School of Fortune (11 page)

Ginny was a fan of huge sunglasses and safari hats. Pippa borrowed the least offensive of these from the walk-in closet. Locating a small beaded purse with the price tag still on, she stuffed it with cash from her father. She doused herself with the Thayne perfume on Ginny's dresser then slipped the flacon into her purse. It would go everywhere with her from now on. On the way out she folded Sheldon's business card into the wad of bills in case she happened to come up with a new name, a place to live, a school to attend, or a path in life.

The automatic garage door opened. Pippa backed Ginny's Lexus SUV out the driveway. Fresh air! Sunshine! Movement! Drunk with freedom, Pippa couldn't resist taking the huge vehicle on the highway for a spin. She turned the CD player up full blast and, singing along with Josh Groban, motored around Dallas. Near the end of the CD, somewhere on Route 75, Pippa glanced into her rarely used rearview mirror and was surprised to see flashing blue lights directly behind her. She put the music in pause and opened her window a crack.

“YOU! PULL OFF THE HIGHWAY
NOW!
LAST WARNING!”

So that was the strange noise she had been hearing for twenty minutes. The man sounded incredibly angry. Pippa veered across three lanes of traffic and pulled onto the shoulder. She waited nervously as the patrol car phoned in Ginny's license plate. In her sideview mirror she watched a stony-faced Goliath of a policeman stride toward her window.

“Yes, Officer?” she asked meekly.

“I've been following you for twenty miles. You've been speeding for all twenty of them.”

“I'm sorry. You just tap the gas on this thing and it goes forward.”

“Do you know what a rearview mirror is for?”

Putting on lipstick, obviously. Pippa didn't think the officer would relate to that. “For seeing what's behind you?”

“Right! License and registration, please.”

Pippa found Ginny's registration in the glove compartment. “This is my friend's car. She's in Costa Rica. I'm staying at her house. I'm afraid I've left my license at home. I only have a little bit of money in my purse. Well, Ginny's purse. My father gave me the money when I tried to go home the other day. My mother won't let me home because I'm an orphan now so I'm staying at Ginny's while she's in the jungle studying nesting habits of the—”

“Get out of the car. Pop the trunk.” He found nothing inside but a gigantic striped top hat.

“That's Ginny's Mad Hatter hat! Isn't it sweet?”

His lips didn't move. “Name and address, please.”

“Pippa Walker,” she whispered. “I live at Fleur-de-Lis on Royal Lane. Used to live, anyway.”

The officer's eyebrows rose half an inch. The butchered dress, the diamonds and white shoes, the bright yellow sunglasses were beginning to make a little more sense now. He recognized the face that had been dominating news broadcasts for the last few days. “You just had a wedding.”

Her face fell. “Sort of.”

Poor kid looked like a ghost. Last thing Balker Walker needed was more public trauma. Still, he had sworn to uphold the law. The officer began filling out a triplicate form. “You'll have to appear in traffic court and pay a fine for speeding. Bring your license, if you can find it.”

“Court? With lawyers and police? Photographers?”

She looked about ready to lunge into oncoming traffic. He felt sorry for her. She was so outrageously cute, even in that nutty safari hat. “Or you can go to traffic school.”

Pippa stood absolutely still for a long moment. Then she asked, “Could I make one eensie little phone call? Please, it's a matter of life or death.”

She found a little card in her beaded purse. “Sheldon! Does traffic school count as school?” Hardly breathing, Pippa listened to the answer. Life and color returned to her face. “I'll go to traffic school, Officer,” she said, nearly giddy with excitement. One would think he had just presented her with a flying carpet. “Thank you so much!”

U
naware of the road rage she was creating in her wake, Pippa drove at a rock-solid thirty miles per hour to Neiman Marcus as she talked with Sheldon on her cell phone. He promised to look into the driving school schedule and get some electronic funds transfers going once Pippa was officially enrolled. “You won't be using your given name, will you?” he asked. “One media circus is enough for the time being.”

“I'm still thinking about an alias. It's harder than you think.”

After parking in a remote corner of the lot, Pippa took the escalator to American Designers, a department she could navigate blindfolded. She was only halfway through the Zac Posen rack when a nearby voice drawled, “That is not your style, Katherine.”

