School of Fortune

by Amanda Brown

  “Are you trying to kill me?” Thayne screeched as Pippa smoked around an island in the middle of the road. “You still won’t get my money.”

  “Keep your stupid money. I would have liked Grampa’s spurs, though.”

  “And I would have liked a son-in-law, so let’s call it even. What you did was unforgivable.”

  “It was desperate and silly. Not unforgivable. I’m really, really sorry. How can I make it up to you?”

  “Just like that? How dare you add insult to injury. You’ve desecrated the Walker name forever. Who is this Superman you spurned Lance Henderson for? It had better be Prince William or one of the Hunts.”

  “There is no one, Mama! I just made it up to call off the wedding!”

  “To spite me,” Thayne moaned, going limp. “You are truly evil.” She gasped melodramatically as Pippa made a series of wild turns. Finally, exasperated, she said, “Didn’t Lance carry a gun in the glove compartment? Can’t we just shoot this fellow? “

  Thayne didn’t find a gun but she did locate a dozen condoms, “Aha!” she cried, waving a few in Pippa’s face. “Does this look like the property of an impotent Dallas Cowboys quarterback?”

  Unable to see, Pippa missed the turn into the Happy Hour lot. For the first time in her life she swore at her mother, shocking Thayne silent. It was six minutes before nine. Desperate, Pippa decided to cross the grass median and try again. If the Beetle was still behind her, she’d floor the Maserati into the lot of the Happy Hour Motel and make one of those J-turns Officer Pierce had taught her. Once she left the Volkswagen in the dust, she could drop Thayne off at the Days Inn to wash up while she jogged to class on time. Now that was thinking like a Walker!

  Pippa cut across the grass median twice, with great success. Unfortunately, so did the Volkswagen. “Hold on,” she told Thayne, zooming into the lot of the Happy Hour Motel at ninety miles an hour. “We’re almost home.”

  Officer Pierce arrived early for class. He had taken a swing by the Days Inn up the road and called Perdita’s room to see if she’d like a ride. The receptionist told him that she had left around sunup in a blue Maserati. Kicking himself, Pierce drove back to the Happy Hour Motel. He checked that the SUV was still safe and out of sight. He waved to the guys who were replacing the chain-link fence around the pool. Then he went to his car to await Perdita’s arrival, obviously with her ex-boyfriend. Pierce was morbidly curious to see if they had made up.

  At two minutes to nine he heard the whine of a highly taxed engine. Sounded Italian. Seconds later a blue Maserati blasted into the lot. Inside sat two bizarre-looking people with dark ski masks. The passenger wore an orange turban. Terrorists? Pierce watched in disbelief as the Maserati went into a dizzying 360-degree spin. Without once hitting the brakes, the driver floored the car through the gap in the chain-link fence and shot directly into the swimming pool.

  Perdita! Pierce was running toward the splash when a green Volkswagen careened into the lot. In order to miss him the driver stomped on the brakes, swerved, and rammed Pierce’s car with an earsplitting crash. Recognizing yesterday’s paparazzo, Pierce left him to the airbags. He dove into the pool. The Maserati was about four feet underwater and sinking fast. Presuming the ex-fiance was at the wheel, Pierce set about rescuing the passenger. He opened the door and unbuckled ... it looked like a woman . . . feisty minx . . . mud all over her face? Fortunately the turban and most of the mud came off as he pulled her to the surface. She was wearing huge rings, like Perdita’s. Good-looking blonde. Excellent body. Then she opened her mouth.

  “What an awful little sinkhole.”

  “You’re welcome.” Pierce dove back underwater. Seeing the driver’s tattoos, he had the worst adrenaline rush of his life. Nearly beside himself, he motioned Perdita to roll down her window. She wriggled out. They clung gasping to the ladder as the Maserati hit bottom.

  Some of the stuff on her face had gotten into his mouth. “Is that chocolate?”

  “Yes.” Pippa peeled it off in waxy sheets. “Guess I need a little more practice with that J-turn.”

  “You over there! Recover my handbag at once. Chlorine is hell on leather.”

  “Who is that woman?”

  “My ex-mother.” Pippa had another calamity on her mind. “Did I just fail driving school?”

