Heiress On Fire

by Kellie McCourt

  Her husband pulled her close. ‘They wouldn’t have you, love.’

  A fragile silence overcame the room.

  Harrold cleared his throat. ‘Indigo, how about you have our share in it? You’re his wife. You know how these things work.’

  If I took their money I might die of guilt and shame. And I had too much guilt, shame—and debatably, money—already.

  I might not have known much about running companies, but I did know you didn’t have to run the company just because you owned it.

  ‘Thank you, but no. We’ll find a CEO to run Sydney Plastics and you will be given your share of the profits every quarter. Providing there are profits.’

  I turned to Esmerelda to speak.

  ‘Yeah, I totally know,’ she said punching details into her phone. ‘Put finding a CEO on the list.’

  I nodded. Then smiled reassuringly at the Smiths, as if I knew what I was doing.

  I was having heart palpitations every time that list was added to. Still, I had met with the police. My mind wandered to Searing and the hammock fantasy. Then it wandered to James Smith. I was going to hell for sure.

  Woods was reading, ‘To my brother James whom I love and admire, I leave 40 per cent of my share portfolio, 20 per cent of the funds in my various accounts, 10 per cent of my share in the Sydney Plastics franchise, and my watch collection.’

  James turned to me. ‘Will you look after my share too?’

  ‘Sure. Definitely,’ I answered nonchalantly, bile rising in my throat.

  Woods pressed on. ‘To my little sister Elise, I leave 40 per cent of my share portfolio, 20 per cent of the funds in my various accounts, 10 per cent of my share in the Sydney Plastics franchise, and my art collection.’

  She looked over at me. ‘Will you?’

  My head nodded of its own accord. ‘Absolutely.’

  The only absolute thing was that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I failed to mention the art collection she had just been bequeathed was gone. Burnt. There was nothing to collect but insurance money.

  Damn. The watch collection Richard left to James had been in the penthouse too.

  I started to sweat. I cut my eyes to Esmerelda. She mouthed ‘Insurance company?’ I nodded and she tapped the phone again. I was increasingly terrified by that list.

  ‘To my loving wife Indigo-Daisy-Violet-Amber Hasluck-Royce-Jones-Bombberg,’ read Woods, quoting Richard.

  Elise looked sympathetically at me. ‘I’ve got six middle names,’ she whispered.

  ‘Never in my wildest dreams,’ Woods went on, ‘did I imagine a woman like you would marry a man like me. There is nothing I would not do for you. I leave you my most prized possession: my model train collection.’

  A murmur of hushed awe and approval washed over his family. Train drivers liked model trains I guessed.

  I was stunned into silence which prevented me from saying that I hated Richard’s stupid model trains, I did not want Richard’s stupid little trains, and said trains were, with any luck, ash, cinder and gone.

  Woods continued: ‘To my wife I also leave 25 per cent of my 50 per cent share in the Sydney Plastics franchise, which with her 50 per cent share gives her a 62.5 per cent controlling interest. I leave her 20 per cent of the funds in my various accounts, 10 per cent of my share portfolio, any and all legal rights or claims to our joint home in Double Bay and any other worldly possessions.’

  I did some fast maths. Between the Smiths and I we had 97.5 per cent of Sydney Plastics. If I could acquire Richard’s missing 5 per cent, that is 2.5 per cent of the whole, I could hand the whole Sydney Plastics mess over to a broker to be sold.

  Woods went on. ‘To my PA and friend Michelle Little, who worked so hard with me to build Sydney Plastics, I leave my remaining 5 per cent in the company.’

  Mystery solved.

  Michelle looked about the room and then at Woods. ‘Five per cent? Wow, thank you.’

  Did she sound underwhelmed? Shocked? Or was she hoping for a cheque? To be fair I would be hoping for a cheque. Who wants 5 per cent of a family mess? I’d help her solve that dilemma by buying her out.

  ‘To my mother-in-law Catherine Jones I leave the contents of my safety deposit box.’ Woods handed Mother a small, silver key on a keychain featuring a silver disc about the size of a 20-cent coin.

  Mother looked at it, puzzled. Then she looked at me, puzzled. I shrugged; add it to the mystery list. Wait. Please don’t let the safety deposit box contain marbles, fish, Thai twins or bags of white powder. Maybe he had more trains? Yes! I was going with annoying trains.

