School of Fortune

by Amanda Brown

  Pippa nearly collapsed. Cole from Phoenix!

  Cole presumed the babe in the iridescent pantaloons had just delivered a singing telegram to Titian, the dog. She was blushing in mortification: couldn’t blame her. Then he stopped dead: despite the false mustache he recognized her mouth. It had been haunting him for weeks. Chippa? What was she doing here in that strange getup, pretending he was invisible? Either she didn’t remember him or she didn’t care to remember him: neither theory was complimentary. Cole decided to play dumb until he got his bearings. “I see the Poussin has arrived,” he told Leigh.

  “They can’t bring it in or Samson will have to shoot them,” she answered. “We’ve been standing here for half an hour.”

  The head guard snapped his phone shut. “Okay. We got a deal.” He put his revolver on the doormat. “I leave my heat here and carry the picture inside. My three guys guard me. Your bodyguard guards the picture. If it looks as if I’m going to take off with it, everybody shoots me.”

  “That seems fair,” Leigh agreed.

  “Not so fast.” Samson wouldn’t let him in until he had run the scenario past his boss in Tucson. He frisked the guard. Then he cocked his gun and aimed it at the guard’s chest. “Nice and easy. One false move and you’re hamburger.”

  That got the other Brinks men so annoyed that two of them trained their guns at Samson’s chest. “And you’re chowchow,” one of them replied.

  “Let’s try not to shoot a dozen holes in the painting, okay, fellas?” Cole said.

  The guard with the crate tiptoed gingerly over the threshold. He had no doubt that should he somehow trip or hiccup, Samson would blast him. “Where would you like me to put this?”

  “Right there against the umbrella stand. Thank you.” Leigh signed a dozen receipts.

  Snap out of it. He doesn’t recognize you. Pippa was both relieved and a little hurt. She peeled four hundreds off a wad in her pocket. “Thanks for your patience, gentlemen. Excellent job.”

  “You’re welcome.” The guard glared at Samson. “You’re not, asshole.” They drove away.

  “Nothing like a little shootout to get the day off to a good start. And you would be . . . ?” Cole asked Pippa when she made no sign of leaving.

  “Cosmo du Piche,” Leigh announced. “Our new majordomo.”

  “Cole Madisson. Nice touch, that tip.” Picking up the crate, he walked down the hall.

  Leigh’s phone rang. It was her art dealer again. She had caused him to lose face with Sotheby’s. If some cowboy was going to pull a gun every time he tried to deliver a French masterpiece to the Wild West, the Bowes family would be removed from his client list. “I told you I’m sorry,” Leigh snapped, hanging up. She rubbed her flaming forehead. “Cosmo, can you do martial arts?”

  “I can karate kick.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” Leigh turned to Samson. “You’re fired. Wait here, Cosmo.” Leigh accompanied Samson to his room. Five minutes later, his bags packed, they returned to the foyer.

  “Good luck, fruitcake,” he told Pippa on the way out.

  When nothing remained of Samson but the dust cloud in her driveway, Leigh turned to Pippa. “I feel so much better already. Would you like a tour of the house?”

  Having driven all night from Aspen, Pippa would have preferred a ten-hour siesta but, rather than get fired on the spot like Samson, said, “I would love that, Signora Bowes.”

  “We’ll start right here with the front doors. I saw you admiring them. Aren’t they fantastic?”

  The Varathane had barely dried on two enormous rosewood doors. On the left door, beneath the inscription CASA, the figure of a woman in evening dress had been carved in bas relief. She bore an idealized resemblance to Leigh. On the right door, beneath the inscription BOWES, was the figure of a man in a tux, presumably the guy who had paid for everything. Twittering birds adorned the four corners of each door.

  “I love the birds,” Pippa said.

  “My husband insisted on them. His company is the largest importer of feathers in the United States.” That explained the paintings. “Bravo.”

  “Fine Feather is also the purveyor of sequins, metallic fabric, whalebone, rhinestones, faux fur, and snakeskin in Las Vegas.” Shutting the front doors, Leigh proceeded to a palatial room off the foyer. “I’m a bit of a Louis Quatorze nut. Casa Bowes is a thirty-thousand-square-foot replica of Versailles.” Seeing Pippa’s glazed smile, Leigh continued, “You’re probably wondering why it isn’t named Maison Bowes, aren’t you?”

