Heiress On Fire

by Kellie McCourt

  I slipped in behind the desk, letting out a small yelp after walking into a backless, bottom-moulded, plastic seat on wheels. I guessed it was an examination stool. It had more legs than an octopus and each leg had a metal wheel attached. After hitting me it flew into the back wall behind the desk, ricocheted back and hit me again. Holding my shin, I cursed it in the dark and shoved it around the other side of the desk sending it flying across the office. It clanged and bounced in the gloom. I froze, expecting someone to rush in, alerted by the ruckus. I stood waiting, but nothing happened. I sat in front of the computer, careful not to hit anything else.

  I ran the light from the phone over the laptop. I found the ‘on’ button, pressed it and the screen sprang to life asking me, as I knew it would, for a password.

  Damn. Where was Esmerelda? How was I supposed to hack this thing? Although, I had guessed the keycode downstairs and there was nothing else to do … I started plugging in birthdays. Nothing. Platinum. Not this time. I entered my full name and the screen came to light. That gave me pause. At least I was one password. Ha, Sandra Banks!

  The second screen sprang to life and I clicked into his email icon, scrolled through his inbox. Eighteen opened messages, most from employees and colleagues. One reminder that his Rolex Submariner was due for a service. Two confirming flight and accommodation reservations for a surgical expedition departing the day after the fire.

  The email began updating and 184 new messages loaded. Boy, doctors sure liked emailing each other. What else was he into? Periodicals and medical publications. Surgical instruments. Pharmaceuticals. Model train clubs. Insurance. Share trading. He was such a convincing Bran Muffin.

  The date on the last opened message was the twenty-second. Our cocktail party had been on the twenty-first. There was no way he opened his email on the twenty-second. He was long gone by then.

  I wasn’t surprised. I knew something Bob the Builder didn’t know. Richard did not manage his own email, his PA Michelle Little did.

  There was no way a series of emails to and from Bob the Builder arranging the creation and purchase of explosives came in and out of Richard’s inbox without Michelle knowing about it. What I wanted to know was whether a series of emails arranging the creation and purchase of explosives came in and out of Richard’s inbox without Richard knowing about it.

  I searched my rapidly sobering mind: what was Bob the Builder’s real name? Sky-something. I hit the keys, s-k-y-l-a-r. Nothing. Maybe I was overthinking it. I plugged the word Bob into the email search engine. Nothing. Builder. Nothing. Rob, Robbie. Zip. What if Bob was a formal type of gangster? I plugged in Robert. No. Think, Indigo … So often the most convincing cons are hidden in plain sight, just like Grandmother’s Persian rug. I typed Mr Fix-It and up came a string of emails to and from mrfixit@mutant.org.au. They were in a folder labelled Online Learning—Fire Training which was inside another folder called Retired Colleagues, which was inside another folder called Staff Exit Interviews. No way Richard would have opened any of those.

  The Mutant Motorcycle Club was dot org? I knew being an organisation as opposed to a company gave them some tax exemptions. I fumed. These thugs gave philanthropically motivated tax minimisers a bad name. I bet their saved company taxes did not fund hospital wings or literacy programs. I digress.

  I read the emails. It appeared as if Richard had ordered multiple explosives from Bob the Builder. However, Richard’s spelling and syntax had, mysteriously, improved dramatically. Richard was extremely clever and had an exceptional visual memory, almost eidetic, but his grasp of, and care for, spelling conventions was limited and his sentence structure was questionable at best. The spelling in these emails was faultless and there was a lilting rhythm to the phrasing that Richard would never have bothered to craft.

  CHAPTER 33

  COCONUTS

  I was so absorbed tinkering with the emails I did not hear the office door close. There was a flash of light and I was blinded by the desk lamp.

  ‘Indigo, what a lovely surprise,’ said a smooth voice.

  When the white spots disappeared, I saw a compact blonde woman standing on the other side of the desk. Michelle Little. I was an escaping prisoner caught by the spotlight trying to climb the fence.

  ‘I was wondering where you went. I was looking for you at the, ah, cremation.’ She stifled a laugh.

