Murder Most Fancy, page 18
I was too frightened to turn and confirm her presence. This problem was quickly resolved when she pulled up a stool from a nearby table and sat down next to me. Burns’s already frizzy red hair was alive and escaping its braids in the humid sea air. It was hairdryer-in-an-electric-socket frazzled. Burns was dressed in a pair of too faded, wrinkled jeans, a wrinkled denim shirt and, if I had to guess, I would say her socks were wrinkled too. I was yet to see her in anything ironed. Sadly, she had a penchant for linen and cotton. Whatever Burns lacked in coiffure, stature, poise and polish, she made up for in sheer frighteningness.
Luckily, Burns had more interest in Bailly than she did in me.
‘You doing a second autopsy, Bailly?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what in hell are you two doing here?’ Burns challenged. Luck was such a fickle thing. I noticed the waitstaff did not come running to serve her.
‘We were just out getting breakfast and we ran into Dr Bailly,’ I said, tearing the end off a brioche twist stuffed with raspberry jam and topped with a honeyed glaze, and using it to plug my verbal flood.
‘Uh-huh,’ Esmerelda agreed, making blatantly false eye contact with Burns. ‘Like a total accident.’
‘Where oh where have I heard that excuse before?’ Burns sarcastically pondered, catching a fleeing waitress. ‘Long black. No milk. No sugar. Strong.’
‘Shocker,’ the waitress said under her breath.
‘What are you doing here?’ I brazenly shot back. OMG! Mouth, stop talking!
Burns eyeballed me. ‘Bailly tagged Searing. Searing tagged me. Happy, princess?’
‘Uh-huh,’ I nodded, vigorously shovelling brioche and praying I had an off button.
‘There’s little more to say at this stage,’ Dr Bailly said, getting to her feet. ‘UP Greenacre 0101 West was middle-aged and south-east Asian. There is still much to do in the new autopsy. I have ordered tests. Many more tests.’ Her hands began to flutter.
I needed to shove Bailly out before she said something about Max Weller aka UP Rose Bay 0909 Winters.
‘We really appreciate the coroner approving our new autopsy request,’ Searing said, standing to shake hands with Bailly. ‘You’re for sure the best forensic path for the job.’
‘Hmm,’ Bailly said, her hand fluttering going up a notch. ‘Yes, the coroner.’
‘So, should I call him in a few days for an update?’ Searing asked.
‘Hmm,’ Bailly said, adding some rapid blinking to her fluttering.
I really needed to confirm I could bail Bailly out after all of this. I looked to Esmerelda.
‘Yeah, yeah, all good,’ Esmerelda said, patting her phone and eyeing off the remaining baked goods. ‘Don’t stress.’
I pushed the plate with the croissant on it over to her.
‘You don’t need to call! Friends don’t always have to call, remember?’ I chirped to Searing, accidentally purposely patting him on the arm. ‘This is such a lovely spot! Why not meet back here in a few days? It’s surely better than an office? Breakfast Danish, bear claws, excellent coffee—’
‘Skeletal remains,’ Burns piped up with a measured blend of lifelessness and sarcasm as she eyed a thin couple two tables over clad in the barest of bathers, sipping something green I could almost certainly guarantee had kale in it.
‘Awesome cloud break,’ Esmerelda said, nodding towards the beach and biting into the croissant.
‘Yes. It is also an exceptional location for ichthyology,’ Bailly added.
‘All good things,’ I powered on, having no idea what cloud breaks or ichthyology were.
Searing was staring at my hand on his bicep. It was like putting your hand on a hot, hot surface. My skin stuck to it. It was not easy but I peeled it off.
Searing coughed, drank the rest of his chai latte and then nodded in agreement. ‘Okay. Bailly, we’ll meet you here again, say 7 am Sunday?’
‘Yes. No need to call the coroner. 7 am Sunday,’ Bailly said. She mentally calculated something. ‘Yes. Sunday should suffice. I’m going to work now.’ And she walked away without saying goodbye. Searing being Searing went after her with an offer to escort her to her car. It seemed like something a friend would do.
The second they were out of earshot, Burns turned on me.
