Heiress On Fire

by Kellie McCourt

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s fine,’ said Bayton.

  ‘I just wanted to clarify,’ I said, flicking through more photographs of Chanel suits, Louboutin shoes and Gucci dresses that had gone to designer heaven.

  Esmerelda, who was in Doberman mode (apparently she did not like insurance agents any better than lawyers or police detectives), shot me a look. I knew what it meant: Keep your mouth shut and just take the money.

  ‘I appreciate your honesty,’ Bayton said. ‘Not all of our customers are so forthcoming when it comes to claims. Especially one of this size.’

  I felt a tiny bit bad. I was still holding out on him. I had no idea if it would affect the claim or not, but I had a feeling that not only had Michelle taken the photographs, but it was also highly likely that she had emailed them too. And from what I could read upside down from the other side of the table, she had emailed them using Richard’s work email account.

  ‘What if she emailed them too? Using Richard’s email account.’

  Esmerelda shook her head in disappointment/disgust.

  ‘It’s fine. It often happens. PAs do tend to run the lives of our more executive clients,’ Bayton said with a knowing nod of the head to Lloyd and a small but genuine smile to Mother.

  Lloyd agreed.

  Bayton agreed with Lloyd agreeing.

  They both smiled nervously.

  Bayton cleared his throat and looked expectantly to Lloyd. Lloyd examined his hands, the ceiling and then the pastry tray.

  ‘Lloyd?’ prompted Bayton hopefully.

  ‘Bayton,’ stalled Lloyd. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘No,’ said Bayton bluntly. ‘Coffee is not exactly what I need at this moment.’

  Wow. Bayton’s hinting skills were abysmal. I looked to Mother to find she was looking to me for answers. The blind leading the blind there. I studied Esmerelda. She had her hackles up, her face was hard and set, her brown hands and long fingers were pressed against the polished table top and she sat ramrod straight, all the while giving Lloyd the evil eye. This did not bode well for me.

  ‘Tea then?’

  ‘No,’ said Bayton unenthusiastically, unimpressed.

  Lloyd poured himself a tea and began to sip it. He was silent.

  Bayton scrutinised Lloyd one last time, and then gave a small but irritated shake of the head. ‘There is one issue with the claim.’

  ‘Here we go,’ chided Esmerelda.

  ‘Some of the damage occurred because of an accidental fire. The witnesses we were able to speak with verified the fire was an accident. Accidents are of course covered. However, much of the damage resulted from the explosions. Explosions are not accidents.’

  Bayton almost cringed as he tried to maintain eye contact.

  ‘Under the terms of the policy, and in fact under the law, you cannot profit from or make a claim on, an arson-related event or a crime you are responsible for.’

  He did his best not to stare at the table.

  I had difficulty following him. I looked at Mother. Her forehead was slightly crinkled and her eyes narrowed involuntarily into her famous cat-like stare.

  ‘I’m not sure we quite understand what you’re saying Mr Bayton,’ Mother said, trying to maintain her composure.

  ‘I’m saying that if the damage occurred as a result of a crime, we cannot pay out on the policy.’

  ‘I don’t understand. People commit crimes every day and insurance companies cover the damage,’ said Mother.

  ‘Dude,’ Esmerelda said to Mother, slightly exasperated. ‘He thinks Indigo set the bomb.’

  Mother looked to Bayton. She had an ‘excuse me?’ expression on her face. Rare look. Collectible even. He did not appear as frightened as he should have.

  Was it possible Mother was about to have one of her (now) seldomly seen, world-famous, first-class, super-size, supermodel, pre-twelve step, non-Buddhist tantrums?

  ‘You don’t seriously think my daughter’s responsible for that bomb?’ she said trying to maintain her composure. ‘That’s outrageous!’ Her voice went up a few octaves. Still, nowhere near tantrum level.

  ‘We have to consider it,’ said Bayton with only a slight waver in his tone. ‘The police are considering it. It’s obvious, if you think about it.’

  ‘Obvious?’ she said smoothly, giving him the dead-cat glare.

  The room became hot and the air was suddenly thick and sticky. This was what the beginning of a diva storm felt like.

