Murder Most Fancy, page 24
‘Yes.’
‘In a car?’ Esmerelda probed.
‘No, Max didn’t drive. But he was very modern. Ubers.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking, where were you going for dinner?’
Dame Elizabeth turned a slight shade of pink. ‘We were dining at my home.’
‘You cooked and he didn’t rock?’ Esmerelda let out a puff of disapproval.
I was certain that was not quite how it happened. I pushed. ‘What a shame. I hope the food didn’t go to waste. I know you love fresh, local produce. Did your chef cook you a meal for one instead?’
‘No, Chef had already cooked by then. Dinner was all prepared. The soup was lobster bisque, Max’s favourite.’
‘How long before dinner did he call?’ I asked.
‘Not long,’ she hedged.
‘Specifically,’ I asked.
‘A minute or two before he was due to arrive,’ she said sadly.
‘Had that ever happened before?’ I asked softly.
‘No, never. Max was always punctual. He was a gentleman.’ A tear dropped into her tea. ‘He had never done anything like that before.’
Bingo. I was betting Max was already at Dame Elizabeth’s when he called to cancel.
But that still didn’t answer our original question: who was Max Weller really? If he had family in WA, why hadn’t they reported him missing? Honestly, how often do disappearing millionaires fly under the radar? I inhaled deeply and attempted to anchor myself for this portion of the conversation.
‘Esmerelda and I have been unable to find anyone named Max Weller who fits the description of Max Weller,’ I said apologetically.
‘Max was very private,’ she quickly responded. ‘I am sure you will find his family. In time. If you persist.’
‘No one named Max Weller has been reported missing,’ I added. If they had, I felt sure Bailly would have notified me.
‘Where did you look?’ Grandmother wanted to know.
Esmerelda fielded this question. ‘Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, LinkedIn, the minor socials, driver’s licences from all over the country, fingerprints, lost and found.’
‘Company directors?’ Grandmother asked me.
‘He’s not listed,’ I responded.
‘What about other executive positions? CEO, CFO, COO, CMO?’
‘We checked all those positions on the top 100 ASX companies,’ I said regretfully.
‘Boards?’
I had not thought of that.
‘Nup,’ Esmerelda said, gnawing on a Florentine. ‘Totally checked ’em.’
She was good.
Grandmother eyed Dame Elizabeth. ‘Was he,’ she whispered, ‘poor?’
Dame Elizabeth delivered a withering stare. ‘No. But had he been, it would not have mattered. I would still have—’
She stopped short. We all knew what she was going to say—she would still have loved him.
‘He was totally one of you,’ Esmerelda chewed. ‘He dropped a lotta cash on a lotta rich people shit. I mean, stuff.’
The older women looked at me.
‘She’s right. He spent a substantial amount at the Holly Park Sydney. Did you know he was staying there?’
‘He mentioned it early on. I assumed it was just a coincidence. Max never asked me to his room. He was a—’
‘—gentleman,’ Esmerelda filled in.
Dame Elizabeth nodded.
‘So, you were hiding your relationship from your family,’ Grandmother bluntly assessed.
‘I was keeping the relationship private until I was ready,’ she corrected. ‘My family can be overly protective.’ Dame Elizabeth suddenly welled up. ‘He was a wonderful man. You would have liked him, Florence.’
‘I’m sure I would have,’ Grandmother said firmly, almost experiencing an emotion.
‘He wasn’t in no regular room either. He was in the Forrest Suite,’ Esmerelda put in, bulldozing through the moment.
Dame Elizabeth’s watery eyes widened in surprise. ‘The Forrest Suite? Are you sure?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘What does that mean?’ Grandmother asked.
‘Like, you could like buy a place with what he paid for two months in that suite.’
Grandmother was startled. ‘You have a suite that costs five million dollars a month?’
Esmerelda spat up her tea. ‘Like, you guys live in a crazy world. It’s seventeen kay a night, half a mill a month. That’s already totally insane. Where does a house cost ten mill?’
‘A house?’ Grandmother rebuffed. ‘I meant an apartment.’
We were getting side-tracked. I turned to Dame Elizabeth. ‘Max was an excellent guest. The staff at the Holly Park were all very fond of him. He was kind and polite.’