  Correct. Pierce noticed that every student in class had gathered around the VW in the parking lot. No one had a clue there was a Maserati in the swimming pool. “Was he chasing you again?”

  Pippa nodded miserably. “Can you arrest him?”

  “Sure. If he’s alive.”

  Thayne was now ranting at the grounds crew to fetch her purse. “She can’t be here when the police come. Officer Pierce, you’ve got to help. She’s just an innocent bystander.”

  That was hard to believe. Nevertheless Pierce said, “Your SUV is still out back. The keys are in the ignition.” He had been hoping someone would steal it. “I’ll write the accident report. You both went to seek medical attention. We can sign any papers later.”

  Pierce allowed her to precede him up the ladder. The gods rewarded him with a sight he would never forget: Perdita in all her glory, without underwear. She was a natural blonde, as he had suspected. Too bad she had such toxic baggage. Her mother, ex-mother, whatever, was the coup de grace. “Good luck, honey,” he told Pippa. “Wherever you’re going, I hope you make it.”

  Thayne, her robe dripping wet, stood on the diving board watching one of the grounds crew recover her purse from the sunken car. “Now get my turban,” she ordered, pointing to an orange towel floating underwater.

  “Leave it, Mama,” Pippa said, pulling her sleeve.

  “Are you out of your mind? Look at my hair!”

  “Hear that siren? The police will be here in ten seconds.”

  Thayne checked that her Chantecaille powder compact had not been water damaged. Then she flung a hundred-dollar bill into the water. “Mi sombrero” she shouted, running after Pippa.

  Three guys dove in after it. Thayne got her sopping turban back as Pippa packed her into the SUV. “What an awful car! Did you steal it?”

  “It’s Ginny’s. I’m taking you to a hotel up the street. You can clean up there and go home.” Pippa made one more attempt to mend fences. “I’m sorry I caused you so much trouble. Can you try to see things from my angle?”

  “How dare you even ask! Thanks to you, your grandfather is pushing up daisies in Crockett. Cedric has been returning wedding gifts by the hundreds. We had to shoot the Lipizzaner. We had to pay Mrs. Bingo Buntz the fourth six percent interest on her Krugerrands. Rosimund insists on her day in court. I’m the laughingstock of Texas.” Thayne turned her anguished face toward Pippa. “How could you have humiliated me so?”

  “Can we get away from you you you? Real people call off weddings. Granted, we did so at the last moment, but did you see Lance crying up there when I made the announcement? He was the happiest guy on earth. Think about that.” Pippa pulled in front of the hotel. “Well, here we are.”

  “Days Inn?” Thayne stared in dismay at five Japanese businessmen waiting outside for the shuttle bus. “You really know how to rub my face in it, don’t you?”

  Pippa got out of the SUV. “Take the car, then. Drive home.”

  Thayne slid into the driver’s seat. She surveyed the dyed, crayoned, dripping mess that used to be her beloved daughter and felt like shooting herself. Then she noticed a triple gleam on Pippa’s left hand. “My God! You’re still wearing his ring!”

  “Lance insisted I keep it.” Pippa took it off. “Here. You earned it.”

  Try as she might, Thayne was constitutionally incapable of refusing three huge diamonds, especially when they were booty from Rosimund. “I suppose I could have them reset.”

  “And here’s your ankle bracelet. I’ll borrow it again next time.” Her mother didn’t even smile. “Really, Mama, are you still mad at me?”

  Thayne’s eyes went cold as an adder’s. “Goodbye, Pippa. Never contact
me again.”

  “But I love you!” Pippa wailed.

  “If only the feeling were mutual.” Thayne roared off.

  Pippa stared after the SUV until it was just a speck on Harry Hines Boulevard. She felt someone tap her arm. One of the Japanese businessmen proffered a pair of green plastic flip-flops. “Please have. She is not nice lady.”

  As Pippa put them on, the shuttle bus pulled up. “Comin’ with us, miss?” the driver shouted. “Twenty-two bucks to the airport.” Pippa stepped on.