  ‘Michelle,’ I finally said, trying to sound casual. ‘I’m surprised, equally, to find you here. I imagined you would still be memorialising … with your colleagues.’

  ‘Oh no. I’m all mourned out,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘And besides, they’re not really my colleagues anymore, are they? More like employees.’

  ‘Of course, the 5 per cent,’ I said begrudgingly. ‘It makes you a slight, slivery, part owner, I suppose.’

  Okay, so I was petty.

  She smiled tightly and patted her curled hair. ‘Yes. It does. What can I help you with?’ She leant over the desk towards me, and the computer.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, trying to think of a way to cover the screen or minimise the emails. I wasn’t fast enough. Neck craned, she spotted the emails to and from Bob.

  ‘Emails?’ she asked innocently. ‘May I ask what they’re regarding? Anything work related? Anything I should know about?’

  I could honestly say none of those emails were work related.

  ‘Do you usually look through Richard’s emails?’ I asked, answering her questions with a question. Grandmother would be proud.

  ‘Only the ones related to Sydney Plastics,’ she said, leaning back and stepping around the side of the desk.

  ‘What about the others that pop up? Do you just close your eyes and pretend not to see them?’

  ‘I just don’t open or read those ones,’ she said.

  ‘Like these ones?’ I pointed to the Mr Fix-It emails on the screen.

  She took a last step and stood beside my chair. She towered over me while I was seated. She read the emails on the screen.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said flatly. ‘Looks like Richard was up to no good. Ordering explosives.’

  I fiddled with the lift lever under Richard’s office chair and pulled myself up a few inches until we were almost eye to eye. ‘Richard would never have done such a thing,’ I steamed. ‘You know that.’

  I did not need to stand up, to stand up to her.

  ‘I think you’d be surprised at the things Richard did,’ she said, resting her bottom against the edge of the desk.

  She had no shame. And no fear. All I had was shame and fear. Fortunately, I had spent a lot of time around actors and I had learned a few things.

  ‘I think you, Michelle, would be surprised at the things I have done. I have had quite an adventure lately,’ I said smoothly. ‘I’ve met new people. Made new, and diverse, contacts.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, but she didn’t sound surprised. ‘I should’ve given you more credit Indigo. I’d heard whispers you were getting out and about, but I didn’t believe them.’

  She hiked herself further onto the desk and crossed her legs. Her black skirt rode up revealing cheap lace-top stockings that clung too tightly to her thighs.

  ‘I know it was you.’ I pointed to the screen. ‘You sent these emails to Bob the Builder.’

  ‘I sent an email to a children’s cartoon?’ she said, looking at me innocently.

  ‘Bob the Builder, Mr Fix-It from the Mutant motorcycle gang. You ordered those explosives.’

  A tiny tell-tale ripple of anxiety crossed her face. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know any cartoon Bobs.’

  She was a terrible actress. Worse than Searing. Worse than Mother even.

  ‘I think you do. I think you ordered those explosive devices from Bob the Builder, Mr Fix-It, and when Richard sent you up to the penthouse to photograph my newest handbag, you used the opportunity to plant them.’

  ‘That’s crazy. The strain has gotten to you Indigo,’ she said in mock concern.

  ‘And
,’ I said plugging on—while plugging the name Abby into the email search engine—‘I think you set poor Crystal up. And Dr Sam too.’

  I was on a roll.

  ‘Bob said it was Abby’s idea to send Crystal as Dr Sam’s “date” to the cocktail party. But Abby’s not the promotional giveaway type. So why did she suggest it?’

  Michelle’s smile became stiff.

  ‘You had access to Richard’s email. You set up all his appointments and surgeries, did all of his admin, you probably even organised his invoices. You must have known Abby from your many dealings with Magic Models, setting up surgeries for their employees.

  ‘You knew Abby was not above being bought. She was already being paid,’—not well enough to buy nice shoes, but still—‘by the Mutant Motorcycle Club to front Magic Models as its “owner”.’

  Bob had confirmed what Halle and Josephine already knew, that Magic Models was illegally owned by the Mutant Motorcycle Club and Abby was just a front.

  She swallowed and withdrew slightly from me. I felt like Miss Marple, Miss Fisher, Mrs Fletcher. It was fantastic.