  Actually Pippa was wondering if there were a death penalty in Nevada and, if so, when Leigh’s interior decorator had been executed. “Yes, that did cross my mind.”

  “We didn’t want to seem too pretentious.”

  “It’s perfect.” Pippa kept the smile glued on as Leigh showed her a Duesenberg, custom-painted apricot, parked in the garage: her toodling-around-town wheels. Pippa was led past six ballrooms, a coffin-sized silver chest, an indoor swimming pool, a bowling alley, and a cavernous library crammed with stuffed birds.

  “My husband is an expert orthodontist, as you might imply.”

  Pippa didn’t dare tell her new employer the correct words were “ornithologist” and “infer.” “This is very impressive, Signora Bowes.”

  In the supermodern kitchen they ran into Rudi, a sixtyish chef in a white toque busy baking hundreds of tiny pie shells for tomorrow’s birthday party. “Rudi’s grandfather was pastry chef for Emperor Franz Jonah.”

  “Josef, Dummkopf,” Rudi shouted.

  Leigh ignored him. “And this is our dear Kerry, in charge of laundry, linen, silver, and porcelain.”

  A blowsy, none too carefully washed young woman sat at the stainless-steel counter affixing white bows to a mountain of liver biscuits that Rudi had baked yesterday. “Who the hell are you?” she asked Pippa.

  “Cosmo du Piche.” There was no way to say that with a shred of dignity.

  “I guess that means you’re a guy. Where’d you get the threads? You look like a reject from Cutthroat Island.”

  All of Leigh’s staff wore an apricot polo shirt with CASA BOWES on the front and a floor plan of same on the back. No way was Pippa going to be seen in that: her gender would be immediately exposed. “These are the du Piche colors. My ancestors were ennobled by Pope Pius the Third in commemoration of their victory over the Saracens.”

  “No stuff.” Kerry tied a few more bows on dog biscuits before figuring out what was wrong with this picture. “Where’s Samson, Mrs. Bowes?”

  “Standing in an unemployment line. He nearly massacred four Brinks guards this morning.”

  “That son of a bitch owed me a hundred bucks!” Kerry barreled out of the kitchen.

  “Kerry has a temper,” Leigh apologized. “She’s also a lazy and disobedient slut.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Rudi adores her. I won’t risk losing the best pastry chef in Las Vegas. I’m sure you’ll find a way to manage her.”

  As Pippa was trudging after Leigh up the grandiose main staircase, Cole called, “Excuse me, madam. Whose Maserati is blocking the driveway?”

  “Cosmo’s. Please park it in the garage and bring his luggage in.” Leigh turned to Pippa. “Cole is my husband’s valet and chauffeur.”

  Chauffeur? Wearing a Breguet watch? That was a lot of parallel parking. “Aha.”

  Leigh led Pippa through a tremendous shoe closet. She was inordinately fond of metallic sling-backs. Pippa soon saw why: the next closet was packed with sequined gowns in every loud color. “I’m a dramatic dresser,” Leigh confessed.

  “Good advertising for your husband’s wares.”

  “Aren’t you sweet. Actually, it’s an old habit. I used to be a Rockette.”

  “Really! I took fifteen years of tap,” Pippa blurted before realizing her mistake. There was nothing to do but plow ahead. “It changed my life.”

  Leigh deduced that Cosmo was gay or bisexual. At least with Samson gone, he wouldn’t get beaten up for it. She led her maj
ordomo through more palatial closets and the master bedroom, a nightmare of apricot pillows, shams, valances, and vanities. Leigh’s master bath was even grander than Thayne’s, no small feat, but the incessant orange was wearing on Pippa’s nerves. They traipsed through a mirrored dance studio, where Leigh still took daily lessons. Pippa was shown the office, the safe room, and an adorable nursery for Titian, the bichon frise.

  They proceeded to the servants’ wing, where the appurtenances were lavish but still apricot. Leigh pointed to a door. “That’s Cole’s room. Here’s yours. I hope you don’t mind sharing a bath with him. It has a double sink and double showers. He’s very tidy.”

  That was just great. “It’s lovely, Signora Bowes.”

  Cole entered with two Hartmann wheelers covered with large red polka dots. Olivia had given them to Pippa as a going-away gift. “Here you go, Cosmo,” he said, swinging them onto the bed. “Need any help unpacking? It’s my specialty.”

  “No thank you. If you’ll both excuse me, I’d like to get organized.”