‘Listen, princess, you need to stay the hell away from him. You’ve derailed his career enough. I’ve not enjoyed being busted down to cold case with him on your behalf. And I don’t like my partner keeping secrets from me. Especially when those secrets get us in the shit with the AFP.’ She poked a finger at me for emphasis. ‘I’ll stick with him ’cause he’s a good cop, a fucking good detective and generally a nice guy, and I think this will blow over, but if you think you’re going to waltz back into town and drag him down again, I’ve got news for you and it’s not good.’
‘I’ve got news too, Burns,’ Esmerelda growled. ‘And it’s not good for you either if you keep talking with your hands.’
Watching Burns and Esmerelda size each other up was scary. Burns might have carried a gun but Esmerelda had grit and was willing to fight dirty. It would be messy but my money was on Esmerelda.
‘I gave Searing the USB,’ I blurted.
‘Well, that’s not news,’ Burns said, unimpressed. ‘The whole fucking world knows that.’ She waved down another waitress. ‘My coffee?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ the waitress responded, immediately redirecting herself to the barista.
‘Another couple bear claws?’ Esmerelda called hopefully after her.
‘Searing said he didn’t share that information with anyone!’ I gaped at Burns. And to Esmerelda, ‘More? Really?’
‘What? I’m gonna need my strength.’ And she eyed Burns. ‘You know.’
‘He didn’t tell a soul,’ Burns said, ignoring Esmerelda. ‘The man’s pure Boy Scout. Always has been. But it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that USB came from your camp. It’s obviously the work of your whacked-out, mobbed-up dead doctor hubby.’ She paused to take her coffee from the terrified waitress. When the waitress was out of earshot, she started again. ‘I know. And Searing knows I know. But he hasn’t outright told me. So, I don’t know, know.’
‘So, you know?’ I said slowly.
‘Yeah, but he didn’t tell me. So that shits me. Then you turn up at another crime scene. Now you’re at this meet. It’s like drama’s attracted to you.’
I was crestfallen. Mainly because Burns was right: drama did tend to follow me around. But no one had ever said it to me directly before. Out loud. Then again, I was ludicrously rich, so that probably took care of a lot of it.
‘Searing told me being moved to cold case was not related to protecting his,’ I leaned into her and whispered, ‘CI.’
‘Sure,’ Burns said, rolling her eyes so far back they had a quick dip in the ocean. ‘Withholding the name of your CI from the feds is wonderful for your career trajectory.’
‘They for sure know it’s her?’ Esmerelda chimed.
‘What do you think?’ sniped Burns.
‘Don’t get friggin’ crabby with me, Burns. One day, I won’t be on parole.’
‘Look forward to it,’ Burns said, taking a long sip of her bitter coffee. ‘It’d be a fucking miracle, Esmerelda, but I do look forward to it.’
‘Perhaps your career trajectory has been impacted by your language,’ I suggested unhelpfully.
I’m almost certain Burns growled at me. This act was tempered by her drinking her coffee in large gulps. You could see it soothing her addicted nerve cells.
Was she right? Was I bad for Searing? Wait. I was an Heiress. He was a civil servant. It simply wasn’t possible he was out of my league. Or was it? Searing was so startlingly attractive, he made Jason Momoa look homely. I reconsidered. No. I was too rich. It was not possible.
‘You’re thinkin’ about that Aquaman dude, aren’t cha?’
‘No!’ I retorted, rearranging the expression on my face.
Burns finished her coffee and stood. ‘Stay away,’ she rumbled.
‘I have no intention of injuring Searing.’ That was true. ‘I have no illicit intentions towards him at all.’ That was utterly untrue.
It was all I could do to keep my hands off him. The attraction was palpable. Visceral. He was gorgeous, beyond delectable. The truth was I did not know how to stay away from him. I tried. But my brain kept going back to him. Hearing that he was a trustworthy, reliable Boy Scout who had stalled his career to protect me did not help. I wanted him more than ever.
Another truth was this: I was accustomed to getting what I wanted.
‘If you care about him, leave him alone.’ And with that, Burns stalked off.
‘You gonna stay away from him?’ Esmerelda asked me.
‘Not a chance in hell,’ I said and ate his bear claw.