  Woods then handed an A4-sized envelope packet to each person, except Esmerelda.

  ‘All the paperwork’s in there, along with my card. However …’ He nervously flicked his eyes to me and then to Harrold and Shirley. ‘Please be aware that due to the, ah, unusual nature of Dr Bombberg’s death, probate on his estate is likely to take some months. Possibly a year. Conceivably more.

  ‘Shirley, Harrold, Elise and James, your suites at the Four Seasons are paid up for another six weeks, but feel free to depart whenever it suits. I’ll contact you individually when everything’s ready and we’ll sort out the details.’

  ‘That’s all folks,’ he said and began stacking papers back into his briefcase.

  It was over! I had done two things on the list. Good for me! I deserved a treat. A cold treat. A cold treat in a cold wine glass. And maybe a little cupcake.

  ‘Dude, what about the funeral?’ piped Esmerelda.

  So close, so very close.

  ‘What about it?’ Woods asked blankly.

  ‘Well, you know. Does he like say in there,’ she gestured at the will in Woods’s hand, halfway to his briefcase, ‘what he wants her to do with him?’

  ‘Do with him?’ I repeated.

  ‘You know?’ she said looking back at me. ‘Did he want a big church thing? A little, grassy plot in the countryside? A fancy cr—’

  I sucked in air. Lord in heaven do not let her say cremation.

  ‘Crypt?’ she finished. And then kept going. ‘Did he want to be cr—’

  No need to worry about funeral arrangements, I was going to die right here. Hands clasped over my mouth, I frantically willed Esmerelda to stop.

  ‘Cryogenically preserved,’ said Mother smiling, patting Esmerelda gently. ‘Doctors, they like those cutting-edge sciences.’

  Just how many final resting options begin with the letters ‘cr’?

  ‘No. Dr Bombberg did not stipulate his funeral wishes,’ Woods chastised. ‘If he had I would have read them out or requested a private discussion with Mrs Bombberg. That is my job.’

  Boy, estate lawyers could be snippy.

  Woods shook his head, clipped his briefcase shut and departed. Michelle quickly followed him, saying she had a mound of work to do at the Sydney Plastics office. I stood. I wanted to get out. I wanted to get Esmerelda out (then strangle her). And I wanted to put some distance between my way-too-gorgeous brother-in-law and myself.

  I felt eyes on me. It was Shirley Smith.

  ‘I need to know.’

  ‘Know?’ I asked blankly.

  ‘How exactly it happened. Who was responsible,’ Shirley said.

  Oh, that know.

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded.

  Fair point, I wanted to know too. I did not want to live with a squillion people thinking I had set fire to, and then blown up, my husband. I would never be invited anywhere good ever again.

  Why was she staring at me?

  ‘You’ll find them?’ she pressed.

  Them? The bombers/killers? That ‘them’?

  Me? Me, me? Who did she think I was? Didn’t she read Vogue? I was an heiress not a secret agent. They were all looking at me. To me.

  My head and mouth moved without my permission, again. ‘Sure,’ I nodded.

  What was I doing? I had no way of finding … wait, I already knew who killed Richard. Surely it was crazy Crystal? They were arguing over that box, the door
closed and bam! The explosion.

  ‘You see …’ I started. Could I tell her a drunk, drug-addled, possible prostitute had blown up her son?

  ‘There was …’ Did it matter that I didn’t know if Crystal was her real name or why she had done it? Was that important?

  Shirley turned her hopeful-mother eyes on me. ‘Yes?’

  I desperately want to blurt out ‘Crystal did it’, find a tropical island somewhere and hide out for a year. Instead I said, ‘Yes. Sure. Definitely. Absolutely.’

  I was going to need more than a glass of wine for this.

  ‘We’re staying at the Four Seasons,’ said James, the name rolling off his Irish tongue too easily. ‘I’ll give you my mobile number.’ He scribbled it down on the back of one of Thomas Woods’s cards.

  I had no phone.

  Esmerelda punched his number into her phone.

  Something hot and decidedly un-widow-ish and un-sister-in-law-ish slid through me. I was so shallow.

  We exchanged goodbyes, Harrold once again clenching me in a bearhug and Shirley patting my hand in misdirected hope and confidence.