  ‘Crystal was a sex worker, living in the shadows of acceptable society. She had motive; her sister was supposedly killed by Richard. She had criminal affiliations; her sister was dating Bob. And she worked at Magic Models, owned by the Mutants; thugs, criminals.’ I sucked in air and organised my thoughts quickly.

  ‘You paid or persuaded Abby to send Crystal along to the cocktail party as Dr Sam’s date, thinking Crystal would immediately be blamed afterwards for the bombings. You had never met Dr Sam. Just like Bob, you and Abby assumed Dr Sam Bruce was a man.’

  Sexists.

  ‘Abby did just as you asked, suggesting to Bob that Crystal go as Dr Sam’s “date”. Bob fell for it, sent Crystal and Abby double-crossed him. She sent Crystal in for you. To be your fall woman.’ I gave her a sarcastic smirk. ‘As it turned out you didn’t even need Crystal! Thanks to me’—and Diane von Neuvo—‘the police already had a suspect.’

  ‘Really?’ she returned with equal sarcasm, cocking her head.

  ‘You were going to set those bombs off with almost a dozen people in the building! You could have killed everyone: the Whites, Dr Sam, Crystal, the serving staff. You didn’t even know them! Just so you could get a measly 5 per cent of Sydney Plastics. You got lucky when the fire I accidentally started activated and then masked your planned explosions. And even luckier when I became the prime suspect.’

  There. I had finally untangled the thoughts in my mind. The only question remaining was why Dr Sam said nothing about receiving an escort to her new boss’s cocktail party. I guess I would have to wait until she woke up, if she woke up, to ask her that. Nonetheless I felt incredibly relieved.

  Michelle laughed a deranged laugh. I shot her my best death stare and scanned the desk for possible weapons. She wiped tears of merriment away and tried to compose herself.

  ‘You certainly have been busy! I can’t believe you really went undercover as a hooker at Magic Models to find out about Crystal! I’m so impressed Indigo! What I don’t know is how you knew about Bob? And how you found him! I know Abby didn’t tell you anything.’

  ‘Sex worker,’ I said. ‘They prefer the term sex worker. And how I found Bob is none of your business.’

  The screen dinged and an explosion of archived emails appeared from manager@magicmodels.com.au. I quickly scanned them. Crystal and Debbie, along with dozens of others, had been Sydney Plastics clients via Magic Models. Michelle and Abby were either the author or the recipient of every email.

  She glanced at the screen, her cackles slowing. ‘Dear Indigo! You’re the little heiress who could, aren’t you? You’re so close! It’s killing me, I just have to tell you. I didn’t set off the explosives, you did! And I wasn’t trying to kill Richard. I was trying to kill you. You pain in the ass.’

  Her arms were open, her eyes, breathing and voice were steady and she had stopped touching her face. She was telling the truth.

  My throat began to close. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You! It was always you Indigo! My pet!’

  She was barely holding it together, tears sliding down her face again.

  ‘You’re right about a lot of it though. I pretended to be Richard using his email address and got the idiot-proof bombs from Bob the Builder, Mr Fix-It. And you’re right, I planted them when I was sent to photograph yet another $10,000 handbag,’ she spat.

  To clarify, my last handbag purchase was only $3280.

  ‘God, you and the bloody handbags and shoes! I mean, could you be more vapid? You’re a joke.’

  She caught her breath and became serious.

  ‘I was very thorough, one bomb in every room. Bedroom, bathroom, powder room, kitchen. I hid them in the cupboards. I figured you’d never look in your own cupboards. And I was right. You didn’t!’

  I felt sick. Very, very sick. I was being shopping-shamed over shoes and handbags, and domestically-shamed over cupboards. I looked in my cupboards!

  ‘I did bribe Abby to get Crystal in. I knew she’d be the prime suspect when the bombs went off—’ she paused for effect ‘—at 10 am the next day.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she smiled. ‘By then Richard would have been long gone. Above suspicion. Forty thousand feet in the air, sipping Champagne with me in first class, on our way to fix cleft palate kiddies in Manila. The perfect alibi. The only person supposed to be in that penthouse was you. You, Indigo-Daisy-Violet-Amber Hasluck-Royce-Jones-Bombberg!’