  “Of course. Come to the kitchen when you’ve settled in. Kerry will bring you some Casa Bowes shirts in the proper size.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to remain in uniform,” Pippa said. “My ensemble was designed by Yves Saint Laurent for a stately residence such as yours.”

  Leigh didn’t dare protest. She had to admit that Cosmo’s thirty brass buttons were fetchingly twee. “As you wish.”

  “Rule number one: establish your turf,” Cole said after the door closed. “Well done.”

  Pippa felt her face burning. The room had suddenly gotten very hot. “I understand we’ll be sharing a bath. If you would kindly avoid walking in on me, I’d appreciate it.” Cole’s only response was an exaggerated furrowing of the brow, as if he were trying to figure out the punch line of a moronic joke. “What’s the problem?” she snapped. Looking directly into his eyes was making her dizzy. “Are you some sort of homophobe?”

  “I don’t think so. Are you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Fine. Then let’s share the bathroom. We both know what a penis looks like.”

  “You don’t understand,” Pippa whimpered. “I sometimes have dark urges.”

  “In that case I’ll always knock, Cosmo.” She was amazingly fun to tease. Cole looked at his watch. “Gotta pick up the dog. He’s getting a comb-out.”

  “Wait!” Pippa didn’t want Cole to leave. Something about his presence was powerfully reassuring. “Is this place all right?” “Yes. You’ll be fine.”

  Alone, Pippa tore off her glasses, which had already made major dents on the bridge of her nose. The guy at an all-night LensCrafters down the road had tried to get her to buy smaller frames, but she had held fast. That may have been a mistake. She unpacked her six du Piche uniforms. Pippa had brought one Chanel suit: that was probably another mistake; she shoved it way in back of her closet. She hid her jewelry roll beneath a skirted chair and went to the bathroom. Cole’s toiletries were all Lanvin. He shaved with a fourteen-carat-gold razor and a Penhaglion boar-bristle brush. His sink was spotless. Under normal circumstances Pippa would have been delighted; now she realized that sharing space with such an intriguing man could be hazardous to her diploma. She would have to be incredibly cautious. After taking a shower, she adjusted her mustache and went to the kitchen.

  Leigh and Kerry stood at the island testing a dozen microquiches that Rudi proposed serving for the birthday party. “What do you think, Cosmo?” Leigh proffered a tiny round tart. “This one’s pro-sciutto and asparagus.”

  “Delicious.”

  “This is lamb and leek.”

  “Excellent. Rudi, you’re a master.”

  “Smoked turkey and dill.”

  “Outstanding.”

  “All right. We’ll go with those,” Leigh said. “Three hundred of each, Rudi.”

  “Have you got anything for vegetarians?” Pippa asked. “There’s one in every crowd.”

  “Vegetarians? These are for the dogs.” The humans were getting tuna. Three fifty-pound bluefins, three thousand bucks apiece, were arriving tomorrow from the Tsukiji fish market in Tokyo. “How are you going to grill them, Rudi?”

  “I do not never vork mit fish.”

  “Cosmo? Can you man the grill?”

  Pippa swallowed hard. Nine thousand bucks was a lot of tuna to incinerate. “No problem, signora.” Leigh would also be serving a ton of fussy salads. Titian’s birthday cake was fifty pounds of sirloin tartare in the shape of a femur topped with mashed potato icing. The humans would get homemade sorbet and teeny-weeny chocolate cookies in the shape of Titian’s head.

  “What about drinks?” Leigh continued. No one knew a thing about that. “Cosmo, can I leave that to you?”

  “Of course.”

  Leigh turned to Kerry. “And the entertainment?” “Pin the tail on the donkey. Hide and seek,” Kerry shrugged. “I specifically told you games for dogs.”

  “And I specifically told you my job is linens, laundry, and silver.” “Cosmo, can I turn that over to you?”

  “Certainly.” Drinks, grill, and games for three hundred? Tomorrow? Pippa felt an incipient diarrhea gurgle in her intestines. “What is the budget, please?” Thayne always asked about money first.

  “There is no budget. Spend whatever it takes.”

  Leigh left for a break dancing lesson, which her therapist had recommended to ease stress. Pippa poured herself a half cup of coffee. It took a tremendous effort of will not to pour a half cup of whiskey on top of that. One thing at a time, she told herself. If Cedric could bulldoze his way cold through Thayne’s nonwedding-of-the-century, Pippa could muddle through a birthday party for a bichon frise. “Titian must be a very special dog.”