  I avoided James by pulling Esmerelda in front of me like a human shield when it was my turn to say goodbye to him. Esmerelda wasted no time and pulled him into a hug. I swear I heard her smell him.

  Once we were alone I threw up into the nearest wastepaper basket. To my credit I did not pass out completely, but the room spun and my head tingled.

  ‘Let’s go home and get you a Happy Meal and a glass of wine,’ said Mother. I must have looked bad.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Esmerelda. ‘We can go hooker hunting later.’

  I gazed up at Esmerelda, mortified.

  ‘Oh yeah right, I mean escort hunting.’

  I shook my upside-down head ‘no way’ at her and rolled my eyes.

  ‘What? Oh yeah, and plan a funeral.’

  That was it, the world went black.

  Frankly I was proud I had made it that far.

  CHAPTER 11

  ALMOST CERTAINLY LEGAL

  I reinhabited Mother’s pool house while waiting for more information about Crystal and her motives from the police. I waited in vain. They had no idea who she was (shockingly Crystal Devine was a false name) or why she wanted to hurt Richard.

  Dr Sam remained mute in her coma.

  My SOS had not reached Anna. Or it had but she couldn’t outrun her newest groom. He was a footballer. Or a basket-baller. Something with a ball. He ran fast, jumped high, earned more than the CEO of Google and was very good with his hands. If I was Anna I might not leave either.

  The police had neither thrown me under the bus, nor cleared me. According to the media they were ‘pursuing every possible line of enquiry’ and I had been ‘assisting with their investigation’. In truth, Barker and Earl Stevenson, who it seemed worked quite well together, had been busy hampering the detectives’ requests for further interviews. What could I tell them today I had not already told them at Grandmother’s three days ago? Or was it four days ago? Besides, being in a room with Searing was problematic.

  Shirley Smith called regularly for updates about who had killed her son and why. I shamelessly used Esmerelda as a buffer. In fairness, buffering was Esmerelda’s job.

  I liked the pool house. It was quiet. You don’t need a penthouse or a mansion when you don’t own any furniture.

  Patricia stood at the end of the bed with my breakfast tray. I could smell Peruvian coffee, and spied smoked salmon free-range organic eggs and French toast. I was starving. In my previous life I hardly ever enacted the Hasluck-Royce family reflex of throwing up and passing out, but in my new widow life it was a bizarre weight-loss campaign.

  I sat up, smoothed the sheets in anticipation. No movement. I patted the blanket.

  Patricia stood motionless. ‘You know what I’m going to say.’

  I hit the blanket hard with both hands. ‘This again!’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Why!? I saw the police, I did the will!’ I whined.

  ‘And then, you came back here and did nothing.’

  Was it just me or were people more brazen with you when you were a suspected criminal?

  ‘That is not true. Yesterday I went for a swim.’ I folded my arms.

  Although she did not technically say anything, from her raised eyebrows I knew she was thinking, ‘It’s been 40 degrees Celsius for three days straight! The whole state went for a swim! Only you did it after three glasses of wine and a dozen rock oysters! Meanwhile your poor in-laws waited, locked in their hotel room for fear of melting, for you to fulfil your promise to find their murdered son’s killer.’

  Her eyebrows were very judgemental.

  ‘For goodness sake!’ I huffed. ‘There is no need to be so blunt Patricia!’

  I stalked past her down the hall and into the dining room. I seated myself with as much indignation as possible and grumbled while I waited for Patricia to serve me.

  Esmerelda sauntered in.

  ‘Jeans and sneakers?’ I snorted. ‘Again.’

  ‘PJs?’ she shot back. ‘Again.’

  God, good help was hard to find.

  ‘I’ve had two calls from Shirley Smith already this morning,’ Esmerelda said plonking herself down, eyeing my breakfast.

  I tried a steely gaze but it didn’t work. Not much worked on Esmerelda.

  ‘Why am I charged with finding out about Crystal? Surely that responsibility lies at the feet of the police?’

  ‘Totally,’ she said, stealing my toast. ‘Yeah, totally. Anyway, the insurance dudes are coming today.’

  ‘No. No way,’ I said, snatching my toast back.

  ‘Too late, dudes will be here in,’ she checked her watch, ‘twen’y-three minutes.’

