Heiress On Fire

by Kellie McCourt

  ‘Yeah,’ she said nodding her head. ‘As it turns out, it is.’

  ‘How can that be?’ I asked, astonished you could advertise services that were against the law.

  ‘Well, ’cos it’s not illegal,’ she said.

  ‘Advertising?’

  ‘No, hooking. Escorting. All that stuff,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah. Technically it’s totally legit. I know, right? You’d think it’d be against the law, but it’s totally not,’ she said. ‘I wish more shit I’m pretty sure is illegal was actually legal. That’d be cool.’

  Like non-surgeons performing plastic surgery in office suites and corporate coffee rooms? But I digress. It was news to me. I had no idea prostitution was legal in NSW. It was hardly a topic of conversation in my social group.

  Surely if she was performing a service that was legal and above board, gaining more information about her would be easy? Assuming of course that Esmerelda was correct, and Crystal, was in fact a prostitute.

  I refocused and looked at Esmerelda. She was in dreamland. No doubt thinking of all the criminal acts she would like legalised.

  ‘Esmerelda!’ I prodded while keeping at least a portion of my eye on the door.

  ‘What? Yeah?!’ she said, blinking her too-long and too-thick-to-be-fair black eyelashes.

  ‘So, now we just call her employer and ask for some information. Her real name, her address,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. Like, that’s totally not gonna happen. They’re not gonna tell us squat,’ she said flatly.

  I thought about this. She was right. No employer would give away the address of their employees over the phone. That would be an invasion of privacy. But her real name, surely that was a reasonable request?

  ‘Can we call them and just ask for her name?’ I asked her.

  She gawked at me like I was a crazy person.

  ‘Dude, no. You think madams are gonna give real names to strangers over the phone?’

  Was that a legitimate question? It felt like a rhetorical question. ‘No?’ I guessed.

  She nodded. Her hand instinctively reached out for a cookie and then, as though they had turned into hot coals, withdrew.

  As if on cue Patricia came into the dining room with a Versace Le Jardin platter piled with warm miniature pastries.

  Esmerelda’s smile broadened. ‘They’re real, right?’ she asked Patricia.

  ‘Real? No, they’re imaginary. I made them with the fairies down at the bottom of the garden,’ she said deadpan, placing the platter on the table.

  Esmerelda’s hackles went up. ‘Dude, no need to get snippy. I just meant, they’re not like,’ she pointed a disgusted finger at Mother’s cookies, ‘those.’

  ‘Those?’ Patricia barked before pausing, also pointing to the cookie plate. ‘You didn’t eat one, did you?’

  Esmerelda nodded.

  ‘God, you poor girl, don’t eat those. Have one of these, all Tasmanian butter and Queensland sugar,’ Patricia said and she pushed the Italian platter of French pastries to Esmerelda and patted her on the shoulder.

  Placated, Esmerelda’s hackles went down and she reached for a mini-croissant. ‘What’s got your knickers in a knot?’

  Patricia exhaled heavily and shook her head. ‘The phone’s been ringing off the hook this morning,’ she said. ‘I can’t get anything done. The police. The papers. The coroner’s office …’ She broke off and looked at me. ‘I’m sorry Indigo,’ she said.

  ‘That’s alright,’ said Esmerelda on my behalf. ‘She knows.’

  ‘What do I know?’ I asked, unhappy to be spoken for.

  ‘Like, you gotta talk to the coppers again,’ she began counting on her fingers, ‘all the medias have gone friggin’ nuts, you gotta organise the funeral people, then there’s the coroner, the insurance dudes …’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. I guess I did know those things, except … ‘Why did the coroner’s office call?’

  Patricia looked at Esmerelda for help, but Esmerelda had a mouth full of buttery pastry.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s my place to say,’ Patricia hesitated.

  Was there any chance whatsoever it wasn’t her place to tell me because it had nothing to do with me?

  ‘They didn’t want to speak with me?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said nodding her head, ‘they wanted to speak to you.’

  Okay, so, I knew that was coming.

  ‘It’s okay Patricia,’ I said, resigning myself. ‘You can tell me.’

