School of Fortune (39 page)

Dusi tapped her fuchsia-shod foot. “I should have known something like this would happen. Leigh is disgracefully unreliable. Moss would go out of his way to embarrass me.”

“Including hit himself in the head with a blunt object?”

Dusi's hand flew to her mouth. Her lips quivered as tears inched down her green cheeks. “I had no idea he was that spiteful.”

Thayne's eyelids fluttered. She was coming out of a bizarre dream involving her signature perfume and a ten-acre white gown. “Pippa?”

“That damn daughter again,” Dusi muttered. “Wake up, Twinkie! You're safe.”

Pippa assisted her mother to a sitting position. Miraculously, Thayne's wig stayed on. She stared around the library, trying to piece the bits together. Nothing fit, especially the cops. “Did I do something?”

“No,” Pippa assured her. “Signor Bowes was showing you a book about the black-hooded red siskin. Do you remember?”

“Vaguely.”

“You'll have to do a little better than that,” Dusi frowned.

“What's a siskin, Mrs. Walker?” a cop asked.

“A rare Venezuelan canary. Only five have been sighted in the last half century. Mine is worth over four million dollars.”

“I hope you're not talking about that ratty little bird in your hair,” Dusi said.

Thayne reached high up on her wig. “It's gone! Someone stole it!” “Did Bowes try to take it from you? Is that why you bopped him?” Thayne glared at the policeman. “‘Bopped'? I'm not familiar with the term.”

The cop noticed a half-open drawer in Moss's Louis Quatorze
scriban.
Its contents looked pilfered. Sliding his hand into a latex glove, the cop removed a bunch of Montblanc pens, an inch of Casa Bowes stationery, six pairs of Buccellati cuff links, and three gold ingots. “Mrs. Bowes,” he called to Leigh, who was sitting in a stupor playing with her ostrich feathers. “Are these what I think they are?”

Leigh looked over. “Yes, that is gold bullion.”

“Why are they in the desk drawer?”

“Moss kept them handy so he could bribe his way to the front of the gas line. In case of an oil crisis.”

“What else was in this drawer? Besides these junky old gold bricks?” “How would I know? Ask his valet.”

The cop was getting frustrated with all the strange terms these people used. “What is a valet, exactly?”

“A valet is a man's personal dresser,” Thayne informed him. “He chooses ties and socks, irons shirts perfectly, and sees that every shred of his master's clothing is in perfect condition. He also functions as a personal secretary, scheduling important social engagements as well as appointments with manicurists, hairdressers, doctors, and tennis pros. A top-notch valet will also walk the dog, drive the limousine, run to the ATM, and serve breakfast in bed.”

“Gee, I've got one of those at home,” the cop said. “She's called my wife.”

Only the other cop laughed. “Okay, Cole. What have
you
been doing all night?”

“Attending to four hundred guests.”

Thayne frowned at Pippa. “You allowed a valet to circulate with the guests, Cosmo?”

“Cole is not a mere valet, Madam Walker.”

One of the cops pricked up his ears. “Are you two more than valet and majorhomo?”

“Domo,” Pippa corrected, her face burning. “Our relationship is strictly professional.”

“Whatever. Did you happen to pop your head into the library any time tonight, Cole?”

“I don't generally pop my head in when my employer is having a tryst. Nor does Cosmo.”

Unfortunately that put the heat back on Thayne. The policeman took a closer look at her mountainous white curls: she could easily stash a shillelagh in there. “Would you mind removing that hat?”

“I certainly would.” As he stepped forward, Thayne grabbed Moss's Waterford letter opener off a side table. “Don't you dare touch me.”

Pippa leaped over the couch and planted herself between the policeman and the razor-sharp glass. “Officer! Please! Asking a lady to remove her wig is like asking her to strip naked. You simply can't do that.”

“Then you're coming to the station,” the policeman said. “You can remove it in the privacy of a jail cell.”

“Jail? Again?” As Thayne reeled into the bookcase behind the desk, the hoops of her skirt knocked over two globes. “Will I be frisked?”

An electric shock ran from Pippa's head to her toes as she realized that Thayne was carrying her tiny pistol, as always, in a garter above her knee. “Put those handcuffs away!” she shouted in the cop's face. “Madam Walker has done nothing wrong.”