‘And a hella tipper.’
This seemed to bring Dame Elizabeth some solace.
‘Perhaps you’re right. Maybe we were just looking in the wrong place for Max’s identity. His family.’ I poured Dame Elizabeth a fresh cup of Lady Grey. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us? His family background? A profession?’
She shook her head. ‘No. We didn’t discuss our pasts much. It was quite lovely. We lived in the day, immersed in the arts, culture, each—’
‘God help us,’ Grandmother sighed.
I ignored the Tin Woman and her missing heart and leaned forward to encourage Dame Elizabeth instead. ‘Did he tell you anything about his life? His family?’
Her hand shook ever so slightly as she picked up her tea. ‘Not really. Of course, I told him, very briefly, about Astor and Gregory and the girls. He told me, likewise, very briefly about his two girls.’
I was leaning halfway across the table. ‘Daughters?’
She nodded. ‘Two daughters.’
‘Did he tell you their names?’
‘Yes,’ she said, her forehead wrinkling as she tried to recall the names. ‘Tara? No. Marnie? No. Carley? Yes! Carley was the eldest, I think, and Ellie the younger.’
‘Grandchildren?’ I asked.
‘None were mentioned.’
Esmerelda already had her phone out and was no doubt searching Google and the social media platforms for Carley and Ellie Weller.
‘Are his daughters married?’
‘I didn’t ask,’ she said. Her teacup clunked heavily into its saucer. This received a sideways glance from Grandmother. Ladies do not clunk their saucers. I was on borrowed time.
‘He was from Western Australia. He had two daughters. He was well versed in fine arts, the arts in general. And …’ I struggled to recall more information. ‘He wore a black prayer bracelet that may or may not have been made from black pearls.’
‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘Yes, perhaps they were pearls after all. Yes, I think they were. Did they find his bracelet,’ she paused again, ‘with him? What about his phone?’
I shook my head. I had not seen any jewellery on the body. Dr Bailly had not mentioned a phone or any jewellery.
‘Oh,’ she said, quietly drifting off. ‘Of course not.’ She looked at me with watery eyes. ‘Why was he dressed in rags? Where were his clothes?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was he … did someone hurt him … on purpose?’
‘It does seem—’
‘At the beginning of this meeting, I asked for a report,’ Grandmother snapped tersely, cutting me off. ‘I still have not received one.’
I gazed across the table at Dame Elizabeth. She was now staring fixedly out the window. She was not in good shape. I couldn’t tell her any more. Not about his childhood: the strong likelihood he had been involved in hard labour from a young age, that he had been uncared for, whipped, beaten. Nor about his death: that he’d been smacked so hard across the back of the head with a flat, heavy object that his skull had fractured like a star.
Esmerelda glanced up from her phone. ‘Nothing.’
‘I don’t have time to sit around and listen to your excruciatingly slow tale. I have a meeting to attend. You will send a written report with all the other pertinent information about Max Weller,’ Grandmother said, pursing her lips and rolling her eyes unsubtly towards a silent Dame Elizabeth, ‘back with Loraine.’ She gathered their handbags and pulled out Dame Elizabeth’s chair, forcing her to stand.
‘A written report?’ Esmerelda said, on her feet. ‘Like, what more’s to know? Dude’s a ghost millionaire. Had a shit childhood, worked crazy hard, made a crapload of cash and wasn’t afraid to spend his coin.’
If looks could kill, Esmerelda would be dead and Grandmother … well, Grandmother would have excellent lawyers. Subtext and nuance were not Esmerelda’s fortes. Dame Elizabeth, however, hadn’t heard. She had already slipped into shock.
‘What?’ Esmerelda asked rhetorically, clapping Dame Elizabeth on the shoulder. ‘Max sounds ace. You did totally good, Lizzy.’
‘Thank you, dear,’ Dame Elizabeth managed. ‘He was ace.’
CHAPTER 19
UNWANTED SERVICES
Between the harrowing snake and Searing dramas of the day before, the morning’s brutal Max update, and the possible risk to Esmerelda’s life, I felt entitled to the rest of the day off inside the guarded gates of Mother’s estate.