  Twelve

  At the airport Pippa bought a humongous pair of sunglasses. She clucked into a ladies’ room and washed the last chocolate smears from her face. After a hard look in the mirror she concluded that the bedraggled apparition with black hair, Mao sheath, and flashing green flip-flops didn’t look a bit like Pippa Walker: she was safe. At a newsstand she collected ten magazines covering everything from weight lifting to gardening. Waiting in line, Pippa saw that people ahead of her were smiling at a windup doll on the counter. It was a plastic bride. Blonde. She squinted at it through her sunglasses: that damn thing was not only wearing the same wedding gown as hers, but its smile looked familiar. The cashier turned the key in the doll’s back. Instead of going forward it went in reverse, squeaking, “I don’t! I don’t!”

  BALKER WALKER DOLLS, the sign said. $12.99.

  As a familiar nausea clawed her stomach, Pippa paid for the magazines and dove into the nearest bar. She sat facing the wall in the darkest corner, ordered a screwdriver, and started reading the advertisements in back of the magazines. It was imperative that she find another area of study, fast. Cooking school? She was terrible in the kitchen. Cheerleading school? Never again. How about horticulture? Murder on the manicure. Carpentry? Shoemaking? Travel agent?

  Canine obedience school? “Get a grip,” she muttered. That diploma was for dogs.

  “Ready for a refill, hon?”

  “Thanks.” How did people find their paths in life? The lucky ones saw a fire truck or an airplane when they were three years old and knew right away that they wanted to be firefighters and astronauts. Way too busy with shopping, primping, and parties, Pippa had experienced no such bolt of lightning. In fact, the concept of working for a living hadn’t occurred to her; she had thought her job in life was to redistribute the Walker wealth, preferably in retail establishments. Thank you, Mama, for setting that fine example. Pippa swallowed her drink and kept turning pages.

  She saw nothing remotely interesting until the tail end of the last magazine in her pile, Poker Today. Three pages of ads for escort services: how hard was it to accompany men to dinner and the theater? Pippa already knew how to make an entrance in a five-star restaurant.

  She phoned the ad with the prettiest girls. “I’d like to become a professional escort. Could you recommend a school?”

  “School?” The guy laughed. “Oh, you’re quick.”

  “I’m not trying to be quick. I’m trying to get the number of the school.” He hung up on her. “Jerk!”

  The waitress dropped off another screwdriver. “Somethin’ wrong?”

  Pippa pointed to the ad. “I’m trying to go to escort school.”

  “You can do better than that, honey.”

  Such as escort manager? Pippa had always enjoyed setting up coeds from Kappa Kappa Gamma with Lance’s friends on the football team.

  The ad almost leaped off the page. LEARN MATCHMAKING FROM A PRO! My three-day certified bullet course will launch your career! Maybe the force was with her after all. In great excitement Pippa dialed the number.

  “Marvy Mates,” sang a syrupy voice. “Leave nothing to fate, your soul mate awaits. Marla Marble speaking.”

  Pippa needed a moment to digest all the M&M’s. “I’d like to take your course. Where are you located?”

  “Warm, sunny Phoenix.”

  “I can start tomorrow. Can you fit me in?”

  “We’ll certainly try. Your name, please?”

  “Perdita Rica” was scorched earth. Pippa noisily flipped to the middle of the poker magazine and skidded over an article. “Chip . . . Chippa . . . Flush . . . Chippa Flushowitz.”

  “That’s very unusual.”

  “Yes. I’m Polish.”

  “You have no accent whatever.”

  “I grew up with my uncle in Oklahoma. Do you give every graduate a certificate?”

  “Absolutely. Tuition is two thousand dollars.” “My goodness, that’s steep.”

  “A small commitment to making others happy. Please pay in cash.” Marla gave Pippa the address. “And bring your résume.”

  Pippa frowned. “Shouldn’t I be asking for your résumé?” After a frosty silence, she realized her mistake. “That’s what they do in Poland.”

  “Phoenix is not Poland.” Marla’s voice regained its syrup. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Chippa.”

  Praying it wasn’t the towing company, insurance adjusters, police, or Thayne calling for the hundredth time, Sheldon Adelstein answered his phone. Pippa sounded cheerful as a lark. “How’s it going, Sheldon?”

  “It’s not every day I’m asked to fish a Maserati out of a swimming pool. Or prove it wasn’t stolen by an illegal immigrant. Or explain why you were enrolled in driving school under an alias.”

  “I’m sorry. I was just trying to get away from that awful man in the Volkswagen.”

