Heiress On Fire

by Kellie McCourt

  This conversation was going south rather rapidly.

  ‘I have no desire to go into the culinary arts Mr Bayton.’

  No statement was truer.

  ‘Making tea and toast is just about my limit.’

  ‘I think that might be enough to achieve the desired outcome. Especially with Ms Esmerelda in the kitchen to help you,’ he said, brushing scroll crumbs off his fingers onto a small bone-china plate. ‘I bet she has a very unique style of cooking.’

  Lloyd looked dumbfounded.

  Mother looked annoyed.

  Bayton looked quite pleased with himself.

  I am certain I looked desperate (and I was).

  Esmerelda was carefully choosing her fifth pastry and without looking up absently said, ‘Dude, I can cook the shit out of loads of stuff.’

  Bayton smiled.

  I exhaled deeply. What the hell? My reputation was in tatters anyway. The police, well most of the police, thought I had killed two people. The insurance company was refusing to rebuild my home or pay out on the policy. Richard’s mother was desperate for answers. His siblings were about to be swindled out of hundreds of thousands of dollars, possibly millions, in art and timepieces. To the world media at large—traditional, social and otherwise—I was the Heiress on Fire. And if this matter was not resolved soon I would also be known as the Homicidal Heiress. My social status, already in the ICU, would be officially pronounced dead.

  I picked up a pecan and maple twist, tore it in half and slapped one end in Esmerelda’s hand. ‘Here,’ I said before she had managed to choose one for herself, ‘let’s share.’

  Esmerelda stared down at it unhappily. ‘Dude, I don’t like eating pecans.’

  ‘I cannot imagine that anyone does,’ I said to her, eyeing Dennis Bayton.

  Mother shook her head, then cradled her face in her palms, elbows resting on the table.

  Lloyd still seemed confused. Desperately trying to make his way back into the conversation, he chimed happily, ‘I like pecans.’

  Mother’s head popped up and she eyed him ferociously. ‘I’ll just bet you do!’

  Poor Lloyd. He looked like he’d run a hectic foot race. And tried very hard. And still not achieved anything remotely like a win.

  I could have sworn I saw a small grin pass Bayton’s lips.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE BANKSTOWN BOUTIQUE

  Lloyd left in a waft of promises, Bayton in a flurry of innuendo. Mother went to meditate. She had almost lost her Zen and this called for hours of sitting on a small round velvet cushion thinking about nothing, aspiring to a higher level of spiritual consciousness. While she insisted this was not a punishment, I could not imagine it being anything but.

  I was busy lying on her circular oversized king genie bed. It was like resting on a giant marshmallow. I loved that bed. I had no idea how she got circular sheets, blankets and throws to cover it, but it was completely delightful. When I was a child I used to play on it, pretending I was a genie flying on a giant cloud. As a teen I thought it was puerile, Austin-Powers-private-jet juvenile. I was currently back to my pre-teen opinion of it being the most wonderful bed ever.

  Esmerelda was ambling through Mother’s wardrobe scanning it for outfits suitable for a mourning heiress going undercover at what was apparently a five-star brothel. As what? A gay client? A prospective employee? What was the plan? Was there a plan? Dear Lord help me, either option sounded atrocious. Plus, it is amazingly difficult to find the perfect outfit for either of those things.

  None of the dozen or so ensembles rescued from my dry-cleaner were deemed suitable by Esmerelda who said they were not ‘do-able’ enough. I was assured and a little insulted. She also vetoed the outfits Grandmother had installed in the pool house wardrobe for me on similar grounds saying I ‘wouldn’t blend in’.

  I had no idea how I was going to blend in regardless. Nor how I was going to fit into any of Mother’s size 6, tailored for a six-foot-tall woman clothing.

  ‘Esmerelda!’ I called. Nothing. The wardrobe was the size of a hotel suite. Not a room. A suite. She could be lost for days.

  I hauled myself off the bed and padded in after her, my bare feet sinking into the long, soft pile carpet. It felt lovely.

  I found Esmerelda awkwardly perusing the cocktail-dress section, next to a wall of shoes. A good spot.

  ‘Esmerelda! I have been calling you.’

  ‘I heard you,’ she said, touching a tiny 1999 Alexander McQueen leopard-print number.

  ‘No,’ I said before she had a chance to ask. She replaced it on the rack and picked up a white, floor-length Michael Costello dress that was cut right down to the navel, the remaining fabric barely there.

  ‘Is there a stronger word for no? Because that is the word I would like to use now.’

  ‘Dude, you don’t like anything,’ she said, scowling at me. This from a woman who wore nothing but a uniform of black or blue skinny jeans and sandshoes. Apart from the assorted, mainly band-inspired T-shirts, the only diversity was ripped or not ripped. That, and various degrees of faded.

  ‘How did you manage to get that meeting with Lloyd Harper and Dennis Bayton organised without Grandmother poking her nose in? She’s still in Europe.’

  ‘What meeting?’ she asked, heading to a leather bustier dress.

  I tapped her hand before it reached the hanger and shook my head. ‘The meeting we just had? With the insurance guys?’

  ‘Nup. That meeting’s not happening until Wednesday. And don’t hit,’ she said, rubbing her hand.

  ‘Wednesday?’

  ‘Yep,’ she said nodding her head. ‘Wednesday.’

  ‘Grandmother is going to be really …’ There were no words for how irate Grandmother was going to be at being duped. And to think she was duped by Esmerelda! Mind boggling. It made me beam inside. Once again, poor Lloyd. He would inevitably be the recipient of some of her wrath having attended a meeting with me without her. I was going to hide behind Esmerelda and not be home. One of the advantages of being homeless is that technically, you are never home.

  I picked up a dark green tulle Dolce & Gabbana dress that was sleeveless and ran to the mid-calf. It would probably be floor-length on me. Perfect.

  ‘That!’ she said, appalled. ‘No way dude, it’s like an itchy pea pod.’

  I thought it was nice. I put it back and picked out a navy blue Dior dress with a high neckline and long sleeves, both covered in sequins. Somehow sequins seemed appropriate. I could see it was a minidress, but again, on me it was likely to be almost knee-length. Plus, the fabric on the body of the dress was dark and thick. It added to the appeal. I looked to Esmerelda.

  ‘That looks hot,’ she said, fanning herself, ‘but like totally not hot hot.’

  It took me a second. ‘Surely five-star bordellos are air-conditioned?’ I countered.

  ‘It’s too like, classy, you know?’ she said staring at the dress as if it was the Queen. And as if the Queen had just slapped her. Or told her off. Or both.

  No. I did not know.

  ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘Me? I’m gonna wear this,’ she said sweeping her hands wide and gesturing to her current ripped, faded and wrinkled ensemble.

  ‘If I won’t blend in Dior, you most certainly will not blend in that.’

  ‘Well I’m not going in anyway. I’ll wait outside.’

  ‘No, no,’ I shook my head. ‘This whole thing was your idea. We are going together.’

  She turned a paler shade of tan. ‘Dude, I never said I’d go in with you. Uh-uh, no way. I don’t do that kind of shit. I’m a personal-shopper-assistant-person. Personal assistants organise shit, find out stuff, that’s my job.’

  Boy did I have news for her.

  ‘Esmerelda, executive personal assistants do everything. I am telling you that you need to personally assist me in finding out who Crystal really was, and what she had against Richard. If we fail, I could end up bunking in your former residence Silverwater. That would le
ave you unemployed which if I am not mistaken breaks one of the conditions of your parole. I am fairly confident there is no real call for either heiresses or personal assistants in jail.’

  ‘You’d be totally surprised,’ she mumbled, eyeing another dress.

  Yuck. What would a personal assistant do for you in jail? My mind raced. None of the thoughts running through my head seemed appealing or seemly. Some were downright unsanitary. Oh God, even worse, what would an heiress do? Mentally blocking.

  ‘I am not going without you. It was your idea and you will come with me and help. You will know the right things to say in that, that, social circle.’

  ‘How would I know?’ she said, hands on hips, bottom lip jutting like a petulant model. ‘I don’t do that kinda stuff!’