“Give me a break, Mum. What would you know about my style?”

Pippa cringed to see Mrs. Bingo Buntz IV not ten feet away. Her daughter was modeling a white gown that only accentuated her Rubenesque contours. “You are not wearing that to the cotillion. It is extremely tacky.”

“But it's seven thousand dollars!”

Mrs. Buntz inspected the price tag. “I suppose it's a possibility.

There has to be something on this floor for at least ten. Miss! Could you help us?”

Pippa took the opportunity to slink to a far-off rack containing loud pinks and turquoises by Lilly Pulitzer. She was pawing through that when who should emerge from a nearby dressing room but Leah and Cora, her erstwhile bridesmaids. In a panic Pippa dropped to her knees and began crawling to the far corner of the American Designers department.

“May I help you, ma'am?” a voice asked as she was trying to break through a clot of floor-length gypsy skirts.

Pippa glanced up at a pair of shins. “I seem to have lost my contact lens.”

The salesgirl was too polite to ask how that could occur if Pippa was wearing huge sunglasses. Instead she knelt beside her. “What color was it?”

“Listen,” Pippa whispered. “Forget the contact lens. I'm sure it's crushed. I want you to bring me everything you've got in Zac Posen size six.” When the girl merely stared at her, Pippa added, “I've got agoraphobia. It's a miracle I made it this far. And don't tell anyone I'm here!”

The diamonds convinced the salesgirl that Pippa, though insane, had disposable income. “Stay calm. I'll be right back.”

The girl quickly returned with an armful of dresses. “Fine,” Pippa said. “Can you bring me a couple of Laundry skirts and tops? Also a dozen panties and some 34C La Perla underwire bras? A little leather jacket by Andrew Marc would be good. I need a pair of sneakers, white sandals, and black flats. Size eight. Ferragamo if they're not too pointy.”

“I don't think Ferragamo makes sneakers.”

“Whatever.” Pippa handed over an inch of hundred-dollar bills. “Here's some cash.”

As soon as the girl left, Pippa wriggled out of her nonwedding half-gown. She chewed the price tag off a ruffly red dress and was sliding it over her head when she heard Mrs. Bingo Buntz IV say, “Look at those nice long skirts, Katherine.”

Seeing two pairs of approaching shoes, Pippa rolled behind a rack of DKNY trousers just in the nick of time. “You can't be serious, Mum,” the daughter said, removing a gypsy skirt for inspection.

“These are so Woodstock.” Pippa watched in horror as Katherine lifted her wedding dress off the floor. “Hey, this is kind of cute.”

“Never pick something off the floor! Look at that hem. This has been seriously vandalized.”

“But I love the bodice. We can get a seamstress to fix the bottom, can't we?”

“Miss! Can you help us? We'd like to purchase this dress.”

Pippa saw a third pair of shoes join the Buntzes' clodhoppers. After a moment the salesgirl asked, “Where did you find this?”

“Right here, mixed in with the gypsy skirts.”

“It doesn't seem to be in salable condition. I'm not sure this is one of our gowns.”

“Of course it is. Look at the label. You do have a Vera Wang boutique, don't you?”

“Let's take a look.” Three pairs of shoes, and the wedding dress, went away.

Pippa bit her own hand so that she wouldn't scream. She counted to one hundred as she rocked back and forth. After another eon she heard a voice.

“Ma'am?” Her salesgirl was squatting beside her. “I think I've got everything.”

“Not quite! Go to the La Prairie counter and get me foundation, sunscreen, blush, eyeliner, shadow, mascara, foam cleanser, exfoliator, antiwrinkle cream, and three lipsticks. My color is three point four. Then meet me with everything in sports memorabilia.” No female Pippa knew would ever go there. She handed over the chewed-off price tag of the ruffly dress she was wearing. “Add this to the bill. Wait! Do you see two blondes with big hair anywhere?”

The salesgirl stood up. “There are about twenty of them duking it out at the Moschino sale. Don't worry, no one's looking over here.”