  She spat my names out.

  ‘With you out of the way a broken-hearted Richard would have been an easy catch. Trite I know, man seduced by his beautiful, blonde PA after his wife’s tragic death, but then I suppose things become stereotypes for a reason.’ She patted her Olaplex-assisted curls.

  ‘I thought for sure Crystal would’ve copped the blame. I mean, prostitute with gang ties, crazed with grief over twin sister’s botched surgery death, cocks-up doctor’s revenge murder and accidentally kills his heiress wife instead. You can’t make that crap up.’

  ‘Sex worker,’ I said again. ‘They prefer the term sex worker. What about Richard’s affair with Sandra Banks? Surely you knew.’

  She wiped a tear from her eye. ‘Sandra’s an idiot. She’s been having it off with Coop for years. But last year she got pregnant and the shit hit the fan. He cut her off. So, when Richard got blown up, she figured there was none of his DNA left, no samples, he had no family, you two had no kids, so why not make him the father? Stupid girl, she didn’t see or hear his mother bawling at the funeral?’

  She shook her head in disgust.

  Wait. I had forgotten that I was not the only one who knew Richard was an orphan. What did other people think of his newly resurrected family? She saw my expression of concern in the lamp spotlight.

  ‘Don’t worry, I put it about at the wake Richard was adopted and she was his long-lost birth mother.

  ‘His family turning up was the least exciting thing at that shit fight. Thanks to you, Indigo. You really are the Heiress on Fire.’

  I hated this woman. She gave blondes and personal assistants a bad name. To think she been plotting my death while on Richard’s payroll … wait.

  ‘If you were setting Crystal up, why did you use Richard’s email to order the explosives?’

  She flicked me an exasperated look. ‘I’m an executive assistant, not a Hells Angel. How else would I get my hands on readymade explosives?’ She laughed. ‘Turns out bombs made by bikers aren’t all that stable. Go figure! I guess once the fire reached the first one it just went off. And that set the others off. So really you set the bombs off Indigo. You almost killed a room full of people. After all, you started the fire.’ She wasn’t laughing now. ‘You killed Richard.’

  I was not going down that path again. I had felt needlessly guilty long enough over Richard and Crystal’s deaths. Okay, the many candles, oil diffusers and bar carts were poor interior design choices, bu
t they were not premeditated homicidal choices. That honour went exclusively to the woman before me.

  I shed the remaining guilt faster than last season’s coat.

  I was in a time crunch; take-off at Kingsford Smith, Sydney’s international airport, was severely restricted after midnight. I was not waiting another day in this mud puddle. I was destined for clear waters.

  ‘No way,’ I said. ‘If you had not planted explosive devices all over my home, there would have been no explosions. An embarrassing house fire yes, but nothing more. Richard would be alive. Crystal would be alive. And my life would not be a disaster area.’

  The smile came back. ‘Oh, but that’s the sweetest part Indigo! The police blamed you! What an unexpected silver lining.’

  I ignored her and kept pressing keyboard buttons, desperately hoping I was correctly forwarding emails. Where the hell was Esmerelda? Fecking Corey McKaine.

  ‘The emails will prove you have a relationship with Abby, Magic Models, Bob the Builder, the Mutant gang,’ I said pointing confidently to the computer. ‘The police will be very …’

  Michelle produced a capped syringe from between her breasts.

  ‘There’ll be no more typing, or talking, for you Indigo.’ She pulled the cap off. ‘You’re feeling suicidal.’

  ‘Seriously?’ I said disappointed. ‘A syringe in the cleavage? The doctor’s wife suicides from an overdose? You couldn’t be more creative?’

  I thought she had a syringe full of Botox. How prepared could she have been? There was no way she knew I was coming. Then again, she was exceptionally efficient. Richard always said so. And fast. He said she was very fast. I peered at her hands in the shadows. They were the wrong texture. A bolt of fear ran through me: she was wearing surgical gloves. She had been wearing them the whole time. There was something other than Botox in that syringe. She was dull and uncreative, but not stupid.