The gods of spring had smiled on us and the thermometer nudged thirty degrees. Patricia, high on trading Dylan for Carlo and Shane, served me an overindulgent albeit fruit-based lunch in the poolside cabana which I washed down with some perfectly chilled sauvignon blanc. This was accompanied by shocking volumes, even by my standard, of online and videoconferencing shopping, with a side of good old-fashioned magazine flipping and sunbaking.
I was nearing a complete shoe coma when a shadow passed over the cabana. A shadow that felt illogically warm and smelt faintly of Amouage.
It could not be.
The property was locked up tighter than a Buccellati exhibition at a Bvlgari store.
I used a Marie Claire to shade the glare off the water and removed my sunglasses to focus. Be still my beating everything, it was him, James Smith, my dead husband’s too charming, too gorgeous brother.
‘How on earth did you get in here?’ I stuttered, grappling for a sarong to cover myself. A season in the islands had rendered me browner than usual, and Patricia’s mainly gourmet breakfasts, curvier than usual. My white and gold baroque print swimsuit cinched my waist, while the corset-like top rendered me positively buxom. The plunging V neckline didn’t help either. I was clearly not expecting company. The water had destroyed Franny’s hair taming and I felt certain my black-rimmed eyes were smudged. I was a damp Italian peasant woman.
‘I heard you had a bit of trouble,’ he said, seating himself on the sun lounge next to me. ‘Something about snakes? Or was it spiders? Thought I’d best check in on you. You’re family, after all.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be on the other side of the world driving a train?’ I said, putting the magazine down and my sunglasses back on.
‘Ah, I never said train driving was a current profession,’ he said in his lilting Irish accent. An accent, I had noticed, that ranged from potato farmer to landed gentry, depending on his need. Today, it was global tech company executive who called the tax-friendly city of Dublin home. It was sexy, though to be fair, all his accents were pretty sexy.
His dress likewise changed. He moved from the poly-cotton car crash I had first met him in, to something like today: black Galliano pinstripe pants paired with a grey, loose-neck, short-sleeve Missoni knit. His shoes were Prada.
‘How on earth could you have possibly found out about that?’ I asked, giving up on the sarong and crossing my arms across my chest instead. ‘The snakes and the spiders?’
‘Now, don’t forget the poisoned Fanta, the tampered car brakes and the runaway luggage trolleys,’ he said, passing the sarong.
So much for discreet security. I snatched the sarong and pulled it across my chest.
‘Carlo,’ I fumed. ‘Or was it Shane? Perhaps one of the others? Maybe the pizza delivery person?’
He smiled. ‘Ah, the price of fame. I guess there’s just no secrets among celebrities.’
‘I am not a celebrity,’ I returned, getting to my feet, knocking over my stack of glossy fashion magazines and golden fruit platter.
He gazed around the opulent grounds of the estate: the pool, the cabana, the courts, the main house, the pool house. ‘This is a type of celebrity.’
That was somewhat true. Few were the subject of more unsympathetic gossip than the rich. Except maybe rich women. Or rich women with political ambitions. Or maybe it just felt that way. Not that I had any political ambitions. My greatest ambition was to be unknown to the masses and left alone. Setting fire to my husband had pretty much knocked that out of the realm of possibility.
James Smith had a delightful habit of not answering questions. I tried again, this time staring down at him. ‘How did you get in here?’
‘The head of your security company is a friend,’ he said with his most charming smile.
‘Your friend is fired. They are all fired,’ I said, storming off to the pool house. ‘So much for Cate and Keith and confidentiality.’
‘Maybe not quite yet. You do seem to have some troubles. And my friend, she’s a she, not a he,’ James said, strolling after me.
As much as I loved a company with a female leader, I also enjoyed working up a fury at James Smith. It helped to keep the lust at bay.
I stormed into the pool house, almost colliding with Patricia as she was exiting my room, her arms full of slightly used sheets and towels. ‘Not Carlo!’ she pleaded. The woman had the ears of a fox. A nosy fox. ‘He’s so helpful. He carried the dry-cleaning in this morning. And the fruit delivery.’
