Heiress On Fire

by Kellie McCourt

  The first guard strained to unpack the contents of his hand trolley onto the table. Bang. Box one. Bang. Box two. Bang. Box three. Mother was going to have a mini-stroke if any non-authentic damage was done to this somewhat damaged-looking (to the untrained eye) King Charles XIII provincial table.

  ‘If you would be so kind as to stack the rest of the boxes along the wall,’ and I gestured to the far end of the dining room, ‘that would be fine.’

  Bayton and Lloyd looked at each other.

  ‘Yes, absolutely Indigo,’ said Lloyd, ‘we can most certainly accommodate you. It’s just that, well the boxes are quite heavy. You mightn’t be able to pick them up again once they’re on the floor.’

  ‘I have no intention of picking them up, ever again,’ I said to Lloyd in my most amicable tone.

  ‘Of course,’ said Lloyd and indicated for the security men to offload the remaining boxes at the other end of the room.

  Patricia entered with lunch: smoked salmon and goat’s cheese tarts, chicken pesto finger sandwiches, thinly sliced sous vide ahi tuna coated with black sesame and served with aioli, and baby bowls of rocket coated in pink Himalayan rock salt and shaved parmesan.

  She shuffled around the table trying to place the platters around the yellow and black steel boxes. It’s hard to make anything look delicate next to industrial locks.

  ‘Thank you, Patricia,’ I said and motioned to the security guards, who by this stage, despite the air-conditioning, were sweating up my dining room. ‘Would you mind finding something cold for these gentlemen?’

  Patricia stopped mid-stride and looked at me. ‘Really?’ she said quizzically. ‘You want me to give them drinks?’ She paused. ‘I mean yeah, yes, of course Indigo.’

  Patricia motioned the security guards to follow her. The guards looked for authorisation from the suited broker and his assessor counterpart first.

  ‘That’s fine, thanks guys,’ said Bayton.

  Lloyd gave what I thought was probably a superfluous nod of approval and the men trooped out of the dining room, followed very closely by an oddly happy-looking Patricia. Was she sneaking a peek at the rear end of the guard in front of her? Why did she seem so pleased?

  ‘We’ve catalogued all the items that were recovered from both safes and from what I assume was Mr Bombberg’s model train room,’ said Bayton.

  What’s more embarrassing: pretending to be a high-fashion model turned sex worker? Or pretending your dead husband’s wardrobe and dressing room weren’t in fact his wardrobe and dressing room but his model train rooms? Tough question.

  ‘Even though both his and her safes were completely intact, we took the liberty of checking the watches in Mr Bombberg’s safe for heat and water damage—’ Bayton paused. ‘Happily there was none. And we checked your safe’s contents against the listed contents on the insurance policy. Everything was there, none of it damaged.’

  I was relieved the watches were intact. I felt I should have been more relieved about my own jewellery being unharmed. Not to mention the $50,000 in cash I kept for emergencies. But I just wasn’t. I liked my jewellery, and I liked cash, but all the pieces with sentimental value, bar my earrings and my engagement ring, resided in a safety deposit box in the Hasluck-Royce vault. The only thing I was truly attached to in my home safe was a bag of honey roasted cashews. It’s a long story.

  Bayton opened a manila folder to reveal an itemised list of the contents of both safes. He stood and made his way from the far end of the table down to where I sat, leant across and handed me the list.

  ‘We will remove these items,’ and he indicated the list and then two of the steel boxes on the table, ‘from your current claim.’

  Perfect. That all seemed simple enough. Short meetings are my favourite kind of meetings. They leave time for sunbathing and pedicures.

  ‘How’d you get the safes open if they were “completely intact”?’ asked Esmerelda, who had been silently examining the steel boxes stacked against the wall.

  Damn! And it was such a good question too. How did they get the safes open? And should they have opened them without my permission? I felt a little invaded.

  I snapped my head up at Bayton and eyed him.

  ‘Certified master safecracker,’ he said without pause. ‘We were lucky to have a young Irishman of some renown on holiday here in Sydney. We availed ourselves of his services.’

  ‘And you did not think to ask my permission?’ I asked, trying to channel even a small amount of the sarcastic indignity Grandmother seemed to be able to summon at a moment’s notice.

  ‘It was us or the bomb squad Mrs Bombberg,’ said Bayton, and he stepped back from the table.

  ‘What Mr Bayton means, Indigo, is that it was all very much for your own safety and security,’ said Lloyd. ‘They, and we, both, everyone wanted to be sure that no explosive devices had been planted inside the safes.’

  I gaped at the big yellow metal boxes in front of me and slid my chair backwards a metre. As if that would help.

  ‘You were lucky nothing undetonated was found. The bomb squad wouldn’t have removed the suspect device or your belongings from the safe. They would’ve detonated everything in place,’ said Bayton, placing one hand gently on top of the steel box closest to him (and me).

  I stared at his hand, so casually placed on an item that could have housed another bomb, and swallowed, trying to maintain my indignation and my dignity.

  ‘Why were the safes not opened by the police instead of this safecracker person?’ I croaked, sweat suddenly springing from my palms.

  ‘The police were happy to let CRIB pay for the specialised services of the certified master safecracker since they had no one on staff who was able to open your, may I say, state-of-the art safes. It was a significant cost and the payment was not, apparently, in the budget of the Homicide Squad nor the Rescue and Bomb Disposal Unit. And I felt it would be prudent for both you, Mrs Jones-Bombberg, and CRIB, if we maintained as much control as possible over the evidence—I mean situation.’

  Bayton leant over and flicked open the silver latches on the front of the first box.

  My heart went through my throat. I could not take another explosion. But the only sound was the click of the metal latches, the crack of the lid as it opened and the bump of steel on steel as the lid hit the back of the box.

  It was open. I could not help myself, I stood and peered inside. I need not have gone to the trouble. Inside the box were the charred remains of about 200 model trains.

  The Monet that had been in my family for generations was gone, rendered to ashes. The fifteenth-century Chinese vase that belonged to royal ancestors, shattered, gone. But these ugly little juvenile lumps of steel, they survived.

  True, their paintwork had seen better days, you could see large sections of steel where the paint had been burnt off, but overall, they hardly seemed melted at all. Life really was unfair.

  Bayton leant in to see the train wreck inside the box. ‘Ah, my mistake. Trains. Your husband certainly was very fond of them.’

  Even compared to an explosion the train collecting thing was still embarrassing.

  He moved onto the second box, repeating the process of flicking the metal latches and opening the lid. I repeated my process of trying not to throw up, faint, or given my history, both.

  The box opened without event and I exhaled.

  He lifted out a thick, oversized briefcase. He flicked the locks and inside was a large black tray, lined in royal blue velvet. There were a dozen watches each individually wrapped around their own cream-coloured pillows and encased in their own clear perspex watch boxes on the tray. I looked over the watches and stopped short. I looked again. It was gone. A now far too familiar feeling of utter fear and panic washed over me. My father’s watch was missing.

  I bolted up out of my chair.

  ‘Where is it? It’s not here! I can’t see it.’

  I lifted and checked each little perspex box one by one. It was not there.

  Heat
rose through me and the room began to swim. Why had I not been more concerned about this earlier? I should have made sure it was in the safe. I should have asked. But … Richard was just so good about these things. Why wouldn’t it be in the safe? But it wasn’t. It was gone. I could feel the fuzziness crawl into my brain. I stamped my foot, in a gesture odd even to me, to stop it.

  ‘You foolish man!’ Lloyd fumed at Bayton.

  Esmerelda was suddenly holding me, her arm wrapped around my waist. I could hear Bayton, all tones of condescension and secretiveness removed from his voice: ‘God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think. I should have …’

  ‘Don’t fuck around with her, dude,’ Esmerelda snarled at him, forgetting her profanity substitute. ‘She’s an actual princess.’

  Although Bayton’s now palpable fear of her was enjoyable, and it was true, I did have some royal blood, I was beginning to resent being a damsel always in distress. I closed my mouth, clenched my stomach and fought the faint.

  I opened my eyes.

  Esmerelda jumped.

  ‘Fuck! You woke up! Dude you scared the shit out of me. Don’t fuckin’, I mean friggin’ do that!’