  ‘Really?’ I said, raising an eyebrow at her. ‘You have never had anything to do with the ladies of the night? You must have contacts in those circles. I am not saying you have ever worked as a lady of the night, just that you know some people who have, or you know some people, who know some people who have. Or do.’

  ‘Dude, no one except old ladies born in the seventies say “lady of the night”.’ She paused. ‘And there is no way you can prove that I know anything about anything.’

  ‘Well,’ I countered, ‘how did you find out where Crystal worked?’

  That statement sat in the air for a moment while Esmerelda’s mouth went from pouty, to ajar, to closed tight.

  I stared. ‘Well?’

  ‘I told you, the internet. There’s like this thing called Google.’ Hands still on hips.

  ‘Searing and Burns could not find Crystal. The investigators from CRIB could not find Crystal. I am guessing Grandmother has a private detective searching for Crystal who has also come up empty. None of them could find her, but you, you just Googled her?’ I maintained eye contact.

  ‘Yeah. And checked websites. And social media accounts,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘And went back through all the gross personal section stuff for the last six months.’

  She shuddered hard, as if the recollection of the personal section’s content had scarred her for life. ‘And then I had a list. Dude, there are like a shitload of Crystals working in Sydney by the way.’

  I hated to admit it but I was impressed. Esmerelda had really done some work over the last few days. I had been lying by the pool. Possibly drinking. Definitely eating.

  ‘How many Crystals are there?’ I asked in a much less aggressive and know-it-all tone.

  ‘Twen’y-six,’ she replied, hands dropping from her hips.

  ‘Wow,’ I said involuntarily. ‘Twenty-six?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s a shitload, I mean boatload, right? I told you Crystal was a hooker name,’ she said knowingly.

  ‘And?’ I pressed her.

  ‘So, like, then I rang all of ’em and tried to make an appointment,’ she said crossing her arms.

  ‘All twenty-six?’ I was amazed. No wonder the police and the detectives and the investigators were having such a hard time. That was a lot of ground to cover.

  ‘And?’ I pried.

  ‘Well, like seventeen Crystals were good to go. She’s dead right?’

  I nodded. Indeed she was. You cannot get more deceased than burnt, blown up and then burnt again.

  ‘So, she wasn’t one of them. That left nine.’

  ‘So how did you narrow those nine down to our one Crystal at Magic Models?’ I asked.

  I sounded cynical but I was thoroughly impressed. I had assumed Esmerelda had some underworld, dark-bellied contacts, but it now seemed possible that she was simply a very clever, diligent and resourceful woman.

  She went back to rifling through the closet. ‘I … like … It doesn’t matter, does it?’

  ‘How Esmerelda? How did you go from nine to one?’

  ‘I just did!’ she barked, shoving a floor-length red dress aside. ‘You’re friggin’ nosy for a chick who’ll sign anything put in front of her.’

  And look where that had landed me. Not in a place I ever intended to be in again.

  ‘Yes. I. Am! I am now Queen Nosy!’ I was suddenly shouting. ‘I want to know how you did it! And, I want to know who killed Richard! And why?! And … and I want to know what’s in those offshore bank accounts! And what’s in the safety deposit box Richard left Mother! And why, why did my husband choose to hide his entire family from me! And,’ I stumbled on, ‘I also want to know what exactly is in all my trust funds.’

  She cut me off. ‘You have more than one trust fund?’

  ‘What? Yes, I have more than one.’

  What did that have to do with anything?

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Four,’ I said.

  ‘Four?’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘How’d you get four?’

  ‘Not that it is any of your business, but my grandfather left me one, my grandmother set one up for me, my father left me one and Mother has one for me.’

  ‘Dude,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘That shit’s friggin’ out there man.’

  ‘Well,’ I said indignantly, ‘without those trust funds you would be out of a job. And stop changing the subject. How did you do it?’

  Esmerelda kicked the lush carpet pile with her sneakered foot.

  ‘If you’re going to be that put out, then forget it. It is not as if your methods are so endlessly fascinating to me,’ I said.

  The kicking reduced from booting to skimming. The carpet would live to see another day.

