Heiress On Fire

by Kellie McCourt

  Mother liked Mary but no longer ate foods that began with the letter ‘C’: chips, crust, custard, croissants, chocolate, champagne, (ice) cream, carbs. If you stopped to think about it, all the good things started with ‘C’. Ever accommodating, she stayed and ate some wagyu pie filling.

  Esmerelda, who ate everything, stayed and ate everything.

  Mary did not speak, but she nudged me with her elbow, fluffed my pillows, gave me a pat and then winked both eyes conspiratorially at me as she left.

  I gazed up at Esmerelda who was rapidly eating and typing into her iPhone. I had a suspicious feeling that Esmerelda might turn out to be every bit as talented and resourceful as Loraine Bitsmark. Then she picked something out of her front teeth. I could hope right? I needed all the help I could get: unconventional, unorthodox or otherwise. Burns really did not like me and while there was doubt in police circles, an uncomfortable shadow hung over me.

  Finally Searing and Burns re-entered. Burns was still on the phone. Searing made his way back to me and, declining a pie, sat.

  His time out of the room had allowed me some breathing space. Add to that the wagyu and I felt better. It was time for me to ask him some questions.

  ‘Was there really a bomb?’

  ‘Yes. Definitely,’ he said firmly, pulling his chair closer to the bed.

  ‘And that’s what did,’ I wavered, ‘it. To the powder room?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what caused the explosion in the powder room.’

  ‘Who set the bomb?’

  He considered me and exhaled.

  ‘Well, initially you were the number one suspect. The spouse always is. It’s not personal.’

  It felt pretty frigging personal.

  ‘But the story you told us back there does corroborate what Rachael White and Brad White told us. We can’t ask Dr Bruce, Sam, she’s still in a coma, but so far it holds up. The fire could just have been a bizarre accident, a coincidence. But … you could also have manufactured the situation, the fire, making it look like an accident to cover the explosive devices. Theoretically, you still could have done it.’

  From across the room Burns smiled. How could she hear that? Or did she just know what he was going to say?

  ‘Well!’ I said in my most uppity, offended heiress and widow voice. ‘I did not do it!’

  ‘As I said earlier, I personally don’t consider you a person of interest,’ he said. ‘But there are others in the department who don’t share my opinion. And your stonewalling for so long didn’t help.’

  ‘I was not stonewalling! I was grieving!’ I spat back.

  He shrugged his shoulders. What the heck did that mean?

  ‘And now? Now my story matches the Whites’?’ I prodded. ‘I’m completely exonerated, correct?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Why on earth not!’ I said, finding the strength to sit up higher in bed.

  He began listing things on his fingers, starting with his thumb.

  ‘The Whites could not speak to what happened after they escaped the cocktail room. You could have put a bomb in the powder room cabinet then. Tough, but possible.’

  The next finger: ‘They cannot speak to what happened before they arrived. You could have planted a bomb in the powder room cabinet long before. And although they agreed Dr Bruce’s partner Crystal’—he used his fingers to make quotation marks when he said the word partner—‘did spill an awful lot of alcohol at the bars, on the floor and pretty much everywhere, they did not see the fight with Crystal you described Dr Bombberg as having had, nor the box you contend they were fighting over.’

  To think I had gone to such great lengths to shield Rachael, Brad and Dr Sam from seeing the fight!

  I was deeply offended that this police detective I had trusted and well, honestly, lusted over, would still think I was a stone-cold killer.

  ‘You are, however, after our interview today, much further down the list,’ he said, trying to placate me. ‘Despite the offshore accounts, which are, I’ll admit, a bit of a problem for you.’

  Esmerelda moved closer and sat on the end of my bed.

  ‘So, ah, like, who’s higher on the list?’ she asked.

  Ooh, good point Esmerelda. I looked up at Searing and arched a questioning eyebrow.

  Mother turned and faced him.

  That was a whole lot of estrogen staring him down.

  He breathed deeply and ran his finger around the back of his collar and rubbed the back of his lovely neck. I suspected he was about to break some confidentiality rules. At least I hoped he would. Burns was mercifully still distracted by the phone.