‘And he’s gorgeous?’ I shot back.
‘It wouldn’t be right to judge a professional by their physical appearance,’ she said, trying hard to sound sincere.
I shook my head and kept going into my room. The new bed linens were a nude silk. With James in the vicinity, I found that somehow unnerving. I locked myself in the bathroom and took an exorbitantly long shower, hoping that by the time I was done, James would have evaporated.
I emerged in a robe, my wet hair wrapped in a towel. James had not evaporated. He was sitting at the table by the window, reading my Vanity Fair.
‘So your mum’s gone to Bora Bora with Jed,’ he said, looking up from the magazine.
‘How on earth could you know—’ I stopped myself. It was obvious that James Smith was not even remotely close to the man he sometimes pretended to be, the humble son of a train driver from County Clare. The question (for another day) was, who was he?
‘Nice guy, Jed,’ he continued. ‘I like a fireman. Don’t worry, I checked, he’s a good ’un.’
I stormed into my wardrobe and, to my surprise, found there was a lock on the inside of the door. I clicked it into place then carefully selected the unsexiest underwear I could find, which was difficult because since meeting Searing, I had bought nothing but exquisite lingerie. To counteract this, I picked mismatched colours and fabrics: tan satin and black lace.
I dressed in an impeccably fitted knee-length, silk-cotton cyan dress with kimono sleeves, an embroidered stand-up collar and an invisible zip running all the way down the back, nape to bottom. Very sensible. My dress was accompanied by four-inch Jimmy Choo strappy sandals. Their turquoise leather was buffed to a mirrored shine. Not so sensible, but completely essential.
I exited the closet with as much dignity as possible. Halfway across the room, I realised he was drinking one of Esmerelda’s Snapples, albeit from a cut crystal glass filled with ice. My heart stopped and my hand sprang up in front of me.
‘No! Don’t! That’s Esmerelda’s—’
‘Don’t worry, I checked the lid and the seal. Hard to puncture glass,’ he said, clicking the side of the bottle with perfectly manicured nails.
As my heart started again my gaze settled on a cream envelope propped up at the edge of the table, below the windowsill. Hand-typed on the front of the envelope was Indigo Jones-Bombberg. It had a golfing Santa stamp.
‘Esmerelda!’ I yelled, my eyes glued to the envelope. ‘Esmerelda!’
‘Is that an immediate threat?’ James asked forcefully.
‘Esmerelda!’
James stood, his chair falling back. In seconds, he’d swooped me up, thrown me over his shoulder and was headed for the door.
‘What on … stop that, you neanderthal!’
‘Evacuate first, ask questions later,’ he said.
‘You listen to me,’ I growled, blood rushing to my upside-down head as I pointed my finger at him. ‘Whatever is or is not in that envelope is none of your bloody business. I am not in danger. If I thought it was going to blow up or sprout fangs, I have legs. I am perfectly capable of walking myself out of a room.’
He put me down. But only once we were past the front door.
‘Dude,’ Esmerelda said, appearing from nowhere, ‘like, there’s just way too much macho action around here. It’s embarrassing.’
Carlo and Shane were several seconds behind Esmerelda. Whatever I was paying her, I was getting a good deal.
‘I wouldn’t, lads,’ James said to the tardy security men. ‘The lady’s perfectly fine and has the bull by the gonads.’
‘Huh,’ Esmerelda said as she strolled inside and saw the envelope. ‘No offence but, uh, have you got a knife or something to open it with?’
‘Do you think it’s unsafe?’ I whispered.
‘Nah, but like sketchy shit has been going down and I’d rather not put my finger in there.’
Fair point.
‘If I could be of service, madam,’ James said from the doorway, flicking out a shiny silver dagger and offering it, hilt first, into the room.
‘Dude’s like friggin’ Macbeth,’ Esmerelda said.
James raised an eyebrow.
‘Yeah, I totally know classy stuff.’
‘Well, close the door and come in then,’ I said, taking the dagger and trying to sound like I was doing him an enormous favour.
Our unlikely trio sat around the table. I slit the envelope open and carefully shook out the contents. It was another typed card.
The dead body you found, get autopsy results for:
