Heiress On Fire

by Kellie McCourt

  ‘That’s $15k!’ Esmerelda shouted.

  How many trains did I have? Hundreds? Thousands? Was that why Dennis Bayton was being so cagey about them? What was 100 times $15,000? What was 1000 times $15,000?

  ‘A thousand trains would be $15 million,’ Esmerelda’s voice said. And a bedroom door somewhere closed very, very sternly.

  Patricia went pale.

  I could see Mother plotting ways to have the train made into a chunky bohemian ring, maybe even a citrine necklace.

  I was wondering where in hell Esmerelda lived. Did she live here with Mother? Did she ever go home? Had she ever gone home? Or was she just too tired to go all the way home only to come all the way back in a few hours for the funeral today?

  I was also wondering what the heck my dead husband had been up to. Maybe this was how he was paid for his side job of criminal mastermind makeovers? No offshore bank accounts required, he was paid in platinum trains. No wonder he loved them so much. And to think, Searing had been in the kitchen with the proceeds of what I was guessing was a pretty serious crime staring at him from the pantry. Worse than that, they had been under my nose the whole time! Snaking around Richard’s walk-in robe. And he was worried about insuring the handbags in my closet! To think he had Michelle Little in our home photographing every new Fendi clutch or Chanel handbag I brought home and missing the millions in platinum trains he had in his closet!

  Jed handed the train back to me. ‘Well, I definitely can’t keep it now.’

  Oops. Seeing the banged-up train reminded me that not only had I borrowed Jed’s car, I had sort of taken off its front fender.

  I thought about it. Replacing the front fender of the Bentley a few months ago had cost me—and when I say me I mean Richard—$20,000. Fifteen thousand seemed fair for the fender of a Toyota-something.

  ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘You’re going to need to keep that. I think someone might have accidentally scratched your car. So sorry.’

  He looked a little startled.

  ‘In fact, take two,’ I said, pointing to the pantry and backing out of the room. ‘So sorry. I have to go. I need to lie down.’

  Silver lining. I no longer needed to decide what type of basket to send him. He had $30k in platinum; a dozen banana-pecan Texas muffins to the fire station and we would be done. Tick. Another item on the list down.

  CHAPTER 26

  THE CROWN JEWELS

  I slept the moment my head hit the pillow. Undercover criminal mastermind husband or no, I was exhausted. I could not get through this funeral and on that plane fast enough. The Phi Phi Islands were all white sand and warm blue waters. And best of all, they were isolated.

  ‘Do you think we should get some train guards?’ asked Esmerelda the next morning over a late breakfast. She was onto her second peach and basil pancake. She baulked at the flavour combination at first, but I was going to drag her kicking (preferably wearing a pair of Manolo Blahniks) and screaming into the culinary present.

  ‘Why?’ I asked. I was not allowed on public transport. Apparently I was a security risk. I had never considered getting my own train guards.

  ‘Like, you know, for the trains,’ she said, and nodded her head towards the pool house.

  Oh, right. Train guards. The majority of the tubs filled to the top with slightly melted platinum trains were still stacked in the pool house dining room.

  I had some ideas about what I was going to do with those irksome little models.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘But get Gwen Hart to give me a call, would you. We went to SILC together. I am sure you can find her contact details.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Esmerelda licking syrup from her fingers and pressing rapidly into her phone.

  Franny arrived to prepare me for Richard’s funeral a short time later. Her air-conditioning had been fixed. And she had news from my MIA BF Anna Del Rico. Anna had finally received my distressed message from her sloth-like supply delivery boat. To her credit Anna had abandoned her honeymoon island, come out of hiding (from her own family) and was currently winging her way back to Sydney in a borrowed jet.

  ‘Is she still married?’ I asked Franny.

  Franny shrugged and smiled. Anna might have been a terrible long-term wife and a problematic daughter, but she sure knew how to choose the plumpest cupcakes.

  I pondered this while Fanny moved on to my hair.

  She was mid curl when an armed delivery from Cartier arrived. Along with the Sydney store manager. It was my engagement ring. And about time too.