  Esmerelda remained silent. I stepped past her and began scanning for dresses. I found a black, one-shoulder Victoria Beckham jumpsuit. It had sheer lace panels down the outside legs from hip to ankle and a lace insert in the shape of a large love heart instead of a back panel. It would require very strategic underwear. Not ideal for a jeans and T-shirt lover. Although technically a jumpsuit had pants, and pants were a distant cousin of jeans.

  I handed it to her. ‘This would suit you. It has pants. No need to laser your legs. Or wax them. Or shave them. Or whatever it is you do to remove hair. If in fact you do remove hair.’

  She looked up from the floor and eyed me.

  ‘You will have to lose the sneakers.’

  Silence with raised eyebrows.

  ‘And have Franny do your face.’

  Silence with raised eyebrows and tilted head.

  ‘And your hair of course.’

  The pout was back. I wanted to stop but apparently I did not know how.

  ‘And perhaps some jewellery would be in order. Earrings, a necklace, a few bracelets, something simple,’ I said, holding the jumpsuit up to her.

  She started working her jaw.

  ‘Did I mention you’ll need heels?’

  ‘If I tell you how I did it will you shut up?’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ I said as I turned to look at the wall of stilettos, pretending to search for a pair that might match. This was a happy coincidence. It seemed the sheer joy of my playing stylist was enough to crack a hardened criminal.

  ‘One of my old jobs was in sales,’ she said, then paused.

  ‘Sales? Yes, what kind of sales?’

  Oh God, please do not let it be drugs.

  ‘Designer clothing and handbags, that kinda thing,’ she said.

  That was a huge relief.

  ‘What could possibly be wrong with that?’ I asked before my mind ticked over. ‘Oh, were the items stolen?’

  ‘Dude, no they weren’t stolen,’ she said, and then reconsidered. ‘Well, maybe like some but not a lot. Mostly they were just knock-offs. Straight from the Bankstown Boutique.’

  Bankstown was a western outer suburb I had never actually visited. From its portrayal on TV news I imagined it was a hub for newly arrived refugees, professional social security users and factory workers. But considering the on and off Sydney housing boom it was probably now occupied by mid-level managers, doughnut shop operators and nail salon owners.

  ‘The Bankstown Boutique? Is that a shop?’

  ‘If you wan
na call a sweat shop a shop then yeah, it’s a shop.’

  ‘You worked at a sweat shop? With prostitutes? You poor thing,’ I choked. My heart went out to her.

  She looked at me like I was a complete idiot, which when it came to things of this nature, I possibly was.

  ‘Dude! Stop finishing my story,’ she said and shook her head in irritation. ‘Either you shut up or I shut up.’

  Normally I would not accept this type of behaviour, but I was dying to find out so I pretended to zip and lock my lips and throw the key away. Something I had not done since middle school.

  ‘I was in sales,’ she said, hitting the word ‘sales’ hard, obviously to help me comprehend basic concepts. ‘And some of my best clients were, you know, escorts.’

  My lips remained firmly sealed, and I nodded in encouragement.

  ‘Escorts have to look classy you know, so they’d buy the real high-end knock-offs from me. Like the good Lou-wee Vuitton and Chanel handbags, not the crappy Bali stuff, but you know, the good imitations. They also liked the new season’s clothes, you know Gucci, Versace, Dior. They bought a lot of shit. And I kinda got to know some of ’em. Most of the time they were pretty good chicks, and I’d like, get ’em good deals.’

  I pointed to my mouth. Could I open it now? Esmerelda nodded. I gasped for air. Evidently I had forgotten to breathe through my nose while my mouth was zipped shut.

  ‘How could they possibly make replicas of new season designer clothes? Where would they get the fabric? How would they know the patterns? How do they even know what they look like? Who else buys these things?’

  Just as well my mouth had been zipped shut. That was a lot of questions.

  ‘Like that’s what you wanna know? Where do they get the fabric?’ she said arching her brows at me. ‘Not how I found Crystal? Dude, you got mixed up priorities.’

  Oh God, she was right! I slapped my hands to my face. ‘Yes, I mean no. I mean yes, tell me first how you found Crystal.’

  She smiled. ‘Don’t spank yourself. I’m totally messing with you.’