by Amanda Brown
“Fine. The diploma is a lock.”
As Sheldon hung up, Pippa could hear him laughing.
Olivia was polishing off the last of the cheesecake when Leigh Bowes called for the tenth time that day. “I’m very close to making a decision,” Olivia reported. “You will have to be patient.”
“This is a desperate situation, Signora Villarubia-Thistleberry. I need a new majordomo by noon tomorrow. An extra five thousand for you if he arrives before midday.”
“You will not be disappointed. Goodbye.” Olivia could barely get the last forkful of cheesecake past her constricted throat. She had to think of something fast, sixty-five thousand dollars fast. Her phone rang again. It was Ginny.
“I must have Lotus back this afternoon. Alberto Tomba is visiting from Italy.”
Olivia homed like a smart bomb onto the desperation in Ginny’s voice. “I assess a fee for missed classes, Miss Ortlip.”
“I’ll pay you a thousand bucks to release Lotus at three o’clock.” “Two.
“Two o’clock is even better.”
“I meant two thousand dollars, madam. At four o’clock.” “Damn, you’re tough! All right.”
Olivia hung up. Miss Ortlip . . . Cedric . . . Lotus . . . Las Vegas . . . plans were coagulating in her brain like amoebas in the primordial soup. She summoned Pippa to her parlor. Her little dogs wouldn’t stop barking until Pippa picked them up. “Miss Ortlip has requested your assistance this afternoon. It seems she has planned a dinner party for Alberto Tomba.”
“But I’ll miss class.”
“Never mind. We’re covering Advanced Dogwalking Techniques and, to my knowledge, Miss Ortlip has no pets. Except you, of course.”
Pippa sighed. Ginny wanted to party and this was payback time. “I’ll finish as soon as possible.”
“I need to ask a favor. Miss Ortlip was at that nasty Walker wedding, wasn’t she?”
Pippa nearly dropped Sub and Zero. “Ah—yes. She was a bridesmaid.”
“Could you get her feedback regarding Cedric and Mrs. Walker? I might transfer him to Las Vegas but that could be difficult if he’s servicing the lady of the house.”
“That’s outrageous! Thayne Walker is happily married!” Realizing that she was shouting, Pippa forced herself to calm down. “At least that’s what I hear.”
“You’ve been misinformed, Lotus. Thayne Walker’s husband has been golfing in Morocco ever since the wedding collapsed. It seems highly likely that Cedric has wormed his way into the master bedroom. Believe me, I know how he operates.” Olivia couldn’t figure out why Lotus looked so upset. She poured them both a glass of sherry. “Anyway, dear, could you please extract this information from Miss Ortlip for me?”
Pippa swallowed hard. “But doesn’t Mrs. Walker need Cedric? You can’t just rip him out from under her like a rug. Even if he is . . . you know . . . under her like a rug . . . which I doubt. Thayne Walker would never consort with the help.”
Olivia looked oddly at her. “What’s your interest in this, Lotus?”
“I know Margarita the maid. If Cedric left, she’d bear the brunt of everything. She’s got a weak heart and bad bunions.”
Olivia plopped onto the sofa and somberly stroked Reed and Barton. “Please extend some sympathy to me as well, Lotus. I am a single woman desperately trying to survive.”
“Yes, ma’am.” It’s the diploma, stupid! “Forgive my in sensitivity.”
“I know you’ll do your best. Do be back by eight. We’re covering an important chapter on Etiquette at the Morgue.”
“Thank you for excusing me, Signora Villarubia-Thistleberry.”
Ginny no doubt meant well but it was time to let her know that a billion bucks were riding on graduation from school. Pippa looked carefully in all directions before dashing to the Maserati parked at the curb. She crawled fifty feet down the street then donned the yak hat, cataract sunglasses, mustache, and the Swiss Army coat she kept in the trunk in case that paparazzo was still snooping around Aspen. Pippa drove down Olivia’s hill, through the village, and up Ginny’s hill. She was drenched in sweat by the time she reached the Ortlip compound. Again Pippa looked in all directions before leaving the car. After ringing Ginny’s bell she peeled her mustache off and stuck it to her cataract glasses.
Ginny, cocktail in hand, opened the door. She looked flushed: maybe Alberto Tomba really was here. “You’re wearing that again?”