  It may only have been an homage of Princess Grace’s ring but I always felt a connection to her when I wore it. It was an immaculate copy. Each stone was identical carat, cut and clarity. Even our ring fingers were the same size.

  But when I put it on, something didn’t feel right.

  I looked up at the Cartier manager.

  ‘It is different,’ I said. ‘It feels different.’

  ‘Well, it’s clean Mrs Jones-Bombberg,’ he said in a tone I thought was a little condescending. ‘And reset.’

  ‘No.’ I eyed the ring on my finger. ‘That is not it.’

  ‘It’s the same,’ he said smiling. ‘Just cleaned. And reset.’

  I took the ring off. Something about it was not right.

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘You did something to it,’ I said accusingly.

  ‘No,’ he said innocently.

  Esmerelda, who had been busy on her iPhone either plotting the downfall of the justice system or checking the skateboarding conditions at Bondi, shifted her gaze to him.

  She was scary when she put her mind to it. Her torn jeans and various piercings quickly turned from hipster chic to menacing criminal. Even Franny slowed her curling to peer at Mr Cartier.

  He was beginning to look a little uncomfortable.

  ‘Well,’ he said lightly, ‘we examined it. Just a little.’

  I knew something was different. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, to be frank, I can’t tell you why,’ he said, less condescending, more slightly apologetic.

  ‘Why not?’ I demanded.

  ‘Well, I just can’t,’ he said.

  ‘Dude, if you want to sound less guilty you’ve gotta stop saying “well”,’ said Esmerelda helpfully.

  Crime 101.

  ‘Well, that’s very helpful,’ he said before realising his mistake.

  We all stared. ‘So?’ I prompted him.

  ‘Nothing to tell,’ said the Cartier man very deliberately, with a new, sudden interest in his shoes. They were very nice shoes. Louis Vuitton loafers.

  Esmerelda’s interest was also suddenly piqued. She crossed the room to take a closer look at the ring on my finger. ‘Totally real,’ she said, eyeing the diamonds.

  I snatched my hand away from her face.

  ‘Of course!’ I was insulted. Josephine wasn’t the only person who could tell cut, clarity and colour from across the room. Let alone real versus synthesised. Honestly. Who did she think I was? One of the Ecclestone kids? Come to think of it, those girls could probably spot a fake diamond at fifty paces.

  ‘But it’s a knock-off, right?’ she said to Mr Cartier.

  ‘Certainly not,’ he said defensively. ‘It is a replica of Her Royal Highness Princess Grace of Monaco’s engagement ring, which Cartier made in 1955 for Prince Rainier III of Monaco. We custom made an identical ring for Dr Bombberg two years ago in preparation for his proposal to Miss Hasluck-Royce-Jones. He subsequently gave it to her to as an engagement ring.’

  A vital part of my stomach sank. Richard had given me the ring three years ago. Because we had such a whirlwind romance, we kept news of the engagement away from the press for the first twelve months. I did not want to face the embarrassment of publicly recanting another engagement.

  Perhaps he had given me a synthesised diamond because of the impromptu proposal? It was unexpected. And hasty. Perhaps then a year later he replaced … Who was I kidding? I did not even believe that story.

  Esmerelda was still talking.
>
  ‘She’s dead, right? The princess chick.’

  Mr Cartier nodded, mortified.

  ‘So, like, has the real princess’s ring ever been on display?’

  ‘Well. Yes,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Museums, galleries, shopping centres, stuff like that?’

  ‘We haven’t put Her Royal Highness’s engagement ring out for viewing in strip malls, but yes, at select exhibitions.’

  She smiled at him from the corner of her mouth.

  ‘A lot?’ she said.

  ‘Well, not a lot, no. But yes, Prince Albert has been very generous in loaning it to Cartier for various exhibitions over the years.’

  Her hackles went down and she raised her eyebrows at him. ‘I get it.’

  Well I was glad someone got it, because I did not get it. I patted the seat on my right (Franny was finishing my hair on the left) motioning Esmerelda to sit. She incredibly reluctantly sat beside me. Honestly, I was an heiress. Everyone knows heiresses do not have cooties.

  ‘What?’ I whispered as discreetly as I could to her.

  ‘Dude,’ she said, shaking her head at me in pity. ‘The original’s like, it’s been on display a lot, probably like since the seventies or eighties when security was like, low-tech. Like low low-tech.’

  Blank. I did not get it.

  She tried again, continuing her half whisper: ‘Probably, it’s totally been knocked off, like at least once, and replaced with a replica. A fake. Like real diamonds and everything, but not the original princess’s ring. So like, they were just checking to make sure your one wasn’t the real deal. Like the real original princess one, real deal.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘Honestly Esmerelda! The whole world is crooked according to you!’

  I looked up at Mr Cartier for reassurance but found his interest in his shoes had moved to interest in his watch. It was a very nice watch; a Cartier.

  ‘Is that true?’ I said to him.

  Without looking directly at me he said: ‘The ring still belongs to the royal family of Monaco. Any time it is on display at Cartier we are simply borrowing it from His Royal Highness. No security breaches have ever occurred,’ and he gained further interests in the buttons on his jacket. It was a very nice jacket.

  ‘Breaches?’ I emphasised the plural. ‘This has happened more than once?’

  ‘Well, no,’ he said nodding his head yes. He corrected himself and began shaking his head no. He rolled his eyes in defeat. ‘Regardless, I can assure you that—’ he pointed ‘—really is your—’ he pointed again ‘—ring.’

  Esmerelda examined him closely, hackles at half-mast. ‘I think he’s telling the truth.’

  ‘I am,’ he said, nodding vigorously. ‘Your family’s custom is, frankly, larger than that of the royal family. We would not, ah, damage that relationship.’

  Esmerelda eyeballed me. ‘You spend more at Cartier than the royal family?’

  ‘The royal family of Monaco,’ I corrected. ‘It is only a tiny little kingdom. And it is not just me he’s referring to, it is the whole Hasluck-Royce family. Mother too.’

  Mr Cartier nodded in agreement.

  ‘Dude,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps the ring feels different for another reason?’ Mr Cartier suggested.

  I looked at the ring on my finger. This ring was not the ring my Richard first gave me three years ago. Mr Cartier had just unwittingly confirmed that. That first ring came from a man I thought of as kind, sweet and innocuous. A man I could not imagine anyone wanting to kill.

  This ring, the ring made by Cartier just two years ago, which must have been sneakily swapped for my original ring, goodness knows when, felt like it was from the deceitful Richard, the Richard any number of people might want to kill.

  Was it the sister of a butchered sex worker?

  Was it a member of a biker gang?

  Was it someone involved with international organised crime?

  Was it the recipient of a bungled budget plastic surgery performed by a GP in a random office somewhere? A dodgy Sydney Plastics ‘subsidiary’.

  Or did it have something to do with the odd bank, the leprechaun banker or the platinum trains?

  For all I knew it was a member of his own undead family.

  The ring was different. It was from a Richard I did not know. A stranger, I realised, I no longer even grieved for. In fact not only did I no longer feel guilt or sadness over Richard’s death. I was, for lack of a better turn of phrase, extremely peeved. I felt like I was on the edge of boiling in overwhelming anger. He was a liar and a fake. I’d turned down Ryan Gosling for goodness sake! I had wasted my life!

  I flicked my eyes to Mr Cartier. ‘Are you still here?’ I said shortly.

  ‘No,’ he said, backing out of the room. ‘I absolutely am not.’

  I took the ring off my finger, grabbed Esmerelda’s open hand and plunked it, and my wedding band, in it. ‘Here. Consider this a bonus.’

  Without a trace of sentimentality or a word of thanks she stuck them into her jeans pocket.

  ‘Any change to Dr Sam’s condition? Do you know?’

  Esmerelda tapped her magic phone for an answer, then shook her head.

  Worth a shot.

  ‘Are you done?’ I said to Franny.

  She stepped back to get a more holistic look, adjusted a strand of hair that had strayed onto my cheek and then nodded yes.

  ‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘Me too.’