“She's threatening me with a dangerous weapon. Plus she was the only one in the room when Bowes was attacked.”

Before things got any worse, Pippa grabbed Thayne's wrist. “Give me the letter opener, Madam Walker,” she said softly but firmly. “Now.”

After a long pause, Thayne obeyed. “Please sit down. Let me take off those tight old shoes. Are you a size eight?” “How did you know?”

“Cosmo knows everything, Twinkie,” Dusi sighed.

“We're the same size,” Pippa told her mother. “Come. Allow me to trade shoes with you.” Pippa glanced at the cop standing behind her. “Would you mind not staring, sir? Only a husband should see a lady's ankles.”

Shaking his head, the cop looked away. Pippa slid her hands under Thayne's gown and located the revolver in a garter above her mother's knee.

“Damn it, Cosmo! Your hands are freezing!” “What's going on back there?”

“Nothing, Officer.” Pippa slipped the offending hardware into her pocket. “These old pumps are murder to remove without a shoehorn.”

That voice: that perfume: Thayne passed a hand over her face as Pippa traded shoes with her. “Cosmo?” she asked weakly, looking about the room. “Pippa?”

“Get a grip on yourself, Twinkie,” Dusi clucked. “Pippa is disowned. She no longer exists and you must forget about her. Cosmo is Leigh's majordomo. For the moment,” she added before turning to the policemen. “Thayne has recently suffered a family trauma. She's got lawsuits coming at her right and left. Her mind is unhinged. She has been assaulting people from coast to coast without provocation. She has driven a Maserati into the swimming pool of a Dallas motel frequented by prostitutes. Last week I found her in Harrods wearing a fringed tweed suit that went out of fashion four years ago. If that isn't a sign of dementia, I don't know what is.” Dusi sighed heavily. “It's all that damn kid's fault.”

“One more word about my daughter and you're eating that tiara.”

Pippa stalked over to Dusi's chair. “Say no more. You're not helping in the least.”

“Forgive me, I forgot,” she laughed. “You have a crush on the glorious Madam Walker. You sent her the dead bird.”

“I knew there was something weird about that guy,” one cop whispered to his partner.

“A stuffed bird is not a dead bird,” Thayne snapped. “Dusi, you should be the last person to criticize a bit of taxidermy, considering your boobs looked like two dead slugs before you went to Rangoon.”

“Why, you bitch! At least I didn't force a slut to marry a quarterback!”

Thayne got both hands around Dusi's green throat before a policeman wrangled her out of the library. “That woman is a walking A-bomb,” Dusi gasped, clutching her neck.

“You're even worse,” the cop replied. “Get out before I lock you up with her.”

Cole put a restraining hand on Pippa's arm. “Stay calm,” he said under his breath. “We need you here.”

Having seen Moss into the ambulance, Agent Ballard returned to the library. “Where did you get that costume, Mrs. Bowes?”

“It was made for me by a Fine Feather designer.”

Ballard plucked a dark plume from the bodice. “This is from the Tasmanian double-variegated cockatoo. An endangered species.”

“That schmuck! He dresses me in illegal feathers?”

“We'll have to impound it as evidence.”

“Fine, but I'm not wearing any underwear.”

“I'll take you upstairs.”

After Leigh and Agent Ballard left, Pippa asked, “When may I fetch Madam Walker from the police station? She was asleep when the attack occurred.”

“Why do you say that, Sherlock?”

Pippa looked imploringly at Cole, who kept his mouth shut. She felt like kneecapping him with her mother's pistol. “The Walkers don't clip their enemies in the back of the head. They shoot them in the chest, like respectable people.”

“Thank you for that insight. Go fluff your mustache now.”

Pippa slammed the library door with all her might. It hardly made a dent in the ambience at Casa Bowes, which had become a riot of sequins, booze, music, and dance. The tigers on leashes were performing tricks in exchange for stuffed ptarmigan. Pippa found her sentry still on duty at the front door. There seemed to be twice as many harlequins circulating as before, but she couldn't be sure. “Everything under control?”

“Some fairy godmother just left in a police car,” he said. “Swearing like a trooper.”

Pippa found Rudi in the kitchen, apoplectic that no one was eating his whelks, tongues, jugged hare, or eels. She was halfway to the backyard when her cell phone rang: Sheldon. Presuming Thayne had called him en route to jail, Pippa said, “I'll make bail, whatever it is.”