Pippa rushed inside. “Where’s the VW guy?”
“On a wild-goose chase to Nebraska. Relax.”
The house was set up for a party but Pippa sensed something off. The big WELCOME BACK sign over the fireplace was in English, not Italian. “When’s Alberto getting here?”
“Screw Alberto!”
Twenty people, led by none other than Lance’s lover Woody and the vile Kimberly, gushed out of the kitchen. “Surpriiiiiiiiiiiiise!”
Pippa bolted down the front steps and gunned the Maserati out of Ginny’s driveway. She thought her head would explode. Blinded by the mustache stuck to her glasses, she nearly hit a trailer full of canoes on Main Street. She was dimly aware of pedestrians shouting obscenities at her as she blitzed through town. How could Ginny be so crass as to throw a surprise party for her? How could she invite Woody and Kimberly, of all traitors, or remotely think such a reunion would be beneficial?
Olivia was alone on her porch, having sent her students to Snow-mass to return the four German shepherds she had borrowed for Advanced Dogwalking Techniques. One ear to the phone, Olivia tossed homemade biscuits to her poodles as she tried to stall Dusi Damon, an even worse shrew than Thayne Walker. “Harassment will get you nowhere,” she said. “If you must know, I’m still checking the credentials of Leigh Bowes. Not to mention your own.” Olivia hung up as Lotus’s Maserati squealed into the driveway. A derelict staggered out of the driver’s seat. “Excuse me! May I help you?”
Pippa whipped off her hat. She looked extremely distraught. “I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Lotus! Come in. Take that foul coat off.”
Pippa fell onto the couch in the parlor. “Something truly awful has happened.”
“Did you scorch Miss Ortlip’s newspaper?”
“It’s a personal matter,” Pippa croaked. “I just quit. I must leave Aspen immediately. I so wanted a diploma, signora! You have no idea how much I wanted one.” Pippa began to wail so dejectedly that all six teacup poodles started howling along with her.
Olivia’s brain went into overdrive. Ortlip was out of the picture. Lotus was out of a job. There must be some way to convert this tragedy into a sixty-five-thousand-dollar sitcom. “I can help. But you must have an open mind.”
“Just make it quick.”
“In lieu of class, you could do an internship at a wonderful home in Las Vegas. The woman of the house seems to be concerned about an upcoming fete. If that goes well, you shall have your diploma. I promise you.”
“What’s the catch?”
“She requests a male.”
“Do you think I look even remotely like a guy?” Pippa shouted. The harshness in her voice set the dogs howling afresh. “Sorry, it’s a touchy subject at the moment.”
“You’ve already got short hair. You’re tall and slender. In the proper uniform and underwear, I’m sure we could pass you off as a rather iffy male.”
So Olivia proposed sending her, instead of Cedric, to Las Vegas. That would spare Thayne another rupture: an offer Pippa couldn’t refuse. She unpeeled the mustache from her sunglasses and stuck it on her upper lip. “Does that help?”
“Very much.” Frankly it was a stretch, but Olivia was willing to gamble. “Dry your eyes and come upstairs.”
Olivia had a closet full of uniforms, remnants of the glory days when she and the ex had a staff of ten. “Saint Laurent designed these for me. Their inspiration is a Gainsborough portrait of the third Earl of Thistleberry, the cockroach’s ancestor.” Olivia removed the plastic bag from a gray military jacket with thirty brass buttons.
Many loops of iridescent green-purple rope hung from the epaulets. The silk harem pants and porter’s cap matched the ropes. “The colors of an English pigeon. Beautiful, no?”
“Do you have a summer uniform? Las Vegas is in the desert.”
“Yes, of course.” Rummaging in another closet, Olivia found the short-sleeved, short-pants version of the pigeon costume. She located several boob-flattening sports bras that had belonged to a maid who eloped with a ski bum. She found a pair of gray Rockport nubucks and gray socks. “Try these on, Lotus.”
Despite its rigid lines, the uniform was surprisingly comfortable. The colors didn’t look as awful together as Pippa had imagined. She wished Olivia hadn’t told her about the pigeons, though.
Olivia studied the result: still too feminine. “Ah! One moment.”