Pippa scuttled downstairs as rapidly as dignity allowed. Every few steps, it seemed, one of her friends, or Thayne's friends, or someone who looked like a wedding guest, or a musician from the Dallas Symphony, stepped in her path. She put one foot ahead of the other until she stood in front of a glass case containing autographed baseballs, boxing gloves, and hockey sticks. A few weeks ago, at this very counter, she had bought Lance a signed photograph of Roger Staubach's “Hail Mary” pass to Drew Pearson.

“May I help you, ma'am?” the salesman asked.

“Did you sell that autographed picture of Lance Henderson?” Pippa asked, trying to kill time. “I saw it here a while back.”

“We're totally sold out. Every girl in Texas wants a picture of him now that he's back in circulation.” The salesman had no sooner spoken than two girls came to the counter asking for a Lance Henderson picture, preferably from the rear in football tights.

“He's got such a cute butt,” one girl told the other.

Pippa severely bit her tongue. Luckily her salesgirl and three assistants laden with boxes were approaching. Pippa led them out to the SUV and rocketed out of the Neiman's lot. She did her grocery shopping at a Hispanic supermarket on the down side of Dallas. Everyone there presumed her jewelry was fake and/or she was a stray from a halfway house. She got back to Ginny's place just in time for reruns of
Another World.
After consuming half a pint of Häagen-Dazs Rum Raisin, she listened to her phone messages. Sheldon had called six times, so she called him back. “Good news. Driving school starts tomorrow. It goes for a week.”

“Then I'll be a billionaire?”

“If you pass the course, yes, I'm afraid so. You will enroll under what name?” Silence. “It's almost five o'clock. If I don't get you in today, you'll have to wait another month.”

Pippa watched the credits scroll by on television. Zoe, Patty, Vonda, Carly, Perdita . . .

“Perdita,” she said. That had a nice ring to it. “Bacardi.”

“Where did you find that name?”

“On the credits
for Another World.”

“You can't possibly do that. The real Perdita Bacardi will sue you for the entire billion. Give me another last name. Quickly.”

Pippa looked around the room. Ginny had left a stack of Central America travel books on the dining table. Panama. Honduras. Nicaragua. Costa ... “Rica.”

“Perdita Rica? Are you serious?”

“Do it, Sheldon! It's just a name.”

“I'll get back to you in a few minutes. Don't go anywhere.”

Pippa unfolded the Dallas
Morning News,
which Ginny had forgotten to put on hold when she left town. Her calm vaporized as she saw an article on the front page.
LOVERS' LAWSUITS LIKELY.
Apparently Rosimund was seeking full restitution from Thayne for the cost of the Henderson Ball, a mere ten million dollars. That figure would double if Rosimund compensated her guests, as any respectable Houston woman would, for plane fare, meals, clothing, and mental suffering. Never one to pass up a good catfight, Thayne was countersuing Lance for twenty millions dollars for sexual harassment plus the cost of her guests' plane fares, meals, clothing, mental suffering,
and liquor.
Neither Lance nor Pippa was available for comment. In fact they had both disappeared, giving rise to rumors that the couple had eloped, playing a practical joke on two overbearing matriarchs.

Spinoff articles jammed the Living section of the paper. Gossip columnists had a ball with the several dozen men who had come forward claiming to be Pippa's secret paramour. After reading every last word, Pippa sleepwalked to the freezer. She opened the remaining half carton of Haagen-Dazs, filled it to the brim with rum, shook vigorously, and began to drink. Instead of abating, this story was spreading like an Ebola virus.

Sheldon called back. “You're to be in school tomorrow at nine sharp. If you pass, you'll be forgiven the moving violation and two points. You will inherit a fortune. Pippa, are you there?”

“Pippa is not here. Perdita is here. Pippa is dead.”

“Are you speaking with food in your mouth?”

“I've been reading the newspapers.”

“That is something I can't prevent, but would advise you to stop doing at once.”

“Mama's being sued.”

“If you pass driving school, you will be able to reimburse both Thayne and Rosimund all by yourself. I hope that gives you some sense of purpose, if not poetic justice.”

Pippa cringed at the reminder that Thayne's current difficulty was all her fault. “I'll make it up to her, Sheldon. In one week this will be all over.”