“Bail?” Sheldon didn't want to know what that meant. “I've located Officer Pierce. He's selling used cars in Milwaukee.”

“Send him a ticket to Vegas. He can pick up his new Maserati tomorrow.”

“At the same address I sent the mustaches?”

“Yes. Have you heard from Mama tonight?”

“Far as I know she's in London on a shopping trip.” Sheldon heard raucous music in the background. “Are you at another wild party?”

“I'm working. What's the penalty for carrying a concealed weapon in Nevada?”

“First offense has got to be a gross misdemeanor.”

“What if you smack someone's head so hard he goes to the hospital?”

“My God! What have you done this time?”

Pippa hung up and proceeded to the patio, where Dusi had decided to go ahead with her Frequent Bentley presentation. She had climbed into the gondola in the swimming pool, where her plaque was resting on an easel covered with a dropcloth. As the gondola drifted over the water, Dusi waited for the crowd on the patio to calm into reverential silence. When that didn't happen, she threw two floral displays into the pool. That didn't work, either.

She noticed a wireless microphone on a cushion. “Welcome to Masqueradia Dusiana. What a wonderful evening! First I have a bit of news to report. Moss Bowes has been mugged in his own library. If anyone here did it, please let Leigh know so she can thank you personally.”

The laughter became a little uncertain. “Get to the point,” someone shouted.

“The point is this.” Dusi tore the dropcloth off the easel. “To Dusilla Damon, in recognition of the purchase of her tenth Bentley.' Is this not gorgeous?”

Five Persian melons, launched from various sites around the pool, flew into the air. Each struck either the plaque or Dusi herself. “How dare you!” she spluttered.

“Go screw yourself,” a heckler shouted as a second volley of melons found their target.

Peggy Stoutmeyer, the only person at Casa Bowes whose dreams Dusi had not destroyed, rushed to the diving board. Never a good judge of distance, she could see even less wearing a falcon mask. She grabbed the bow of the gondola, lost her balance, and splashed into the water, taking the boat down sideways. Cheers broke out as Dusi plummeted into the drink.

“Madam Damon!” Pippa cried, diving in. Heroics weren't necessary, Dusi having fallen into the shallow end, but Pippa was taking no chances. Peggy Stoutmeyer was paddling to a ladder in the deep end, apparently comfortable as a walrus in the water.

Pippa went to the cabana for a terry robe. To her disgust it had just been used as a fornicatorium. A cheesy pair of red nylon panties and a man's orange thong had been left behind. Tucking both into her pocket, intending to dispose of them the moment she passed a trash can, Pippa grabbed a fresh robe and returned to the pool.

“Why are they throwing things at me?” the sodden goddess of spring whimpered. She espied Harlan, her lover. “Give me your jacket! I'm not walking out of here in a terry robe.”

He divested himself of half his Swiss Guard uniform, unaware that fresh love scratches crisscrossed his upper body. Fortunately Dusi only had eyes for her plaque floating under the diving board. “Get that, Harlan!”

Pippa saw the three of them to the door. “I will never forget the horror of this night, Cosmo,” Dusi announced, boarding her Bentley. “Home, Horatio.”

Pippa watched the Bentley float away, sure that her diploma floated away with it. She stood in a trance, dripping water onto the portico, until one of the harlequins came up beside her. “Check the mustache, honey,” he whispered.

The right edge was slipping off again. “Thank you.”

Pippa went to her room. She changed into a dry uniform and refreshed the glue on her whiskers. As she was reaffixing her Cosmo pin, Cole knocked. He looked weary but still agonizingly handsome in his tux. “Thanks for leaving me high and dry,” Pippa said, furious. “You really let me down.”

He stood at the door. “I've been working undercover for six months. I still am.”

“You know Madam Walker didn't hurt Moss.”

Cole looked her in the eye. “Actually, Cosmo, I don't know.”

“If
she did, she would have been on the phone with her lawyer in one minute flat. The defense team would already be here eating Rudi's snipe.”

“You seem to know a lot about Thayne Walker,” Cole retorted, annoyed. He had told Pippa he was an undercover FBI agent. She had offered no reciprocal confession.