Searing didn’t make it back to the table, so he didn’t miss the bear claw. He was ambushed by Burns, who herded him into a car Esmerelda assured me was police-issue. Burns was so annoyed with me she didn’t investigate my connection to Bailly. She assumed I had been there to see Searing. I decided not to peer into that particular gift horse’s mouth.
I was in a sugar coma by the time we pulled into Mother’s garage. For the next nine hours I slept (on a mattress that cost almost as much as the Lexus).
I woke feeling some light guilt about possibly ruining Searing’s career and having eaten my body weight in baked goods for breakfast, so I did an impromptu night session with my flexible and highly motivated trainer, Robyn. She added some intense kicking and punching to the mix. Nothing alleviated guilt like physical violence against inanimate objects.
I woke early at 10.15 am to a furious Patricia. She was so angry she’d forgotten breakfast. A cup of tea—not a pot, but a cup—with a string in it and four barely browned crumpets did not count as breakfast. By the time Esmerelda had hunted me down there would be nothing on the plate but jam, crumbs and a suspicious ring of damp melted butter.
‘I thought Esmerelda was taking care of the whole Dylan Moss harassment thing?’
‘Obviously not,’ Patricia said, placing the plate and mug on the bedside table. She was distracted. If Patricia didn’t lure me out of bed by placing my breakfast tray out of reach, I might never get up.
‘Where is she?’ I glanced around.
‘Beats me,’ Patricia said, fluffing my pillows while I was still using them. Perhaps this was a new strategy. If I didn’t get out of bed soon, I would become a part of it. I slipped out of the other side when she started pulling the sheets up.
Then the hallway started ringing.
Patricia and I both cocked our heads in the direction of the bedroom door.
‘I thought you removed all the phones down here?’ she said.
‘I did.’ When I said I, I meant someone else did because I told them to.
The hallway rang again.
‘Is that …?’
‘Yeah, the hallway is ringing. I think it’s coming from the hall table.’
I pulled my robe up over my shoulders and tiptoed to the door. The hall table was a four-legged Italian Rococo topped with a D-shaped golden veined marble top. Alarmingly, the small, delicately carved wooden drawers had been attacked by Mother during one of her craft phases. Drawer number one featured a translucent grid of pink hearts on a pale aqua background, the middle drawer was pinstriped pink and gold, and the final drawer featured pink gerberas on a background of impossibly green baby’s breath. The table was always topped with an exquisite fresh floral arrangement and today was no exception. A large square, glossy-green ceramic pot sat atop. A massive spray of pink roses rang out like an oversized bridal centrepiece. Come to think of it, it lacked the emblematic elegance of a Tom Trainer, florist to the stars (Mother being one of the stars), composition.
The ceramic pot vibrated.
Patricia and I stalked the table, circling it like urban jaguars.
‘Is it …?’ I asked.
‘Yeah. The flowers are ringing.’
‘That’s not a usual occurrence. Is it?’
Technology moved so quickly and fads were so odd that ringing flower arrangements could be a new phase I had simply missed. Grown adults had chased imaginary Pokémon through people’s weddings. How were ringing flowers different?
Patricia shook her head and gave me a derisive stare. I was going to take that as a negative.
I put my hand in the pot and felt around. Sitting above the floral foam was a ringing phone. In retrospect, I should not have answered it. It could have been a bomb. It could have been sprayed with a virus with no known vaccine. It could have been a telemarketer selling insurance. Or the taxation department.
It was worse.
‘Hello?’ I said naively into the handset.
‘Indie!’ Dylan Moss smiled enthusiastically at me through the phone. ‘You got my roses! I’ve booked us a table for lunch at La Cotta. The risotto is incredible. You’ve had it, I’m sure. It’s five minutes from you. I’ll pick you up at twelve. I remember you like to eat early. See you then.’
I blinked, stunned.
‘Telemarketers?’ Patricia asked me. ‘Solar panels?’
I shook my head.
She inhaled sharply. ‘The ATO?’
I shook my head again and placed the phone back on the florist’s foam inside the arrangement in horrified silence.
I watched Patricia’s gears crank over. Finally, her eyes narrowed and she said through gritted teeth, ‘That sneaky little SOB!’
‘How good is the risotto at La Cotta?’ I asked, searching for a silver lining.
