Murder Most Fancy, page 27
He had me there. What kind of a creepy person would stalk another person’s periodontist for personal information if there were any other choices available? The crazy kind, that’s who. The kind of person who might like to keep your teeth in a velvet drawstring bag under their pillow after you broke up with them.
‘You were the only one of Maxwell’s healthcare professionals who was local,’ I tried.
Crickets.
‘He’s very private,’ I said, parroting back his initial comment. ‘I don’t suppose you could give me his home address in Darwin?’
‘No.’
He pulled the screen door shut and locked it. He then closed the main door. It too clicked as he locked it.
‘Or his surname?’ I asked the closed doors.
Wait. Max. Maxwell. Max/well. Max Weller. God, it was so obvious!
James was sitting on the hood of the Volvo, enjoying the beginning of a spectacular sunset.
‘Max!’ I said to him. ‘Maxwell. Max-well. Max Well-er! Get it?’
‘Oh, you got that, did you?’ He smiled.
‘You knew?’ I was outraged.
‘Knew? No. Suspected, aye.’
‘How?’ I demanded.
‘I guess creative people think like other creative people,’ James said.
By creative, did he mean shady?
I pointed to the back seat of the car where Esmerelda, perhaps woken by the shrill sound of my screeching, opened her eyes and stretched.
‘She’s a creative person,’ I wailed. ‘Why didn’t she see it?’
He shrugged, noncommittal.
‘See what?’ Esmerelda asked, climbing out.
‘Did you know the name Max is short for Maxwell?’ I immediately asked.
‘For real?’ she responded. ‘Huh.’
I was going to take that as a no.
‘Maxwell? Like Max Weller?’ she instantly surmised. ‘So, his totally fake last name Weller is actually his totally real first name, Maxwell. Smart. Creative.’ She eyeballed me. ‘You totally should have thought of that.’
It was clear I simply was not cut out to be creative. I had the wrong neural pathways for it. I wondered if my current programming, that of overly curious heiress, coupled with some assistances from a creative, would be enough to track down Maxwell and his killer.
I might need more than one creative to make it happen.
And wine. I was definitely going to need wine.
And new shoes. Just for the moral support.
CHAPTER 21
A BATHROOM WITH A VIEW
The sun continued to set as we all piled back into the Volvo. Esmerelda was hungry, I needed a drink, and if James had just come off a fifteen-hour flight, he must have been tired too, even if he didn’t appear to be. It seemed a little redundant to drive all the way back to the city when I had a house in Palm Beach.
I had not been there since Richard’s death. Although the house was technically mine, and had been since I’d turned eighteen, it was Richard’s pet project. He was always fitting it with ever more sophisticated gadgets I neither cared about nor knew how to use. I realised with some dread the basement may well have been full of mind-blowingly overpriced model trains. I blocked that thought. I just didn’t have the mental space to deal with it.
On the upside, the beach house had a well-stocked cellar, four en suited bedrooms overlooking the Pacific, and lots of exposed open space to discourage room-to-room fraternisation. If that didn’t keep me away from James, I could lock myself in the garage. Or the cool room.
The other lovely thing about the Palm Beach house was its proximity to an endless array of local restaurants, cafés and eateries. The obsession of the striped locals with food and beverages was a real pay-off for the FIFOs* and Sydiots**.
Both FIFOs and Sydiots annoyed the locals because of the congestion produced by their migratory patterns. That is, we came en masse, causing long queues that restricted access to their bakeries and baristas.
I directed James to the beach house, then gave him the six-digit security code, which he punched into the panel beside the gate. The twisty driveway disappeared from sight into a valley overgrown with palms and green vegetation. We wound our way down through the greenery to a timber panelled six-car garage. The first two garage doors opened automatically when the front gates were keyed. We drove straight in.
Bailly was right. You really should use different codes for different devices, and those codes should be changed regularly. My codes were all the same and I never changed them. I was a security nightmare.