  ‘No, it’s not obvious to me.’ She was slow and methodical as she leant over the desk. ‘Indigo isn’t profiting from a crime, because Indigo didn’t commit a crime. My child is beyond innocent.’

  I joined in, although I could not match her low but thunderingly lethal presence.

  ‘So, someone else commits a crime and my claiming back the cost of the damage is profiting?’

  I ignored the part where he thought I was guilty.

  ‘I didn’t even ask for this stupid meeting!’ I spat.

  ‘Yes, well,’ stammered Bayton bravely, ‘we wanted to get out in front of this.’

  I exchanged an infuriated and insulted look with Mother. I could not fathom how this could be happening.

  Lloyd had been watching the exchange. He had an expression of stunned horror on his face, like seeing a major car accident about to happen and being helpless to stop it. Or in his case, watching many enormous, long-standing brokerage commissions slip away. He finally stepped up.

  ‘I think there’s some miscommunication here,’ Lloyd said, wiping his brow with a silk hanky he had pulled from a suit pocket.

  ‘Miscommunication? Dude. Yeah, ’cos what he’s also “miscommunicating” is that he also thinks you bumped off Richard. You can’t cash out on his shit either when you’ve offed him,’ said Esmerelda.

  Mother squared her shoulders and arched a menacing eyebrow at Bayton. ‘Is that true?’

  Lloyd shot Bayton a look of stern desperation, mentally willing him to get on board.

  ‘Yes. I mean no. I mean, let me be clearer,’ said Bayton. He finally understood he was in danger.

  ‘By all means, please be clearer,’ I said.

  Clearer than claiming I killed my husband by blowing him up for some insurance money, I thought, anger rising in my throat.

  ‘What I did not make clear was that you cannot profit from a crime you committed. If someone else committed the crime, in this case a bombing, then you are the victim of that crime and can of course claim for all damage caused by that crime that is covered under the policy.’

  ‘And the crime of murder?’ I said seething, feeling a dull anger mixed with dread and sickness surge through me.

  ‘Homicide is not my area,’ Bayton deflected quickly. ‘We’re talking about arson here.’ He sucked his lips into his mouth.

  Lloyd fired an anguished stare at Bayton. Mother started inhaling and exhaling loudly. It might have calmed her but it scared the pants off everyone else. It was like a bull preparing to charge. A blonde, willowy bull.

  ‘Also, also,’ added Bayton, ‘I should also have made clear that by no means are we at CRIB completely convinced that you, Mrs Bombberg, have in fact committed a crime. You may well be the victim in all of this.’

  Mother’s breathing deepened and she closed her eyes. It was terrifying. No wonder she meditated alone.

  Lloyd got in quickly before Bayton could speak again. ‘Of course you’re the victim here Indigo.’

  ‘Well, thank you for clearing that up for me,’ I said. ‘For a moment there I thought I was being called a murderer. No, wait,’ I said pausing for effect, the fury seething out of me. ‘I am being called a murderer and an arsonist.’

  ‘I’d like to process your claim immediately Mrs Bombberg, but until the police clear you, I just can’t. And until they identify the woman you claim you saw with a device, with your husband, moments before the explosion, and find a motive for her having detonated that device or other devices killing herself and Dr Bombberg, the police cannot or will
not clear you.’

  ‘They still don’t know who Crystal is? I mean, was?’ said Mother, genuinely surprised. Which closet had she been hiding in?

  ‘What about her teeth? In the movies they always track them by their dental records,’ she said.

  Good question.

  Bayton shrugged. ‘Not as far as I know.’

  Damn.

  ‘But the police have not even named me as a suspect,’ I pointed out.

  Or had they? Maybe I had been in a closet too.

  ‘Detective Searing said I was not a person of interest,’ I said hopefully.

  ‘Detective Searing may not think you’re a person of interest,’ Bayton said pointedly, ‘but you haven’t been completely cleared by NSW Police either. Very different things.’

  He put his cup down on its saucer.

  ‘It doesn’t matter that my personal opinion may be, for example, that you’re innocent and will be cleared. I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you, that until you’re completely eliminated as a suspect, or until the person who set the bombs is identified or found, CRIB will be unable to process your claim.’