  CHAPTER 27

  THE FUNERAL

  Despite the fact that Richard’s remains were somewhat limited, there was a full-blown funeral parade into the city. My limousine. Mother’s limousine. Grandmother’s limousine. The Four Seasons limousine housing Richard’s family. The PM’s limousine. The premier Jason Tripp’s black state car (I noted it followed Mother’s limousine very closely). The limousines of the many CEOs and CFOs and other COs from the Hasluck-Royce empire. Even Michelle Little had apparently commandeered an older model stretch for the Sydney Plastics staff.

  The parade of long black limousines was broken up by a few stretched gold Hummers housing some of Richard’s rock star clients (who publicly claimed to be ‘just friends’). After a few years or decades of debauchery almost all went into international aid of some kind. Richard did do a lot of free or celebrity-sponsored surgeries for poor, poor kids. Mainly in Asia. I blame Bono. For the rocker and celebrity-aid thing, not the kids.

  Mortified by the thought of Esmerelda arriving, or rather breaking down, in her abominable vehicle I commandeered her to ride with me. Her wardrobe of black jeans and black T-shirts finally had some flicker of appropriateness.

  Jason Tripp could have saved his time tailgating Mother. Her limousine was occupied only by Patricia and a kale salad. Mother sat opposite me, completely still behind a pair of dark, round sunglasses. Even after fireman Jed’s vehicle had been returned to him in the small hours of the morning he had not immediately left the house. I had no doubt she was asleep behind her shades. So, she had entertained a fireman. It was the fantasy of many women, and she had been unattached, although not alone, for years. I was beginning to think she was a relationship savant as well as a height savant.

  I noticed a string of black Mercedes convertibles chock-full of very attractive, long-haired, long-limbed young ladies. It looked like the group that might come out for Mother’s funeral. If she had died twenty years ago. Richard might not be leaving a good-looking corpse, à la James Dean, but a lot of good-looking people had arrived to say goodbye to him.

  We were also receiving a rather unsubtle police escort from Detectives Burns and Searing.

  Esmerelda really was an organisational genius. She had somehow persuaded Bishop Healing to turn an hour-long, Catholic funeral service into a twenty-minute ‘spiritual-based’ goodbye. I am quite sure she could have had him perform it at the funeral home alongside the faux cremation, but Richard’s mother wanted a Catholic church service. Richard, apparently, was not non-denominational, he was Catholic. Surprise! S
he was apparently expecting a Catholic church service, so out of deference to her—and let’s face it, I had escaped a mother-in-law for my entire relationship and marriage, so I was still ahead—we had a mini church service in a maxi church location. I felt quite certain it was the shortest church service ever performed at St Mary’s Cathedral.

  To his credit Richard filled the 2500 seat capacity of the cathedral. True, 2300 of those people came to see the supermodel, the heiress and the world’s number one female tycoon mogul (Grandmother). But, thanks to Richard they also got to see a few dozen very beautiful models, nine local soap opera stars, seven musical legends, ranging from rap to rock to a violinist from the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra, three Golden Globe winners, two Academy Award winners (one best actress, one sound) and even a Kardashian. Or was it a Jenner?

  The additional fashion icons, politicians and business leaders were all there out of obligation to Mother and Grandmother. Although the prime minister and Grandmother had a long-running melee. There was no love lost there, so his appearance was probably more out of PR than actual respect.

  St Mary’s Cathedral was a majestic, honey-coloured stone icon. Esmerelda was not impressed. ‘Dude, they’re all the same. Big, brown and pointy.’

  Who knew she was so well-travelled? Or perhaps her knowledge of Christian architecture came from watching Four Weddings and a Funeral?

  I countered that the English-style Gothic Revival building was 100 years old and guessed, but said with grave authority, it was Australia’s largest cathedral.

  She remained unimpressed.

  I was not going to press her because, frankly, I just did not care that much. She had also persuaded the bishop that I was too distraught to speak, which saved me from lying to 2500 people about what a national treasure my husband was, so she was really in my good graces.

  I had no sooner exited the limousine than I found myself face to face with Detective Burns. Esmerelda was still inside trying to revive my mother who seemed to be in some kind of fireman sex coma. A crowd of reporters lined the low stone boundary wall of the cathedral, cameras no doubt rolling, smartphones clicking, ears and microphones on high alert for any off-the-record comments they could print, post or pimp.