By the time we parked, disembarked and punched the code to the front door, Esmerelda had already ordered food deliveries from a dozen local eateries. She was disappointed to learn that none sold Snapple, and was once again forced to settle for No-Sugar Vanilla Coke.
‘Holy shit,’ she said, walking in.
‘Nice,’ James said, holding the carry-on he had retrieved from the Volvo’s boot. ‘Shower?’
I directed him to the bedroom at the far end of the house. I tried to block out last summer’s memory of him in a towel. I was unsuccessful.
‘Like, why don’t you just live here?’ Esmerelda wanted to know as James disappeared down the hallway.
‘Here?’
‘Yeah, here,’ she said, spreading her arms out, pointing in turn to the high-tech kitchen, the sapphire ocean view, the azure infinity pool sunk into the cliff (the side that faced the ocean was clear acrylic, giving underwater swimmers ocean views), the various decks, the lovely window seats and the nap-perfect lounges. All of which were currently ablaze with colour thanks to the never-ending sunset.
‘But it’s so far from the city.’
‘Like, you never even go out in the city.’
‘That is not the point. The point is I could go out. To the best spas and salons. To the opera. To museums. To plays. I could go shopping at Dior or Chanel or Jimmy Choo. There are galas, beaches, yachts, opening parties, birthday parties all on my doorstep in the city.’
‘Beaches?’
Okay, so she had me there; both places had beaches aplenty.
‘All the things,’ I argued.
‘But, like, you totally order everything online. Or shop by videoconference. You don’t go to parties or galas. And,’ she pointed to her far left, to the calm, protected bays and harbours, with their gently curving stretches of white sandy beaches and their many jetties and bobbing yachts, ‘there are like a shedload of yacht type things right there!’
She was right. I went almost nowhere. I attended nothing. I never shopped in-store. I wanted to cry.
The fact was, I used to go to all those events. I did shop at all those stores. I just didn’t anymore, not since I became the Heiress on Fire. Widow. Murder suspect. Heiress to yet another fortune. I was a high-end oddity, a billionaire social shut-in. Those never ended well.
I huffed out my frustration. ‘The point is, by living in the city, after I … once I … when I … when I am ready to go out, in public, to all of those places, they will be right at my fingertips.’
But when would that be? It occurred to me that my billionaire social shut-in status was self-imposed. I had not been arrested. I was not in jail. I was innocent. Yes, I was going to be a fiery punchline for several years to come, but was I making it worse by hiding? Was I injecting myself with the venom of shame and isolation and expecting my critics to be poisoned? Figuratively speaking.
Perhaps I should buy four million dollars’ worth of shoes and wear them to every high-flying social, fashion, art and cultural event I could wedge my size-nine foot into. I had the vomiting-when-mortified thing completely under control, and the eradication of the fainting-when-humiliated reflex was progressing well. Perhaps I could stage a comeback.
Did I want to stage a comeback?
I had never been overly social but I did miss shopping. And the kind of treatments that could only be found in the most dedicated, cutting-edge luxury spas, the kind that had their own indoor lagoons filled with oxygen-infused waters.
I pulled myself from my reverie. ‘Besides,’ I said, ‘if I lived here, you would have to live here too. Miles from everything. How would you cope?’
‘Dude,’ Esmerelda said, pointing to the surf-perfect ocean to her right and the flat, beautiful, sandy bays to her left. ‘I’d totally find a way to cope.’
‘Perfect,’ I said abruptly. ‘You live here.’
A buzz from the intercom and a video feed showing a delivery person on an electric bike with a black zip-up canvas hotbox mercifully ended the conversation and sent Esmerelda scuttling for the door. I would take firm bets that she could beat Usain Bolt up that driveway if there was takeaway involved. A call for help from James seconds later saw me dragging myself up the hallway, which felt about the same length as the driveway, and into the guest room. I was reasonably sure my Brazilian Palm Beach housekeeper was still on the payroll and had assumed she would have kept the house in fresh linens and towels. But I could have been wrong.