  She eyed the wastepaper basket, probably making sure it was handy lest I lose my smoked salmon, and the remains of the French toast I had prised from Esmerelda’s slender hands.

  ‘They— That is— There are—’ She halted and began again. ‘There are a few little pieces of—that is, remains of—Richard.’ She blanched. ‘The coroner’s ready to release them. They wanted to know which funeral home to contact to pick them—that is, him—up.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, simultaneously sipping coffee, praying it would stay down and reminding myself to breathe. ‘Right. Yes. Of course.’ Again, bravado I did not feel came seeping out of me. ‘Yes, well, I should have an answer for you, I mean them, perhaps you could tell them, by the end of the day tomorrow.’

  Or never.

  ‘Oh,’ she said surprised. ‘That’s good news then. I mean it’s not good that, you know, but it’s good that you are …’

  Poor woman. Her eyes were darting around between Esmerelda and me.

  ‘Thank you Patricia,’ I said, effectively giving her permission to leave. I wish someone would give me permission to leave.

  Patricia patted Esmerelda on the shoulder again and disappeared through the doorway.

  Esmerelda swallowed the last of her mini-croissant. ‘You really gonna pick a funeral home by tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes,’ I snapped. ‘Of course.’ Even I knew how to Google ‘funeral home’.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘I say we go down to Magic Models and you have a snoop around.’

  ‘Snoop around?’ I asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘Yeah, you know, like, you go an’ have a chat to the girls and stuff,’ she said, heading for another pastry.

  ‘Will they let us do that? Just walk in and begin asking questions?’

  If they were not giving out addresses over the telephone and they were not giving out names over the telephone, I could not imagine they would be any more forthcoming because we arrived in person.

  ‘Sure,’ she said through an apple crème pâtissière millefeuille. ‘You just gotta pretend like you’re lookin’ for a job and have a chat to some of the girls.’

  A gargantuan, scandalised choke of shock escaped me. Once again liquid, this time of the latte variety (infinitely worse than water in the nasal passages), came out of my nose. I coughed the remainder into my hand.

  I reached for the tissue box, mopping my face, hands and dress.

  When I could breathe again, I said, ‘Are you crazy! I am most certainly not going to a brothel! And there is no way, no way Esmerelda that I am going to pretend to apply for a job as a prostitute!’

  ‘Escort,’ she corrected.

  I checked my dress for debris and was about to tell her that escorts and prostitutes were the same thing but, were they? Surely escorts escorted and prostitutes had sex. Was Crystal Dr Sam’s paid escort? It explained Dr Sam’s ‘it’s our first date’ story. Plus, escort sounded nowhere near as bad as prostitute.

  Esmerelda looked at me. ‘You’re thinkin’, aren’t you?’

  ‘I was just reflecting that an escort and a prostitute are not the same thing,’ I said.

  ‘Sure,’ she mused unconvincingly. ‘So, you’re gonna do it?’

  ‘If,’ I paused. ‘If it is an escort agency, then the escorts, they are not going to be there are they?’

  If it worked like a modelling agency, and I guessed it did, in booking and scheduling at least, models were booked weeks and months ahead of time by clients. They didn’t s
it around the foyer of their modelling agency, like a henhouse full of chickens, waiting for something to happen. They were already out on shoots or strutting catwalks, posing for absolutely authentic, and heavily paid for, Instagram posts, or at Pilates, exercising their keto breakfasts away.

  Esmerelda’s eyes rolled around in her head and then settled on me. ‘Why not?’

  I explained to her about the chickens waiting in the hen house.

  ‘Huh,’ she said after a pause. ‘I guess that could be right.’

  She took out her steroid phone and began tapping away.

  I could hear voices in the hallway. The insurance people had arrived. I checked myself for coffee stains. There was a damp patch down my front, but it was virtually impossible to see in the charcoal fabric. I collected all the coffee-stained tissues, stood and placed them in the bin in the corner.

  Esmerelda looked up from her device.