She peered quizzically at me. ‘Are you kidding? I wouldn’t know. We only get food from places without stoves. Or tastebuds. If I did know, and I don’t, I would say it was amazing. As well it should be at fifty bucks a pop. But not amazing enough to eat while sitting next to a snake.’
She was right. Dylan was a snake. However, Patricia was clearly at the end of her tether, Esmerelda had not followed through on her promise and Dylan was exceptionally persistent. I had no idea why he had such a sudden, overwhelming interest in me, but I needed to put an end to it. I did not want to be responsible for Mother’s staff losing their minds from harassment. And I couldn’t take another day of tea in a cup with a tea bag or jam and butter crumpets in bed. I had standards.
It would take Franny at least two hours to do hair and make-up. I knew from harried experience I could get the bare minimum done in an hour.
‘Have Esmerelda call Franny,’ I said to Patricia, heading back into my bedroom.
‘I don’t know where Esmerelda is,’ Patricia said, standing hands on hips.
‘Then you call Franny.’
I ate half a crumpet and drank a third of the tea before I made it to the shower. I was a hungry waker. If my eyes were open for business, so was my stomach. By the time I got out of the shower, Franny was waiting. She gave me the Sicilian eye and told me she had only packed brushes, not magic wands. There was no time for full hair and make-up, so we went with my non-negotiable bare-minimum make-up, which was black liquid and pencil eyeliner, and lengthening black mascara. There was no time to properly iron or curl my too-thick wavy locks, so they were smoothed instead. The result was Italian peasant woman crossed with green-eyed racoon.
Not wanting to encourage Dylan, I chose a non-sexy, light and flouncy full-length floral Nicolas Ghesquière skirt and a high-necked, sleeveless black jersey top. Any other colour top was out of the question at an Italian restaurant. It was a certainty that pasta sauce in some form or colour would attach itself to my clothing. Although spilt sauce on one’s front would likely repel an OCD neat stickler like Dylan, I was not prepared to be mortified in the process. I was sure I could find a cleaner, neater way to move him along.
Against every instinct, I put on a pair of almost flat, open-toed, slip-on silver leather Burberry sandals. Dylan liked tall woman. I was, in the regular world, relatively tall. However, in the world of superstars and models, and my six-foot-plus parents, I was short. It didn’t take Freud to work out where my love of towering heels came from.
I exhaled, gazing down at my sad, flat little feet. No one would see me. Midday lunches were almost unheard of. I glanced back at an even sadder sight; a plain white teacup with a square, red teabag tag now firmly stuck to the side. Sacrifices had to be made.
I strode up the garden path, past the pool, outdoor showers, lounges, gazebo, the croquet lawn, the tennis and basketball courts, vegetable and herb gardens, through the grove of fruit trees and the lawn to the main house. I made record time in my never-before-worn flats.
I was still late. Patricia had already endured ten minutes of Dylan. Most people were beguiled by Dylan. Not Patricia. She stood at the front door, her arm firmly locked across the doorway like a metal carnival ride safety bar. Dylan was chatting away, exuding charm; Patricia was having none of it. I admired her dedication and loyalty. So many years after Mother’s anti-Dylan decree, it was still steadily enforced.
The talking stopped as I slid into the airy marble foyer. Patricia’s mouth fell open and she stepped away from the door, dropping her arm from the safety belt position. When Dylan went to step into the newly opened void, she neatly swung the door closed.
Swoosh. Clap. Closed.
She rushed over to me. ‘What are you doing?’ she hissed.
‘I’m getting rid of Dylan Moss once and for all. You can give me Esmerelda’s waffles.’
‘What are you wearing? What have you done to your hair? You look like, like …’ She was wide-eyed, running an open palm up and down the outline of my outfit.
‘I didn’t have time to have my hair and make-up done properly,’ I spluttered back, feeling defensive. ‘I know I’m a little shabby. I thought that might help deter him.’
‘Are you insane? Styled like that, you’re the freaking spitting image of your mother!’ she sizzled. ‘The bouncy hair, the radiant natural skin, the floaty skirt? You look like a siren goddess! Get back in there and put some more make-up on, young lady! And a few less clothes while you’re at it! Something short and dreadful.’