James sat on the bed, fully dressed, minus his shoes, his shirt untucked. The carry-on was open on a low-legged turquoise velvet tufted lounge near the bay window.
‘No towels?’ I asked.
I walked through the room, past the bed and into the adjoining bathroom. There was a white lacquered cupboard against the wall behind the door. It usually held towels, robes and linen type things. The cupboard was just to the left of a massive floor to ceiling window which took up the entire wall and featured one-way privacy glass and, at the press of a button for those who did not enjoy daylight, instant tint.
The back wall of the room was a sapphire green tiled walk-in shower, the right-hand side held an oversized double oak vanity, and dead centre in front of the window was a carved oval bath that always reminded me of a white chocolate Easter egg laid flat on its back and sliced in half. The room was finished with a generous smattering of lush green palms, which were very much alive. So, there was a maid.
James had moved quickly, a razor and toothbrush already wet on the vanity.
I waved my hand over the front of the cupboard. Nothing. I searched for a lock or a key or a panel of some sort. Nothing. I said, ‘Open,’ and, ‘Open door.’ What was wrong with a handle? A perfectly nice invention. Why reinvent the wheel? Especially when the original wheel was so user-friendly.
An impeccably manicured yet very masculine hand came over the top of my shoulder and pressed a spot in the dead centre of the top left panel. It sprang open. Click. Pear coloured bath sheets, mats, towels, robes and shimmery sheets for miles.
He stood behind me, unmoving. I found myself wedged between the shiny white doors (one open, one closed), the fluffy towels inside and James Smith. God, he smelt so good! Why did he have to smell so good?
I tried to focus on the panoramic view through the window—the last moments of the pink and orange sunset, a full moon already rising over the endless ocean. It was ludicrously romantic and most unhelpful. All thoughts of Searing and brother-in-law damnation melted away with the daylight. I could feel my body stand to attention. Parts of me went hard, parts of me went soft. All my parts should have behaved like ladies and stayed in neutral.
‘Are you attracted to me?’ he asked.
What did he just say?
‘Uh, me, to you? Uh, no, of course not. That would be …’
‘Bad?’ he said. I imagined an eyebrow strategically arched.
‘Yes, very, very bad. Obviously. Bad.’
‘And if you kissed me?’ he asked simply.
‘No, no. That wouldn’t be good, not good.’
‘Bad.’
‘Yes. Bad.’
I was frozen. I couldn’t move. Not because he had pinned me down—he wasn’t technically touching me—but because I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to be close to him. Really close. Too close.
My resilience was ebbing away with every second we stood together. My eyes were transfixed on the deserted beach and the never-ending colours of the sky and water.
‘I won’t lay a single finger on you if you don’t want me to,’ he said with a throat crackle. ‘Do you want me to?’
I wished I could say something simple, like ‘My head said no, but my heart said yes’, but that was not it. My head was screaming ‘No!’ My heart was MIA. And my body? My body unfortunately said, ‘Yes!’ and my mouth, being the head of the body committee, was the spokesperson.
‘Yes.’
‘Will you promise to say something, to stop me if I do anything you don’t like?’
It was difficult to imagine that happening, but I appreciated his detail-oriented proposal.
‘Yes,’ I agreed.
He gently lifted my hair from the back of my neck and put it to one side. He leaned into me and kissed the side of my neck. Once, twice. His lips felt even better than they looked. And they looked incredible. Full, pink, with a perfect bow. He kept going. Lower on the nape this time, three, four, five times. I started to melt and put my hand on the shiny white surface in front of me to steady myself.
Zip. He unzipped the back of my dress just enough to slip it to one side and kiss my shoulder. Zip. He unzipped it further, just enough to kiss the other shoulder. It was quite possibly one of the most erotic things I had ever experienced while technically fully dressed. I was too afraid to turn and face him. And not being able to see him heightened the pleasure to an unbearable level. The only way I was getting out of this bathroom was at a flat run or by tidal wave.
