Impossible. You must now back her up.”

“What's impossible about it?”

Pippa sighed as if she were explaining “two plus two equals four.” “This afternoon we ran into four women who were also trying to become members of the club. Each had spent between three and six hundred thousand dollars to that end. Each woman received a handwritten letter of rejection this morning.”

Moss sat very still. “What went wrong?”

“They were blackballed.”

“What does that mean? Something like bushwhacked?” “Someone wrote an anonymous letter to the committee raising objections.”

“Anonymous, my ass. Who?”

“It's a secret meeting. The vote must be unanimous.”

“The Stoutmeyers got in,” Leigh blurted. “Can you believe that?”

“Shhh!” Pippa turned to Moss. “To date you have spent a measly eighteen thousand on clothing plus forty-eight grand on one party plus a few thousand for entertainment.”

“Don't forget the sixty-five grand for yourself.”

“Fine,” Pippa snapped, her brain crunching the numbers. “That still only totals one hundred and thirty thousand dollars, which to be blunt, is barely enough to buy you two votes out of six. You can't afford to look cheap now, Signor Bowes. How badly do you want this membership?”

He mulled that over. “You've got something up your sleeve, you little runt.”

“Moss! I'll not have you speak to Cosmo that way.” Pippa shrugged. “Call me what you will. I propose a masquerade ball. Two hundred thousand dollars.” “I'll give you thirty.” “One hundred forty.” “Ninety.” “Done.”

“Now you tell
me
something, Cosmo,” Moss growled. “Where does the membership committee meet?” “At the club, I would presume.” “When's the next meeting?”

“Why do you need to know? You can't attend. You can't even pretend to care when they meet.”

“You do it your way. I'll do it mine.”

Pippa's upper lip tickled. Running her tongue over the offending itch, she was chagrined to feel bristle. Her mustache was sliding off: it had been a long, sweaty day. “Excuse me,” she said. “Ill begin organizing the ball at once.”

“Wait! What will I wear tonight for the Lurex people?” Leigh cried as Pippa headed for the door.

“The yellow Herrera with the raspberry pumps. Pearls and a hair-band if you've got one.” Pippa dashed to her room, there to verify that her mustache was barely hanging on by a few cross weaves. Worse, this morning she had left her tube of glue uncapped and most of it had oozed onto her dressing table. She ran into the bathroom to get a Q-tip and rescue some of it.

Cole stood naked at his sink, shaving. “Omigod!” Pippa shrieked. “I thought we agreed to knock, Cosmo,” he said, not particularly concerned.

“I thought you were out washing cars!” Pippa stumbled back into her bedroom and slammed the door. She had never been so mortified in her life. For a moment Cosmo vaporized and the old, traumatized Pippa resurfaced, ready to bawl. She was about to fling herself on her bed and soak the pillowcases when she heard Cole whistling “What a Wonderful World.” She held her breath, listening. He sounded happy. Really happy.

The whistling eventually stopped. “I'm done, Cosmo,” he called through the door. “Bathroom's all yours.”

Snapping out of her trance, Pippa phoned Olivia Villarubia-Thistleberry to vent. She got Cornelius informing her that Olivia and her lawyers had gone to Colombia to buy off a judge. Next Pippa called Dallas. “I'm so happy to hear you're back in the office, Sheldon.”

“Most of me is back,” he corrected her. “I'm seeing a hair regeneration specialist about the part that isn't.”

“You'll be happy to know I'm still in school.”

“That chambermaid camp?”

“I'm interning now. I'll be graduating in a week if a big party goes well.”

“I'll believe that diploma when I see it.” “I need you to do me a tiny favor.”

“I just sent you a Maserati, a phone, ten thousand dollars, and the lighter that singed off my eyebrows. You have about eighty thousand in your discretionary account. Don't tell me you've spent that on starch for your aprons.”

“I need you to send four mustaches,” Pippa said. “Overnight. Morning delivery. Nice ones. You know Inspector Clouseau? Like his, but light brown. Plus extra glue formulated for the desert. Hypoaller-genic if you can find it.”

“Desert? I thought you were in Aspen.”

“Were you listening? I'm interning in Las Vegas. Toupees and mustaches are part of my routine here.”

“What sort of employer would want his chambermaid to glue a mustache on him? Sounds like sexual harassment.” Sheldon's voice lifted. “Maybe you should sue.”

“The mustache is for me. I'm now a majordomo named Cosmo du Piche.”

Sheldon didn't speak for a long moment. “Why don't you just quit shaving your legs and call it a day? Or move to Lesbos?”

“I like being Cosmo.” Pippa had to spell the name three times. She gave Sheldon the address of Casa Bowes. “How's my mother doing?”

“She's in London. The BBC is thinking of doing a documentary about her. I advised her not to go but she didn't listen, as usual.”

“At least she hasn't been in any fistfights for the last couple weeks.”

“Nothing major,” Sheldon replied vaguely. “You concentrate on that diploma now.”

Another shouting match erupted in the library. Pippa went to her window just in time to see a soapstone owl smash through a window and land on the patio. She saw Cole walk to the garage and back the limousine out to the driveway. Moss hustled Leigh, attired head to toe in gold sequins, into the rear seat. As the Mercedes pulled away, Pippa's phone rang.