  “Who cares about that stupid mutt?” Kerry answered. “The whole point is to impress members of the country club. Getting in is harder than winning the World Series.”

  The game was familiar to Pippa. “In that case, someone has given the party serious thought. These events are planned like military campaigns.”

  “Ferdinand worked on it. The guy you replaced.” “Did he leave any sort of file?” Yeah, upstairs. “Could you get it for me?”

  While Kerry was gone, a Tent Event truck arrived. Six guys asked Pippa where they were supposed to nail the stakes. Proceed with confidence at all times. “This way, please.” Fortunately Leigh had a large backyard. “Over there. Don’t wreck the cacti.”

  Kerry returned with a file named “Titian’s First Birthday.” Most of the plans were well in place, thank God. “May I rely on you to take charge of the tables?” Pippa asked Kerry. “Twenty rent-a-maids will arrive at ten.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “And I don’t have to worry about food, Rudi?”

  “You don’t vorry.”

  Games? Evidently Ferdinand hadn’t gotten around to that. Think big, Thayne always said. Make a statement. Pippa recalled that dogs always seemed to enjoy themselves at shows, so she called the Westminster Kennel Club and arranged for three judges to fly in tomorrow for master classes and an informal competition. Pippa hired a stage designer from the Luxor to come over and build reviewing stands and a mini Hyde Park. Kids always enjoyed fingerpainting, so she booked an actor to come over in a Big Bird costume and supervise pawprint class. How about a few races in Leigh’s pool? Pippa called the U.S. Olympic Committee and asked if they knew of a buff swimmer willing to officiate at a canine meet tomorrow. A fund-raiser, she added: afterward he could sign a load of autographs for a thousand bucks a pop.

  Drinks? Ninety gallons of zombies should keep everyone happy. Pippa ordered the booze while Kerry located a punch bowl the size of a baptismal font.

  Grilling the tuna was a problem, though. Pippa didn’t know what to do about that. She strolled past the kitchen window and nearly dropped her coffee as a gigantic tent rose from the flat earth. She found herself listening for the shriek of an enraged elephant.

  Instead she
heard Leigh. “Don’t you dare interfere! This is my party!”

  The mistress of the house stormed into the kitchen with a man at her heels. Blond, tan, toned: Cool Hand Luke in an Armani suit. Without breaking stride Leigh grabbed an aluminum mixing bowl from the counter and hurled it at her pursuer. “Cheap bastard!” she cried before running into the backyard.

  The man stood in silence as two quarts of saffron mayonnaise dribbled down his front. Rudi hit the ceiling. “Dammi!” he shouted, smashing a pot into the sink. “I yust make dat! By my hand, no mixer!” Chucking a second pot into the sink, he stomped out. “Dammi!”

  Cole entered, assessed the damage, and rushed to the aid of the Armani suit. “Sorry, sir. Titian took forever to poop.”

  As Cole was swabbing his lapels, the man noticed Pippa. “Cosmo du Piche,” she bowed, unnerved by his steely blue eyes.

  “The new majordomo,” Cole explained under his breath. “Claims to be a male.”

  “Columba livia” was all the man said.

  “You know Olivia?” Pippa was floored. “She did spend some time in Colombia.”

  “Colutnba livia” the man repeated. “That’s Latin for ‘domestic pigeon.

  “Oh! You’re absolutely right, sir. The du Piche colors are those of the noble pigeon. You’re the first person who has ever made the connection. I’m so impressed.”

  That earned a sardonic smile. The man waited as Cole scraped most of the mayonnaise off his suit. He excused himself and strode into the yard. Within seconds the screaming match was back in overdrive.

  “If you haven’t guessed, that’s Moss Bowes,” Cole told Pippa. He threw her a pair of potholders. “Help me get these out of the oven before they burn to a crisp.”

  Pippa hurried over. “Do they always fight like that?”

  “Nonstop. You’ll get used to it.” Cole rescued two sheets of asparagus tartlets. “How’s the party coming?”

  “Ferdinand paved the way.” Pippa noticed that Cole was quite handy with a pair of oven mitts. “Are you busy tomorrow afternoon? I need someone to grill three tuna.”

  “Whole?”

  “Of course! Presentation is evvvvverything” A quote straight out of Thayne’s party book. “Could you rig them up like suckling pigs? There must be a spit somewhere in this house.”