Zip. The zip came down to my waist. He gently slid the sleeves down my shoulders, running his hands up and down my arms. The fabric draped around my waist and the kissing started again. It became more and more urgent. Deeper. Open mouthed, scattered with small, gentle bites. I put both of my hands up for support, hanging onto a shelf with my left hand, while my right hand was pressed flat against the shiny, hard door.
Deep sounds came from my core. I tried desperately to stuff them back down or at least quiet them. I had limited success.
I felt him take a knee as he pushed in, splaying his hands across my back, moving his attention to the back of my ribs and the small of my back. Then he lifted his hands off me. For several excruciating seconds, I stopped breathing. Was he leaving? He didn’t leave. He slipped his hands up under my dress, and onto my outer thighs, gradually moving higher and higher, slowing only when his splayed hands reached the perimeter of my underwear, where he stopped on my bare hips, his index finger grasping my front hip, his thumb resting gently on the edge of my bottom.
There was moaning, and not just mine. Believe it or not, moaning with an Irish accent is distinctly sexier than moaning in any other accent.
This had to stop. If that zip came down any more or those hands went any further, I was going to be standing in nothing except some very scant mismatched Italian lingerie and my Choos. And quite possibly not even those.
I inhaled deeply and gathered my strength to pull away. But it was too late. He slid his hands off my body, stood, albeit slowly, and re-dressed me: hips, waist, ribs, arms, shoulders, gently pulling the silky fabric of my dress, smidgen by excruciating smidgen, up, up, up, until it sat on my shoulders again. And then he zipped the zip all the way back up, right to the top.
‘It was all me,’ he said, laying one last inconceivably, incredibly delicious kiss to the side of my neck. ‘I take the blame.’
If I had died then, I would have had no regrets. No woman who was consensually kissed and caressed like that would. Guilt, yes. Terrible, terrible guilt, but absolutely no regrets.
To my astonishment, I spoke. ‘This should never happen again,’ I said calmly. What I was thinking was, This should absolutely happen again. Happily, my brain seemed to have regained control of the body committee.
I heard him take off his clothes, turn the shower on and step in. Exactly a millisecond later, Esmerelda yelled down the hall. ‘Food’s up!’
I glued my eyes to the ground and fumbled my way out. If I peeked even slightly towards that shower, I could be lost for good.
As I stumbled down the hall, I suddenly realised all the places he had kissed, nipped and caressed me were unseen, or at least hidden. He had been careful with my hair, skin and clothes so I was not mussed, marked or blemished in any way. On the outside, I appeared perfect. Under my dress, I was shattered. I might never walk or sleep straight again. And I hadn’t even kissed him.
How could something feel so incredibly wonderful and so guiltily dreadful? This is exactly why one marries a Bran Muffin. These types of predicaments simply don’t come up.
I marched straight to my bedroom at the opposite end of the house. I stood under the hot water for a long time, attempting to calm myself and make sense of what had just happened. I achieved neither.
It was well and truly dark by the time I walked into the kitchen. I was dressed in last season’s loungewear (found in my bedroom drawers), thankfully a rather floating fit, no make-up except slightly topped up residual mascara and eyeliner, and nothing in my hair but conditioner and a plain black elastic holding it in a simple, swishing ponytail.
Esmerelda’s idea of dinner service was laying the takeaway containers out on the breakfast bar with a fork stuck in those she had already opened. No china, no silverware, no napkins.
I served myself a tempura soft-shelled crab bao with a side of perfectly sticky plum pork belly and a scoop of downy coconut rice. I added a fine coleslaw to the bowl and told myself the raw vegetables made the ensemble healthy. I’d had a big day.
Esmerelda was stretched out on a sun lounge overlooking the pool. James sat next to her in a deckchair, managing to make a white cotton T-shirt and loose cotton Bali pants look designer, his dark blond hair damp.
‘So, like, what happened?’ Esmerelda said when I sat in the chair next to her.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all happened,’ I said quickly.
‘You didn’t get anything out of him?’ she said, disappointed.
‘What? No. What would I get?’ I answered, alarmed.
‘You totally got no goods from the dude?’