In a sewing table drawer she found a pair of oversized tortoiseshell glasses recognizable the world over. “Yves left them here on his last visit. They are among my most prized possessions.” She poised them on Pippa’s nose. “Perfect.”
“But I can’t see a thing.”
“Take them to a one-hour store. Change the lenses to glass.” Olivia got her cell phone. “Signora Bowes, this is Olivia Villarubia-Thistleberry. I have found a majordomo for you. His name is Cosmo du Piche. You will see him tomorrow morning. Please wire full payment to my account at once.” Olivia knew all fourteen digits by heart. “He will not ring your doorbell until the funds have cleared.” With a triumphant smile, she slipped the phone back into her pocket. “Well, that’s settled.”
“Cosmo du Piche?”
“My true love. He threw himself off a cliff when he learned I had married the cockroach. Go to your room and pack, Lotus. I’ll book you a flight.”
“I’d rather drive, if you don’t mind. Immediately.”
“But you must be in Las Vegas tomorrow morning.”
“It’s only six hundred miles. I’ve got a fast car.”
“Very well.” Olivia began gathering spare accoutrements for her protege. “You come from a superior background. I’m sure you will be a success. And please remember that you are a man.”
Think diploma. “I’ll do my best.”
In short order Pippa kissed the dogs goodbye and headed south.
Sixteen
Although she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to kidnap her, and she couldn’t remotely imagine her husband, Moss, springing for a ransom should a kidnapping occur, Leigh Bowes had hired a bodyguard when it became apparent that she was the only socialite in Las Vegas without one. Samson was a disaster from day one. Sure, he looked impressive, but an armed man hulking six feet away at all times was, to say the least, intrusive. Plus he was a lummox. Each time Samson trailed her through the kitchen, he knocked something major off the counter, driving Rudi the chef bonkers. Samson insisted on locking Leigh into her bedroom every night, for her own protection. He ate nothing but aged prime rib. Nevertheless, since most female members of the Las Vegas Country Club had bodyguards and Leigh had been trying for eight gut-wrenching months to become a member of that superelite, she endured his company.
Unfortunately her majordomo had not been as flexible. He had recently marched into her bathroom, shut the door, and said, “Either Samson goes or I go.”
Leigh was aghast: in one week she was throwing a birthday party for her bichon frise, Titian. Three hundred guests, their bodyguards, and their dogs had been invited. “What’s gotten into you, Ferdinand?”
“He cleans his guns in the kitchen. Rudi hates that. He leaves his shavings in the sink and he’s formed an intimate liaison with Kerry.” The Irish maid. “I’m constantly walking in on them in flagrante.”
“How is that possible? Samson is with me eighteen hours a day.”
Ferdinand peeped through the keyhole into the master bedroom. “They’re defiling your mattress as we speak, madam.”
Leigh passed a hand over her face. “You put me in a difficult position, Ferdinand.”
He had said nothing further. He simply packed his bags and left. Out shopping, Leigh didn’t even know Ferdinand was gone until that evening, when her martini failed to materialize at the stroke of five. Chaos had immediately overtaken Casa Bowes. Canceling Titian’s birthday party was out of the question: such a faux pas would nuke her chances of membership in the Las Vegas Country Club. Leigh had called every employment agency in Nevada, to no avail. She had finally thrown herself at the mercy of her friend Dusi Damon, one of the last people she would even want to know about the catastrophe. Dusi had pointed her at Olivia Unpronounceable-dash-Supercilious in Aspen, who had coughed up a replacement after days of suspense. Leigh now owed Dusi so big time it bordered on moral bankruptcy.
Paranoid at losing yet another household employee, Leigh had said nothing to Samson or Kerry about their tawdry behavior. She didn’t dare tell her husband about the fornication problem because Moss had never wanted a bodyguard in the first place. He already thought Casa Bowes had three servants too many, cheap bastard. Moss was even ticked that Leigh was replacing Ferdinand: in his opinion, she was perfectly capable of dusting the furniture herself. Then after all that ranting, he had blown a million dollars at auction for a tiny Poussin still life. Leigh was ready to kill him.
She was eating breakfast in her atrium, glancing through the Frederick’s of Hollywood catalogue, when the doorbell rang. “Could you get that, Samson?” she asked after the third ring. “Kerry must still be tying bows on all the dog biscuits.”