  She put one hand to her chest and unconsciously fanned herself with the other. Now she was the damsel. That brought me a smile. She stopped immediately, gave me the finger and said, ‘You coulda chucked first.’

  So. We were all back then.

  Bayton hurriedly dipped both of his hands back into the second yellow and black metal box on the table and came out with what looked like a miniature version of the box. While it was the same colours it was smaller, made out of plastic and had the word ‘Invicta’ stamped on the side.

  ‘One moment,’ Bayton said in response to my confused expression. ‘Please.’

  He quickly placed the mini-me box on the dining table next to the goat’s cheese tarts and snapped the double latches. He opened the case to reveal grey egg crate padding on both sides. Carved out of the grey material was a slot containing a single, mounted watch.

  It was a silver watch with a round, faded rose gold face, its battered band was tan leather and it had a small scratch on the glass face below the ‘VI’. I held myself tightly, remained firm, then burst into tears.

  ‘I believe this was your father’s watch,’ said Bayton, finally looking uncomfortable.

  ‘Yes. It’s been in the family for many years,’ Lloyd interrupted, answering for me. ‘It’s a Patek Philippe.’

  ‘A Bulletin d’Observatoire,’ Bayton added helpfully. ‘A unique platinum chronometer—’

  ‘Shut up,’ I said finally finding some small breath in my sobbing.

  ‘Yes madam.’

  ‘Both of you.’ More breath.

  ‘Yes madam.’

  I picked it up and instinctively inhaled it. It smelt the same. The leather still carried Father’s scent all these years later. Thank God Richard never wore it.

  Richard wore the same uncomplicated Rolex every day. He said it belonged to his father. I was guessing now that his actual father, a train driver, never wore a Rolex. Even a base model. Richard’s was a racing one of some sorts. A Dayton? A Daytona? Or did it sound like a drink? Was it a cosmopolitan? A cosmo? A manhattan? A mojito? Regardless, it was toast now.

  Instead of packing the heirloom Patek Philippe timepiece back into the case I flipped my wrist and attached the watch.

  I thought Lloyd was going to pass out. He stood slack-jawed and motionless as I fixed the strap. The watch was about the same price as Josephine’s Embraer Phenom aeroplane. New.

  Bayton smiled. ‘I’ll adjust your new premium accordingly.’

  Esmerelda seemed bored. She had seated herself in my spot at the head of the table and was tapping her rubber-soled shoes impatiently on the leg of the table.

  I shooed her out of my seat and gestured for Bayton to finish up.

  Bayton began touching each perspex box in the first large briefcase, giving the name and year of the watch as well as some other details I had absolutely no interest in. I had my Patek Philippe. The others weren’t even mine, they would be passed on to my far-too-lovely brother-in-law James Smith. Preferably by someone else. I was afraid to be in the same room as him. I was done.

  Vacheron Constantin, 1977, something, something.

  Universal Genève, 1967, lume plots something.

  Rolex Submariner, 1975, Breguet, something.

  Bvlgari Magsonic Sonnerie Tourbillon …

  I drifted off, only dragging myself back into consciousness when I heard the words, ‘so finally’.

  ‘So finally we have the Franck Muller Aeternitas.’ He gestured to a rectangular silver watch in the second last slot of the case. ‘And the Rolex Daytona. A mid-1960s model I would estimate …’

  Wait. Daytona? Rolex Daytona?

  ‘What!’ I was back up on my feet examining the final watch in the box.

  The band was different; darker, thinner, but there it was: Richard’s father’s silver Rolex. God. No. Wait. Richard’s who-knows-where-he-got-it Rolex. Three circles inside the main face, another ring with numbers on the outside, that, to the best of my knowledge, no one outside nautical circles ever used.

  ‘Is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Inscribed on the back?’ Bayton completed my question and then smiled knowingly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘DRIVE CAREFULLY, ME,’ I said, this time pre-empting him. ‘It says DRIVE CAREFULLY, ME. Right?’

  Bayton nodded. ‘Yes it does.’

  Unbelievable. Richard’s watch had survived.