  ‘Dude, I think we just got so lucky!’ she said, a broad smile on her face. Wow, her teeth were white. And perfect. I just knew she had never suffered the painful aftershocks of a whitening treatment. Some people.

  ‘You found her name?’ I asked, taking a few steps back to the table, so I could see over her shoulder to the screen.

  ‘Like, no dude, but,’ she said excitedly, ‘Magic Model Escorts is also a brothel! Some of them girls must do double-duty, right? Like they’re escorts and hookers. Hookers totally sit around waiting. Like on shifts. Someone’s gotta know our girl. You can still go!’

  I shook my head at her.

  ‘Absolutely not. The police,’ I said, snapping my head back like a thoroughbred horse, ‘will work out what happened.’

  Esmerelda did some more eye-rolling. ‘Dude, Burns still thinks you did it.’

  ‘But not Searing,’ I countered. Well hopefully not Searing.

  Patricia popped her head in the room. ‘The insurance people are here,’ she said. ‘Oh, and Detective Burns called again,’ she studied a note jotted down on a small piece of paper. ‘She would like “a full list of the non-stage names of everyone at the cocktail party”.’

  Very funny. If Crystal Devine was her ‘stage’ name (and I was assuming it was) how on earth would I know her real name? I wouldn’t. Was it possible it did not even matter to Burns that I did not know? That I was innocent? After all, how could they still not know her real name?

  It frightened me that they knew nothing more than what I had told them. Which was not much: her (presumed) pseudonym and a physical description based on hair that could have been dyed, eye colour based on eyes that might have been coloured by lenses and height that was almost certainly augmented by heels.

  Was it possible that they had not even looked for more information? Was Esmerelda right? Was Crystal not their prime suspect? Was Crystal not a suspect at all? Was I still their prime suspect?

  No wonder everyone was trying to avoid paying tax.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE FINE PRINT

  Patricia looked at the almost-empty platter and eyed Esmerelda. ‘How many of those have you eaten?’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Esmerelda, brushing cinnamon scroll off her T-shirt.

  ‘I’m cutting you off,’ she said to Esmerelda. ‘I think you’ve got a pastry problem.’

  ‘What about me?’ I said. I needed pastries too.

  ‘I’ll get some more for you Indigo, and our guests. You,’ she nodded at Esmerelda, ‘I’ll bring some fruit.’

  She disappeared out of the doorway, presumably back to the main kitchen.

  Esmerelda turned to me. ‘So, how ’bout it?’

  ‘I am not going to a brothel with you,’ I said.

  I heard a small cough and turned to find Mother in the doorway, with a somewhat stunned look on her perfect face. She was closely shadowed by two men in suits. One playing with his phone, the other staring uncomfortably at us.

  Meet Esmerelda and Indigo, the dysfunctional duo.

  ‘Mother,’ I smiled lightly, ‘come in. Patricia has put out your favourite biscuits.’

  Whether the two men had heard me and chosen to politely ignore my last sentence, or whether they had missed it altogether, I do not know, but neither one mentioned it. They followed Mother into the room like ducklings. She dwarfed both men, who were both around the five foot seven, five eight mark.

  The first man, the man playing with his phone, I knew. His name was Lloyd Harper. He was the owner of HARPI Corporate Insurance Brokers. He had been Grandmother’s insurance broker, and Grandfather’s before Grandmother took over the company. Although my contact with him was not frequent I had known him all my life.

  As well as being a little on the short side, he was also a little on the round side. His waist, I noted, had expanded since we last met. This was possibly due to the fact he was semi-retired. This meeting had probably pulled him away from a golf game somewhere. Retirement had not affected his hair, which was by far the worst toupee I had ever seen. It was much too dark and too thick for a man his age and sat unmoving on his scalp. I have no memory of it ever being any different.

  I introduced Lloyd to Esmerelda. Mother he knew.

  ‘What a delight to see you again, Catherine,’ he said, blushing. ‘The years haven’t altered you.’

  Mother laughed brightly. She was professional and polished no matter the circumstances. ‘Why thank you Lloyd, good to see you too.’