  ‘I cannot be ready in twenty-three minutes! I haven’t even eaten my breakfast!’

  ‘Betta eat fast then, I got Franny waiting for you.’ She stood to leave. ‘Oh, and I got a line on Crystal.’ And with that she walked out.

  I ate quickly, had the shortest shower in living memory and Franny did my hair and make-up in record time. I dressed in a lightweight charcoal and black, sleeveless, knee-length sass & bide dress. I emerged, albeit rushed, two hours later.

  I proceeded to the ballroom where Mother was in the middle of a series of yoga moves. Esmerelda was waiting in the doorway finishing a bagel and drinking a latte. She had moved from prison life to pristine life with deft smoothness.

  ‘Indigo! You’re up!’ beamed Mother. ‘And you’re early for your appointment.’

  ‘Early?’ Realisation dawned. I had been duped. I shot Esmerelda what I hoped was a filthy stare.

  She tapped her watch and held it to her ear. ‘Knock-offs, dude. Can’t trust ’em.’

  ‘No kidding,’ I shot back.

  ‘Patricia’s set up the second dining room for your meeting. I’ll be finished soon, if you want me.’

  ‘If you have the time. That is, if you’re free. That would be great,’ I said hopefully.

  ‘I’m always free for you Indie,’ she said and finished her cat, dog, cobra thing.

  * * *

  While Mother went off to have a camomile shower Esmerelda and I made our way to the dining room. Patricia was close behind with coffee, tea and what I was sure were Mother’s organic, gluten-free, sugar-free, taste-free biscuits disguised as regular, carb-filled biscuits.

  Patricia poured for me. Esmerelda poured for herself. When we were alone I asked Esmerelda, ‘What did you mean when you said you had a “line” on Crystal?’

  ‘I think I know where she worked,’ she said, biting into a biscuit and then immediately looking around for somewhere to spit it out.

  I checked the room to make sure no one else was listening and then said in a whisper, ‘You mean, a brothel?’

  Esmerelda succeeded in locating a box of tissues and ripped out three or four. Mercifully she managed to turn her back to me before she spat out the cardboard cookie. At least she used a tissue. This was
more courtesy and grace—and I use that word very loosely—than I would have expected from her previously. Perhaps Mother was rubbing off on her? Then again, we were in the midst of a conversation about brothels, so maybe not.

  ‘Esmerelda!’ I hissed as quietly as I could.

  She was darting about the room, staring at the mess in her hand, presumably searching for a bin.

  ‘Oh for goodness sake, in the corner,’ I said.

  She threw the tissue-clad package in the bin. ‘What the frig was that?!’

  ‘Organic, gluten-, sugar-, flour-free something, something,’ I responded. ‘What did you expect? Patricia brought those in for Mother. If you give her a moment she might bring something edible.’

  ‘Who eats that crap?’

  ‘If you think you are going to end up looking like Cat Jones in twenty years by scoffing Danishes and full fat lattes you are sadly mistaken.’

  She did a hands-on inspection of her washboard stomach and sculpted thighs, perhaps having an epiphany. Then she shrugged. ‘Like, I’m gonna risk it.’

  Maybe Esmerelda was epiphany-proof.

  She sat next to me at the end of the dining room table, as far away from the door as possible. ‘Crystal?’ I prompted.

  ‘So, I’m like pretty sure she worked at Magic Model Escorts in the city.’

  ‘How on earth did you find that out?’ I asked.

  Wait. Did I really want to know the answer to that question? Did she use her network of contacts obtained while residing in jail? Had she been in jail with, you know, prostitutes? Oh my God! Was that what she went to jail for?

  She pulled out her phone and showed me a full-page ad for Magic Model Escorts, location Hunter Street, Sydney CBD. It had five stars.

  ‘On the internet,’ she said.

  Oh. Right then.

  ‘Dude, don’t stare,’ she said leaning herself and the phone away from me.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I said and looked away from her face to her giant phone. ‘Is that legal?’

  ‘My phone?’ she said puzzled. ‘Totally. Your mum gave it to me when I started as your personal-shopper-assistant-person-dude. Why, do you need a burner?’

  ‘No. And no thank you,’ I said. ‘Is, you know—’ I lowered my voice to a whisper and leant in, tilting my head to the side, ‘—advertising prostitution legal?’