  I stared at him. Wait. What?

  ‘Bombs? As in plural? As in more than one?’ I thought back. ‘Did you say explosions earlier? And other devices.’

  ‘Yes. And yes,’ he said, pausing for effect, cup halfway to his mouth, eyes moving from Esmerelda to Mother and then back to me. ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘No!’ the three of us said in unison.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said in exaggerated tones. ‘I am sorry. We’ve been sharing information with the police and I assumed they had shared that information with you. Or perhaps I did know they hadn’t shared it with you, and it slipped my mind.’

  It was Bayton’s turn to raise a telling eyebrow.

  Was he trying to help me? Or was he just seeing how I would react to the new information? I had no idea.

  I rubbed my forehead with my hand. How had Crystal planted more than one bomb? I suppose she could have. I wasn’t with her the whole time. And she had spent a lot of time in the powder room. She could have easily snuck out and placed her little packets of pain in other places.

  New options dawned on me.

  Unless Crystal was a suicide bomber, surely she would have planned to detonate her explosive devices later that night, after she’d left. Yes. She’d stagger out and once safely tucked away in an Uber press ‘go’ on a big red detonation button, dooming the rest of us to a Penthouse Inferno.

  Wait.

  Had my accidental fire and the subsequent evacuation of the building because of said fire saved us? Had the fire caught Crystal in her own trap?

  Was I … a hero?

  Or did my fire prematurely set off a string of bombs intended for detonation in an empty building? The building would have been destroyed, but no one would have been hurt. But what would be the point of that? Unless my shoes were the intended victims.

  What was the point of any of it? Guilt washed over me again.

  I forced myself to focus; I knew there was something else I had to ask about.

  ‘I have a problem,’ I said, as if that was not the understatement of the century. ‘Richard had a family.’

  ‘He had another wife?!’ exclaimed Lloyd.

  ‘No, no. I mean, siblings, a brother and a sister.’

  And parents, I thought, but kept that to myself. Long-lost siblings are bad enough.

  ‘That’s funny, he never mentioned that to me,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘He was very private,’ I said. Not completely untrue. He was private. And a big fat liar.

  Lloyd nodded his head. I scrutinised Bayton.

  ‘Richard left his watch collection to his brother James and his art collection to his sister Elise. My problem is that they burnt in the fire. I would be more than happy to financially compensate James and Elise for the loss, however I suspect they will not take money from me. I suspect they will only take money if I have received that money as compensation from, well, CRIB. If you are unable to process my claim, what can they do?’

  Bayton pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

  ‘Policies are not set up for non-policyholders to claim on, especially when the actual policyholder or beneficiary is still available to make a claim.’

  ‘Did any of the art make it?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘The paintings burnt and what was left was then hosed down. The sculptures were all crushed by debris. I am sorry,’ Bayton said, and took a long sip of his coffee. He paused mid-sip and said, ‘Where did Richard keep his watches?’

  ‘In his wardrobe,’ I said.

  ‘Where in his wardrobe?’ he asked.

  ‘In his safe,’ I said. I had forgotten about the safes. I had one in my wardrobe and Richard had one in his wardrobe.

  ‘The fire service did recover two safes,’ he said.

  We all peered slyly at Mother who did not look remotely embarrassed.

  Looking at her reminded me of something. What was it? Something about my father.

  ‘I can thank the man who saved my daughter’s life,’ she said simply.

  ‘Yeah you can!’ said Esmerelda knowingly. She sounded like Joey Tribbiani.

  Bayton cleared his throat and charged on.

  ‘Both safes were closed and locked. If Richard’s watches were in there, they might be fine. Was the safe fireproof? Waterproof?’ he asked sifting through his paperwork.

  Excellent questions. I recalled selecting a safe that was large, black and shiny. It resembled a sleek appliance and had mother-of-pearl digits and a lush velvety lining. Fireproof was not exactly on my list of requirements.

  ‘Possibly.’