“Only if you come with me,” he replied. His contract forbade him to wander more than six feet from his charge.
“Damn it!” Leigh threw down her antique silver grapefruit spoon. “Must I do everything myself?” She flung open the door. On her stoop stood a tall, slender—fellow?—in a gray jacket and iridescent green-purple silk shorts. He sported enormous eyeglasses and an Inspector Clouseau mustache.
“Signora Bowes.” He bowed. “Cosmo du Piche at your service.”
This was her sixty-five-thousand-dollar Superman? Leigh tried not to laugh. The boy looked seriously myopic. His voice was high as a girl’s. “Come in. Did you have a nice flight?”
“I drove, thank you.”
Cosmo didn’t mention where he had driven from and Leigh didn’t ask. Olivia had obviously filched him from another hapless society hostess; the less Leigh knew about that, the more innocent she could pretend to be when word got out. “Where might I park?” he asked.
Leigh was nonplussed to see a blue Maserati in her driveway. “Leave your car there for the moment. My chauffeur will put it in the garage.”
As she spoke, a Brinks armored truck pulled up behind the Maserati. Four armed guards hopped out, unlocked the rear doors, and carried a large crate to the front door. “Moss Bowes residence?”
“Yes. I’m Mrs. Bowes.”
“We have a painting.”
That stupid Poussin! Leigh fought an overwhelming desire to refuse delivery. “Put it in the den.”
“Not so fast.” Samson barred their path. “Remove your weapons first.”
The guards looked at him as if he had asked them to remove their gonads. “We can’t do that while the painting is in our custody. Insurance regulations.”
“And I can’t let you in the house with weapons. Security regulations.”
No one moved for a full minute. Leigh looked as if she had been shot. “Someone please do something!” she wailed.
Cosmo du Piche had met his first imbroglio. “I suggest you call your office,” Pippa told the Brinks man. “And you call yours,” she told Samson. “Let’s get a dialogue going.”
“Who’s this bozo?” the security guy asked.
“My majordomo,” Leigh replied. “Do as he says.”
Chortling, the guard called his office. So did Samson. The situation was explained at least a dozen times to various managers. Brinks presidents phoned Goliath Protection Services presidents. Chubb agents were consulted. Lawyers were consulted. The Brinks men didn’t budge from the
doorstep, nor did Leigh, Samson, and Pippa budge from the foyer. After a passing patrol car got into the act, the dilemma was reexplained, with considerably less patience. By the time the police checked everyones license to carry firearms, Leigh’s front door had been wide open for thirty minutes. Her living room was at least eighty degrees and getting dustier by the minute. “Could we speed this up?” she asked, irritatedly tapping her foot.
Her cell phone rang. It was her art dealer in New York, advising Leigh that he had been rousted from bed at noon by Chubb, Brinks, and Sotheby’s. She was mortified.
After the policemen left, no one spoke. Pippa took the opportunity to study the decor. Leigh’s living room and foyer were stuffed with Louis Quatorze furniture that no human had dared sit upon for a century. A tremendous rococo harpsichord, the inside of its lid painted with a country scene, occupied a corner of the grand parlor. Dark paintings lined the apricot walls. Each canvas depicted a bird either dead with root vegetables, aloft in the wild, or cupped in a nobleman’s hands. The place was pretentious, boring, and useless. Pippa noticed Leigh waiting anxiously for her pronouncement. “Beautiful,” she smiled.
Leigh was an attractive thirtysomething blonde. She wore a large diamond in an aggressive setting. Her cerise sequined halter and four-inch heels seemed a bit much for this hour of the morning but she carried both well. She had dancer’s legs. Although her exquisitely applied makeup had left no pore behind, she would have looked prettier with just moisturizer. Same with the jewelry: one knockout chain and bracelet would have looked better than the dozens garnishing her neck and wrists.
An apricot-colored Mercedes limousine squeezed into the driveway behind the Maserati and the Brinks car. Pippa saw a man leave the driver’s seat. Tall, dark, handsome. He wore an apricot polo shirt, same as Samson’s, with CASA BOWES embroidered in brown above the alligator. With a strange dread Pippa watched him approach the crowd on the stoop.
“Cole!” Leigh cried. “Can you believe this awful mess?”