“I certainly hope so.” He explained that Pippa must take care not to let anyone know her true identity. It hadn't been easy convincing the police that an alias was in everyone's best interest because, every so often, they liked to make an example of a rich and famous scofflaw. “Don't socialize with anyone in class. Try to obliterate any traces of Pippa Walker.”

“But I just bought a new wardrobe at Neiman Marcus.”

“I hope it's very unassuming.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you're going to blend into the linoleum. Perdita Rica should be a waitress or someone of that ilk.”

Pippa went to the bedroom. The pile of clothing on the bed included a red ruffly dress, a purple leather jacket, some hot-pink tops, a tight white skirt, and a black V-neck sheath, all very clingy and obviously designer. That wouldn't do, so Pippa changed back into camping gear. She grabbed the Lexus keys, then paused: last thing she needed was a DUI citation. She called a cab. When it appeared out front, she donned the safari hat and sunglasses. “Take me to Wal-Mart,” she told the driver.

As they slogged to a less privileged section of town, Pippa studied young female pedestrians, hoping to gain a few wardrobe tips for her Perdita Rica persona. Apparently rule number one was Less Is More, particularly when covering the gluteus maximus. Rule number two was No Pastels, Earth Tones, or Small Prints. Rule number three was Tight. As she observed the flesh bursting from every available gap, Pippa realized that if she really wanted to blend into the linoleum, she should put on fifty pounds and wear short shorts, a rayon halter top, and five-inch platforms to driving school. Rule number four was Dark Hair.

“Wait for me here,” Pippa said when the cab reached Wal-Mart.

She had never been inside such a store before. The place smelled like fake food. She didn't see one carpet on the floor. People pushed their carts around as if they were in a demolition derby.

“Hi,” greeted a guy in a wheelchair. “Looking for something in particular?”

“Do you have a designer clothing section?”

“Like Fruit of the Loom? Sure. Over there.”

Pippa grabbed a shopping cart and zigzagged forward until she found a sea of tank tops. She tossed a handful of those and two skirts into her cart. Taking a cue from teenage girls at the next rack, she acquired a pair of flip-flops with thick rubber soles. She was at the jewelry counter buying a watch when the woman next to her said, “Excuse me, but are you that bride? Pip something?”

Stay calm,
Pippa commanded herself. “I'm afraid not. My name is Perdita.” She raised her voice a few decibels. “Perdita Rica.”

“Perdita! That means little lost girl' in Spanish. And
rica
means ‘rich.' So I guess you're a poor little lost rich girl! Just like that old movie with Betty Hutton.”

Pippa forced herself to smile. “Yes, people have been kidding me about that my whole life.”

“You really look like that girl, you know. You could make money impersonating her at parties.”

“Now that's a thought.” In a panic, Pippa hit the drugstore for black hair color. What had given her away? Only her mouth and a few inches of cheekbone were showing. The saturation coverage must have made her instantly recognizable, like the Hulk. She picked up a tattoo kit and some truly offensive nail polish before joining the checkout line. Her shoulders ached from trying to make her neck disappear. Fortunately those next to her in line were either reading the magazines, attending to screaming infants, or filching malted milk balls from two-pound bags. As she inched forward, Pippa read the Clairol instruction booklet. Dyeing one's own hair seemed more complicated than open heart surgery; no wonder professionals like Brent charged six hundred dollars to do it in a salon.

Pippa was about to drop out of line and look for the wig department when the woman ahead of her stuffed the
National Enquirer
back in the rack. Pippa was stupefied to see a picture of herself, in her wedding gown, on the front page. In fact she was on the cover of
Us, People,
the
Examiner, Globe,
and
Sun.
MURDER PLOT UNCOVERED. TEXAS FIZZLE. WHAT WENT WRONG? QUARTERBACK SNEAK. I DON'T!
Beneath the headlines were shots of her dancing with Lance at the Henderson Ball, high school yearbook pictures of them both, football shots, pictures of her grandfather, even a blurry photo purporting to be Thayne and Rosimund slugging it out in a mud pit. There was a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for finding her.