  ‘How much do you know about your husband’s overseas clinics?’ he asked.

  Answering a question with a question: 101 evading technique.

  It worked for him. All eyes moved to me. It was my turn to shrug. ‘I know where they are.’

  As did everyone who had ever read the Sydney Plastics website. I was willing to bet my new Chanel handbag that Searing was one of those people.

  ‘Have you ever been to any of them?’ More questions. Still no answer.

  ‘One. The first one. Richard didn’t trust his own tastes or that of interior designers.’

  Mental head thump: never trust interior designers.

  ‘He wanted me to look it over before it opened. Not the yucky surgery, theatre bits, his PA Michelle Little did that. Or maybe his theatre nurse Sandra Banks did that? Or maybe Michelle contracted someone to do that? I’m not completely sure. Anyway, I just approved the style and design of the offices, the reception and the recovery rooms. Richard catered to a particular clientele.’

  ‘Like people who like fancy shit,’ Esmerelda put in.

  I shot Esmerelda a look.

  ‘The type of people who are accustomed to a certain level of comfort,’ I corrected diplomatically.

  ‘Newly accustomed to a certain level of comfort,’ I imagined Grandmother putting in. Even when she was not in the room, she was still in the room in my head.

  ‘Once we had the first one perfected, we duplicated the format in other countries,’ I said in ‘I’m-bored’ tones. I did not see the point of this conversation. ‘How is any of this relevant to your suspect list?’

  ‘We’ve received information from an anonymous federal source alleging your husband was involved in illegal surgeries in several of his overseas clinics. Or at least that his clinics were somehow involved.’

  My jaw dropped an inch and a half. Richard? Involved in something illegal? Impossible. He drove 5 kilometres under the speed limit. He worse sunscreen in winter. Inside. He was straight to the point of dullness. That was why I married him.

  I must have recovered my wits because I said out loud, ‘No, no. Not possible. I do not believe it.’

  I imagined Richard, so soft, so small, so formal, so quiet and careful, and I began to laugh at the thought of him doing anything illegal.

  ‘The man didn’t litter! He didn’t even jaywalk. He liked playing with model train sets for goodness sake!’ I laughed harder, gawking at Searing. ‘What could he possibly have done that was illegal?’

  ‘The source claims Richard was performing plastic surgeries off-book,’ said Searing seriously.

  ‘Well of course he was!’ I exclaimed. ‘That wasn’t a secret. He operated on many impoverished children with facial or body disfigurements! And without charge! The man was a saint! He even paid for,’ I flapped my hands about, ‘you know, the bits and pieces he used. Maybe that is what the offshore accounts were for? To pay for those.’

  It seemed perfectly logical to me.

  ‘The source claims he—’

  I cut him off and shook my head. ‘No. No way. He helped people. He helped children. I know he did.’

  Everyone stared at me. I stared right back.

  Mother turned to Searing. ‘We can all agree that Richard did indeed help many people. If, and I’m only saying if, Richard was providing other services on the side, and I am not saying he was,’ she reiterate
d, looking directly at me before shaking her head and turning to Searing, ‘why would those people want to hurt him?’

  ‘Well Miss Jones, the type of people who have plastic and reconstructive surgeries off-book tend not to be very nice people,’ he said evenly.

  ‘Dude,’ snorted Esmerelda. ‘Not nice? Dudes like that are friggin’ killers.’

  That was it. I was done. Last straw, camel and all that. First, I was guilty. Then, I was not guilty. Then, according to Burns, guilty again, and now, according to Searing, possibly guilty. And Richard, who had quite literally thrown himself on an explosive to save me, was also being accused of crimes.

  I threw a giant hissy fit, suitable for a billionairess with 50 per cent supermodel DNA and 50 per cent tycoon playboy blood and threw Searing and Esmerelda out. Mother quietly excused herself. Although rare, my hissy fits were notoriously unpleasant. She was, at times, very insightful.

  This room was my new pool house. I was not leaving and no one was coming back in without a battering ram, and a crate of Cristal. And maybe even a salmon.

  I did not want any more information.

  I was not going to go on listening to this rubbish.

  If any of this was true it would mean I had needlessly married a Bran Muffin when I could have been hitched to a delicious, luscious, buttery, sugary, red velvet Cupcake with two inches of thick, lemon cream cheese frosting and rainbow candy sprinkles with the same result: deception, devastation, heartbreak and scandal. It could not be! It just could not be. I was good. I was safe. I chose the Bran Muffin! I should be rewarded for staying away from the heart-clogging, delectable Cupcakes.

  I tried to eat what was left of my rosemary chips, but they had turned hard and cold, and my sour cream had melted.

  I was not happy. Far from it. I was as angry as I had ever been. And I wanted my freaking Cupcake.

  CHAPTER 9

  ORPHANS AND WIDOW

  I quietly emerged from the guest bedroom at 11 o’clock the next morning in a fluffy white robe after a pressure point massage, a cool lavender-scented shower and an extended audience with my hair and make-up fairy Franny. I had no clothes, but my lashes were perfect. I coyly inched open the bedroom door to see if the coast was clear. I was planning a run back to the pool house. I liked the room at Grandmother’s, but it was no pool house.

  I found Mother sitting cross-legged on a giant peach silk cushion in the hallway in front of the bedroom, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Had she been there all night?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said to her.

  She opened her eyes and stood.

  ‘You earned that one. You’d had a rough day. Besides, you didn’t throw me out,’ she smiled.

  I nodded, tears welling. She hugged me close and I cried. I felt duped. Lost. Stupid. Angry. Not even the mid-morning Happy Meal had helped. Much.

  ‘I just want to smack that Burns in the head with an Italian Vogue,’ I said.

  Despite years of kickboxing training (wonderful for the core muscles, an essential part of any personal training regime) it was the first truly violent thought I had had since I caught Tiffany Goldstein kissing Dylan Moss among the orchids.

  ‘We could send her backstage at a show with Naomi Campbell and Janice Dickinson,’ said Mother.

  ‘Or make her walk for Victoria’s Secret,’ I rejoined.

  She eye-rolled. ‘I do not miss that.’

  ‘And Searing! Does he believe me or not?!’ I exploded. ‘All that talk about Richard! Unfathomable! I wanted to whack him with something too—something lighter, but still.’

  ‘Maybe just a Marie Claire or a Harper’s Bazaar?’ she said stroking my hair.

  I nodded into her shoulder. A Marie Claire would pack a wallop but not injure him permanently.

  ‘I think he believes you.’

  ‘Thank you Mum.’ I paused. ‘For everything.’

  ‘You haven’t called me Mum in a long time. This is the most I’ve seen of you in ages,’ she laughed.

  I did not know what to say to that. The fact was, she had been the world’s biggest supermodel for many years. She’d missed a lot and she and my father had shared many bad habits. Although she had been on the straight and narrow for well over a decade, I guess I had never fully forgiven her.

  ‘Becoming a widow, being accused of premeditated murder, it brings life into perspective,’ I said into her shoulder.

  ‘Yes, I imagine it would,’ she said, patting me. ‘A little part of me is actually happy it happened.’

  ‘What about Richard?’ I asked.

  ‘Poor Richard. He was a perfectly nice Bran Muffin,’ she said.

  She had me there.

  ‘I probably shouldn’t whack Searing with anything.’

  ‘If I were twenty years younger, I’d whack him with some 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.’

  ‘Mother!’ I mocked. ‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.’

  ‘Ha!’ she exclaimed in response. ‘I saw your jaw drop when you saw him!’

  ‘Me!’ I cried. ‘What about Esmerelda? I thought I saw her drool.’

  As if by magic Esmerelda sauntered into the hallway. Bless her, she had a Dior dress bag slung over her shoulder and a pair of strappy Prada sandals dangling from her hand.

  ‘Like, I totally didn’t drool. If I did, which I like didn’t, it was ’cos of them fluffy white scones,’ she responded.

  We silently scrutinised her.

  ‘What!’ she exclaimed. ‘Fine. He might be totally hot for a cop. But I don’t do cops.’

  I guess that just left me.

  Esmerelda thrust the Dior dress bag at me. ‘Your next appointment is here.’

  ‘I beg your pardon? My next appointment?’

  ‘Yep,’ she confirmed.

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘That is not what I agreed to.’

  ‘Is so. Besides, they’re all here.’

  ‘Who is “all” here?’

  ‘The people,’ said Esmerelda.

  ‘What kind of people?’ I asked, regretting the words as soon as they had come out of my mouth.

  ‘People people,’ said Esmerelda.

  I walked into that one.

  ‘Fine. What are “the people” here for?’

  ‘The will,’ she said. ‘The reading of Richard’s will.’

  I checked myself for signs of vomiting. Happy Meals in reverse were the perfect karmic punishment for eating Happy Meals.

  I turned to Mother for support. She was looking down the hall, where, as if on cue, Mary Moore appeared with a plate of freshly baked then toasted pear and banana bread, and a jug of Brazilian coffee. They were all clearly in on it together. Mother was going back to monthly visits.

  By the time I had dressed and eaten two pieces of Mary’s bread I was coming around to the idea that ripping band aids off was quite cathartic.

  Yes, I mused while mindlessly following Mary, Mother and Esmerelda through a series of wide and opulent corridors, a few more excessively painful yanks and it would all be over.

  We stopped outside a small, informal boardroom. I swallowed as Mary opened the door and we stepped over the threshold.

  At the head of the boardroom table was an older man I rapidly identified as a lawyer. He sported a sombre, navy, pin-striped suit and a white pocket square. Esmerelda’s hackles immediately went up.

  On the left side of the table was a burly looking older man with a dark, thick beard, greying, wavy hair and a rounded stomach. He wore a faded black long-sleeved dress shirt and you could tell he used to be handsome.

  Next to him was an average-looking blonde woman, around the same age. She was wearing a plain black dress in a dreadful poly-cotton, but her shoes were leather and her stockings expensive. They held hands and looked like a long-married couple.

  A younger, even more forgettable-looking woman sat next to the couple. A daughter perhaps?

  Seated next to them was a younger man with caramel-tanned skin and thick, ruffled sandy hair. He was a little tall
er than average and overdressed for such a hot day, in black pants and a dark shirt. Even covered with clothing his outline was clear: Olympic swimmer or 007. He had unnaturally pale blue eyes. I struggled to maintain eye contact with him. He was startlingly attractive but also intimidating. It was odd. He looked familiar.

  On closer inspection, the older man and the younger man appeared similar. I guessed they were related. That made the older blonde woman, in my estimation, the mother. She reminded me of someone too, I just could not put my finger on it. They all seemed vaguely familiar.

  The older woman’s mouth was agape as she gawked from Mother, internationally recognisable style icon, to Esmerelda, spray-on jeans icon, to me, the bereaved Heiress on Fire, icon to no one.

  The lawyer stood and put out his hand. ‘Hello, I’m Thomas Woods—’

  The older woman immediately stood and interrupted.

  ‘Which one of you was his wife?’ she demanded in a thick-tongued Irish accent.

  The older man put a hand on her arm, but she remained standing.

  ‘I am, I mean, I was Richard’s wife,’ I said.

  She glanced from me, to Esmerelda, then back to me. She looked hugely relieved, but only for a second, then her face darkened and she pointed a thin, shaky finger at me.

  ‘You!’ she said enraged. ‘You killed Richard!’

  ‘No!’ I said, shaking my head rapidly. ‘I didn’t! I mean I thought I did. Not on purpose you understand. But the police have informed me a bomb killed Richard.’

  It was mostly true. She looked sceptical.

  ‘I loved him,’ I assured her, my eyes welling up as soon as I had said the words. ‘Very much.’

  And I did, he was my best friend. Well, one of them. Top three.

  ‘But the papers said you’d deliberately burnt your house down with Richard in it,’ she fumed.

  My tears evaporated before they were out. Who the heck was this woman to accuse me? And was that really what the media were saying?