  “Lance isn’t going to be happy about his car. The insurers will replace it, but—”

  “Lance gave me the car. Could you do me a favor? Give the new one to Officer Pierce.”

  “He did save you a peck of trouble.”

  “If it hadn’t been for that paparazzo, I would have passed driving school. That is so unfair. Did my mother make it back from the Days Inn all right?”

  Sheldon merely cleared his throat. “Should I courier the accident report over to Ginny’s? You can sign it tonight and we can put this episode behind us.”

  “That’s one reason I’m calling. I’m no longer at Ginny’s. Obviously I failed driving school so I’ve enrolled in matchmaking school.” Silence. “In Phoenix.” All quiet. “Tomorrow. It will be over in three days.”

  “I hope so, for your grandfather’s sake.”

  “Could you find me a hotel nearby? Someplace with good lights in the rooms so I can study. And a car. And a small allowance for lunch and a few suits. I had to leave Dallas with nothing but my purse. Oh, and don’t forget two thousand bucks tuition. Could you send a new cell phone with the accident report? Mine got wrecked in the pool. So did my debit card.”

  “Didn’t I just send you a significant amount of cash?”

  “The plane ticket was expensive.”

  “You do have your Perdita Rica driver’s license, I hope.”

  “Of course! That’s how I got on the plane. One last thing. I need some Polish-looking ID for Chippa Flushowitz. My new alias.” Pippa spelled it. “It doesn’t have to be legal.”

  “That’s a wonderful thing to tell your lawyer.” Sheldon hung up.

  In an Internet cafe Pippa concocted a resume for her new persona. Making something up took longer than expected and she nearly missed the flight out of Dallas. As she dropped into her last-row seat, the little old lady next to her smiled. Please don’t be a talker, Pippa prayed. Then she saw the windup doll on the woman’s lap.

  Granny was sharper than she looked. In a moment she made the connection between her seat mate and her windup doll. “You should be ashamed of yourself, young lady.” When Pippa failed to respond, the woman huffed, “Floozy!”

  “Gesundheit!” Pippa barked back right in the woman’s face.

  While the old woman was readjusting her hearing aids, Pippa smiled, pleased with her counterattack: maybe she was finally getting back on her feet. She was now two aliases removed from the woman formerly known as Pippa Walker. Perdita Rica and Chippa Flushowitz had never met that doomed bride, nor would they. In a way Pippa never wanted to run into her old self again, either. She pulled her hat down over her face as
the plastic doll squeaked, I don’t! I dont! After half an hour the cheap screw broke and the doll went quiet. The old woman spent the rest of the trip bashing its head against her snack tray while Pippa self-medicated with toy bottles of vodka.

  She located a walk-in beauty parlor at the Phoenix airport. “I’ve got sixty bucks. Can you get rid of the black?”

  The girl inspected a lock of Pippa’s hair as if it were attached to a skunk. “Who did this to you?”

  “I did it myself. Never again.”

  “Have a seat. Where’d you get the shiner?”

  That must have blossomed on the plane. “I was in a minor collision this morning.”

  The girl yammered on about a big fat Hispanic wedding she was doing that weekend. She didn’t know if she could manage coiffures for six bridesmaids, two mothers, a stepmother, bride, and groom for three days running. Pippa tuned her out by trying to compute how many zeroes there were in a billion. She even managed to doze under the dryer. Next thing she knew the girl was standing over her with a mirror. “What do you think?”

  Pippa’s hair was the color of a plastic banana. It felt as coarse as raffia. “Was that the best you could do?”

  “Considering what I had to work with, yes.”

  “But I’m trying to look like a matchmaker!”

  “What’s that?”

  “One step below a marriage therapist, you dope!”

  “A little trim will fix everything. I’ll do it no charge.”

  Four inches came off. Instead of calming down, Pippa’s hair now stuck straight out in every direction. The girl had never seen anything like it. “Hmm. That’s odd.”

  “Odd?” Pippa shouted, beside herself. “I look like a blowfish on acid!”

  She stomped to a phone at the other end of the airport and called Sheldon. He had booked a suite at the Phoenix Ritz-Carlton, bless his heart, and had honored her other requests as well. “Are you all right, Pippa? You sound stressed.”