  Bayton looked at his own watch, paused for a beat or two then said to the room at large, ‘And that’s it. We must depart. I believe you have another visitor due.’

  Lloyd looked relieved to be done.

  God! Detective Searing! I had forgotten about him.

  ‘It’s a lovely day for a walk,’ Bayton said, adjusting his tie. ‘I like walking. But you know what I really love? I love catching trains!’

  Lloyd shot Bayton a warning look.

  Esmerelda cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘It’s like friggin’ 40 degrees out there,’ she said, pointing out of the window. ‘And dude, you’re in a full-on suit.’

  Bayton pressed ahead. ‘I think I’ll catch a train home. Public transport is such an undervalued resource, don’t you think?’

  He tapped the lid of the first box and walked out.

  There were no train stations in Double Bay or Vaucluse. Were there? I didn’t completely know.

  Lloyd looked after his counterpart, confused. I had a feeling that happened to him often.

  Lloyd extended his hand. ‘Anything at all you need, Indigo, please call. Otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  Why on earth would I agree to see this man three times a year, or a decade, let alone three times in a week?

  ‘At the funeral,’ said Lloyd, an uncertain look gathering on his face.

  ‘What funeral?’ I said stupidly.

  ‘Richard’s funeral,’ he said, immediately regretting it.

  Thank goodness I had not eaten. I could get straight on with the job of passing out. I just prayed I did not hit my head on anything on the way down.

  CHAPTER 20

  BROKEN AIR CONDITIONERS

  I awoke shortly after, propped up by a sea of downy white pillows. I was on top of a queen-size bed in a teal and peach guestroom in the main house. I looked down at myself. I was still in yellow striped Zimmerman pants. Original clothing. That was a good sign. I put my hand to my head. No fresh lumps. This was real progress. Possibly even emotional progress. I was beginning to understand why Mother was so enthusiastic about it. It was good.

  Or was it? This meant I had not slept through Richard’s funeral. Damn. Of all the times to get hold of yourself Indigo!

  ‘Mrs Hasluck-Royce-Jones-Bombberg, we have to stop meeting in bedrooms,’ said a male voice.

  The voice belonged to Searing. Okay, so it was definitely good that I was not covered in vomit or sporting a blac
k eye. Still I was propped up on a bed. Not the best look. And he was so deliciously gorgeous. Too deliciously gorgeous. And there was the possible nuzzling on the fire escape at Magic Models. I tried to pretend I was still unconscious.

  ‘I saw your eyes open,’ he said.

  Damn.

  He was sitting on a pale teal silk armchair with short carved dark wood legs, brass button nailhead trim and deep tufting. The silk was hand painted with pale peach roses. This was a man very, very comfortable with his masculinity. Either that or he was gay. Dear Lord, please let him be straight. He smelt so good.

  He dragged the chair underneath him and moved closer to my side of the bed.

  ‘How did you get in here?’ I asked.

  ‘No bodyguard. Esmerelda had to go. I reminded her that she was late for a meeting.’

  I frowned at him. Esmerelda had no meetings. I did not think she had ever attended a meeting in her life before me. Except maybe an anger management meeting.

  He was a terrible liar.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ I said and sat myself up properly, pulling a feathery pillow closer.

  ‘Sincerely. She had a meeting,’ he said earnestly. ‘With her parole officer.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No. Not really, she’s just gone to get you some tea and crumpets,’ he said, smiling.

  I looked at him sarcastically. I think we both knew it would be a cold day in Tiffany’s before Esmerelda served me anything but attitude.

  ‘Okay. She said something about Patricia making doughnuts and took off,’ he said, loosening his tie. ‘Is it just me or is it hot in here?’

  Abandoning me for fried dough? That I believed.

  ‘How did you get in the house?’

  ‘Patricia let me in,’ he said.

  Evidently Patricia had a somewhat subjective no appointment, no entry policy. Dreary over-sixty insurance guys, no. Hot young detectives, yes. It was a sound policy.

  Searing held up the Magic Models MM magazine and the slightly stolen Tax File Number Declaration form belonging to Crystal Devine, AKA Bethany Victoria Bland.

  ‘Esmerelda very kindly gave me these before she left,’ he said.