  Wait. Something forgotten nagged at me. The safe. My mother. His brother. His father. The watches. Oh my God. The watch. The watch! My father’s watch, which he had left to me at fourteen when he died and I had recently given to Richard (although I really thought of it as being on secondment, thinking he would pass it to our firstborn). Richard never wore it. He always kept it in the safe. It was probably, almost definitely, nearly certainly in Richard’s safe. Richard was, after all, fastidious to the point of insanity. I suddenly had an interest in these safes.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I said, wishing now I had some idea. ‘Were the safes fireproof? Waterproof?’

  Bayton found the paperwork he was hunting and nodded.

  ‘Yes, yes they were. By the look of things they’re still in fairly good form, considering. The watches should be okay. Can I assume your jewellery collection was also in your safe?’

  I exhaled. My father’s watch was safe.

  ‘Yes, most of it,’ I said, trying silently to get my heartbeat back down. ‘All the family pieces, the pieces from Father are in the family safe. Except my earrings,’ I said touching them.

  The room fell silent as memories of a crushed golden Ferrari seeped in. Everyone was respectfully hushed. Except Esmerelda. After a few seconds I could feel her tapping the phone. I never knew if she was checking her email, a delivery from Amazon, surf conditions in Margaret River, or working for me.

  Five seconds after that Bayton very carefully began to examine the pastries. Eventually he chose a miniature glazed cinnamon, hazelnut and brown sugar scroll. He picked it up and took a long, deliberate bite.

  ‘These pastries are really amazing. It is so gracious of you to share them with everyone Mrs Bombberg,’ he said. ‘Ms Esmerelda, would you like one of Mrs Bombberg’s pastries? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind sharing them with you.’

  What a strange man.

  ‘You know,’ he said, blotting his mouth with a napkin, ‘if I tried to make, or even buy pastries this good, you can bet I would have problems. Even with all the resources a company like CRIB has, you need certain attributes to get pastry chefs to speak with you, to get waitresses to speak to you, I mean serve you. We might even have trouble finding the bakery that sold the exact type of pastry you were looking for. You’d be amazed at how difficult it is to ge
t information, I mean pastries. I bet the police with all their resources have trouble getting information, I mean pastries, that I’m sure you two young ladies could get quite easily with your female resources and charms.’

  Dennis Bayton’s metaphorical monologue was completely lost on Lloyd, and Esmerelda. But not on Mother. Beautiful women hear a lot of metaphors.

  ‘Well Mr Bayton, it’s good to know you have such confidence in their “charms”. However, a pastry kitchen can be a dangerous place for a young lady. Full of hot ovens. Slippery floors. Sharp knives. Dangerous equipment. Not a place a young woman like my daughter would be comfortable. Indigo can barely make toast.’

  ‘I can so make toast,’ I said trying, and failing, to raise a greater amount of indignation.

  ‘You can’t make toast,’ Mother said to me.

  ‘I can too,’ I retorted. And for reasons unknown to me I said proudly to Bayton, ‘I can even boil a kettle.’

  ‘I’m not sure those advanced culinary skills can get you into a pastry kitchen,’ Mother said evenly. ‘Let alone help you survive the heat.’

  ‘Do rich people talk like this all the time?’ Esmerelda asked Lloyd.

  Lloyd looked lost. ‘Far more often than I’m comfortable with,’ he said.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect that the ladies make pastries,’ Bayton said. ‘Just that they may have better luck talking to the chef, waitresses or other staff members than someone like me. They might be able to get better inform— I mean, better service.’

  Were the CRIB investigators and the police being stonewalled by Crystal’s employers? What if the police had not even been able to trace Crystal to Magic Models?

  ‘I believe pastry chefs are very cliquey too,’ Bayton said, swallowing down the remains of his scroll. ‘Known for being very tight-lipped.’

  Oh God, what if he was right? What if they were all hitting a brick wall when it came to gathering information on Crystal? What if Esmerelda was right? What if Crystal’s ‘work associates’ refused to acknowledge her existence to the police? Refused to give information? But if prostitution was legal, what was the problem? Was it shame? It was not exactly a line of work you boasted to your friends and family about being in. I was guessing there were not too many Instagram posts of smiling bikini-clad women in bed with random men hashtagged: #blessed to be having sex with this complete stranger tonight! #lifegoals.