  ‘May I introduce Dennis Bayton,’ he said to the three of us. ‘Mr Bayton is the Insurance Assessor Agent from CRIB assigned to your claim.’

  CRIB was the insurance company that held the equivalent of home and contents policies for my properties. I was not exactly sure how many I had.

  ‘This is Esmerelda,’ I said motioning to her. ‘My personal assistant.’

  Both men took in Esmerelda in her black jeans and sneakers, and smiled unsure smiles.

  ‘So,’ said Lloyd, seating himself next to Dennis on the opposite side of the long birchwood table, to the three of us. ‘Let’s start with the good news.’

  This could only mean one thing—that there was bad news to come.

  ‘The structural engineers from CRIB have been going over the Double Bay penthouse and it seems the first five floors are still structurally sound. There is some smoke and water damage, but it could have been a lot worse,’ Lloyd said with a tight smile.

  ‘That is good news,’ I said. I had harboured a fear that the whole building would be lost and I was rather attached to it.

  ‘However, storeys six, seven and eight are not structurally sound and are just too damaged to retain,’ he said, this time with a sad smile. ‘I’m very sorry Indigo, but what remains of them will have to be dismantled.’

  Dismantled. What a terrible word. It ran through my mind over and over.

  Dennis Bayton opened a folder and began shuffling through papers. ‘Mrs Bombberg, let me first offer you my condolences on the death of your husband.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Lloyd quickly, embarrassed to be shown up by Bayton. ‘My deepest sympathies Indigo.’

  This misstep guaranteed that Richard would be the recipient of an overly large and gaudy funeral wreath from HARPI. Should I ever be able to bring myself to organise a funeral that is.

  ‘You received our card and flowers?’ Lloyd said, clawing back face.

  ‘Yes of course,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much.’

  I had no idea if he had sent flowers or not. The vases with cards attached had arrived for days and days after Richard’s death. To my social and moral shame I had not read a single card or appreciated a single stem. I just could not bring myself to do it. I promised myself I would. Meanwhile Mother’s formal lounge room looked and smelt like the Chelsea Flower Show. I imagine a similar scene was playing out in a room somewhere at Grandmother’s home too.

  Dennis Bayton went on. ‘Your husband was a well-respected and, I must say, meticulous man.’

  True.

  ‘He was probably one of the most thorough clients I think I’ve ev
er come across.’

  How does that work? I thought. How does one become a ‘thorough’ insurance client?

  ‘Because of the considerable value of your home’s contents, Dr Bombberg photographed every painting, sculpture, piece of jewellery, cutlery and crystal set, item of clothing—both his and yours, every pair of shoes—mainly yours, every handbag—all yours I think, and even bottles of collectible perfume.’ Bayton took a breath and showed me photographs of clothing I recognised as my own.

  Beside some of the clothes were receipts, the same applied for the shoes and handbags. I recognised a Gucci Marmont leather shoulder bag. It was distinctive with its black base and red inlaid love hearts. It had been a gift from Richard. In the photograph it sat on our bed with a receipt next to it. It had cost $3280. ‘How often did he do this?’ I asked, astounded. Richard was meticulous yes, but this was pathological.

  Bayton consulted a printout. It looked like a list of emails. ‘Approximately once a month.’

  I accidentally gasped. ‘Once a month?!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bayton. ‘Then he would update the amount of insurance coverage accordingly. He was, as I said, extremely diligent and exceptionally thorough.’

  I knew Richard had not done this. Not personally anyway. And certainly not once a month. Yes, he was extremely diligent and exceptionally thorough as Bayton had said, but he was also extremely busy and exceptionally absent, either interstate or overseas at his other clinics.

  ‘How did he deliver these pictures to you?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘By email,’ said Bayton.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Of course.’ I had no doubt Richard’s PA Michelle was responsible for the constant updating of this somewhat insanely fluid insurance policy.

  ‘You seem surprised. Are these your belongings?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, they are,’ I said.

  ‘And are these also Richard’s belongings?’ he said, gesturing to pictures of Armani suits and Cartier cufflinks.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s just, it is possible that his PA Michelle Little took some of these photographs for him. Is that okay?’