Murder Most Fancy, page 9
I moved closer to examine her screen. ‘Are you tracking Bettina?’
‘Course. I wouldn’t’ve come down here otherwise.’
I was astonished. How had Esmerelda managed to get a tracker on Bettina Holly? It had been over a week since our unfortunate encounter. Surely Bettina had changed out of those sad cargo pants by now?
‘Did you break into her house?’ I asked, following Esmerelda through the rabbit hole and up the stairs to the main floor of the hotel.
‘Dude, no. I’m on parole.’
I rolled my eyes at her back as she climbed the stairs. I climbed after her, albeit slowly in my stilettos. We made it to the landing of the stairs. There were arrows and locations stencilled in black spray paint on the walls: left for main kitchen, right for reception, and up two flights to the Holly Tree Terrace Private Dining Room.
‘You slipped something into her handbag?’
‘Into a handbag?’ she asked incredulously, easily making her way up the next flight of white-painted bumpy metal tread stairs. ‘That’d be a first.’
I scurried after her, hefting my tent of a dress off my calves. ‘How do you know she’s in there?’
‘She’s like a total social wannabe,’ she said over her shoulder.
At the second-floor door, I stopped to rest my head on the whitewashed cinderblock wall. It was probably made of compressed apple cores and corn husks.
‘I have no idea what you are saying, Esmerelda. This dress is chafing me. My shoes were not meant to be worn while climbing endless flights of stairs. I am dressed as a maid in the same hotel I was just thrown out of. Give me an answer that I understand or I shall make sure your beloved excuse for a car is replaced by the most ostentatious Rolls-Royce I can find and I will have the Louis Vuitton symbol sewn into every pair of sneakers and jeans you own.’
She said something about logging into a search bar, locations, results, hashtags, usernames, map marker icon IDs, open pages, copy something, URL, digits, paste and plug-in.
She showed me her phone. ‘Instagram?’ I asked, flicking through various screens until I got to a recently posted photo of Bettina’s dinner. Carefully inscribed on the side of her floral dinner plate were the letters HTT. Holly Tree Terrace, the private dining room where Bettina was apparently eating dinner.
‘Why didn’t you just say Bettina posted her location on social media?’ I asked, irritated, fanning my legs with my uniform. These stairwells were not airconditioned.
‘What? Nah, she didn’t post where she was. I hacked her location.’
‘Her dinner plate is embossed.’
Crickets.
‘HTT,’ I said, tapping a butchered fingernail on her phone’s screen. ‘Holly Tree Terrace.’
‘Oh,’ she said, tilting her head in to read the inscription, somewhat disappointed. Ever the optimist, she soon bounced back. ‘Sweet! Let’s crash this party.’
CHAPTER 7
GATECRASHERS
While my mind continued to ponder the wisdom of this visit, my feet followed her. I found myself in a wide hallway with plush eggshell-weave pear green carpet. The walls were covered in a pale hand-drawn wallpaper featuring yellow holly. The perfectly contrasting architraves, skirtings and ornate cornices were probably made of actual eggshells. The hallway had a peaceful eco-garden feel.
We reached a set of double doors. A panel beside the door said Holly Tree Terrace – Private Dining Room. I was certain I had attended either a wedding or a divorce party in this room. Although a private dining room sounds like an intimate room you might have at home, it is not. Unless you live in a castle, then it is. This room was not for a single table of guests or a couple on a romantic night out, although undoubtably it was sometimes employed that way. From memory, this room could seat a hundred people, two hundred if your guests were prepared to stand cocktail style.
The far end featured a lectern for speeches and a wet bar. Hidden behind those was a dressing room and a private galley kitchen for guests who preferred to bring their own culinary staff. This was a surprising number of people, from pop princesses to presidents to actual princesses to fussy eaters with money to spare.
Esmerelda peeled the door on the right back a fraction and peered inside. ‘Dining room? What the crap? You could play hoops in there.’ She shook her head. ‘Rich people.’
I peeked in too. The Holly family—Bettina, Gilly, Gregory and Astor—were seated at a round table on the opposite side of the room, to our right, between the lectern and the wall. Their table was covered in a gold tablecloth that ran like a river of silk, falling gracefully over the rounded edges and skirting the floorboards by a whisper. The tablecloth was probably made from biodegradable jam jar lids and the floorboards from recycled organic wine corks.
The table, which could accommodate ten, was set for four. Dame Elizabeth was obviously not expected.
There were nine identical tables lined up, edge to edge, in a row along the wall to our left, the first one quite close, the farthest left of the lectern. They also had golden tablecloths except for a few which had been rudely stacked upside down on top of the base tables, so that the silver legs of the top tables were laid bare for all the world to see.
‘Okay, like, in you go,’ said Esmerelda.
‘Me?’ I said, pointlessly pointing at myself. ‘Surely you have a plan.’
‘Yeah,’ she snorted, insulted. ‘Like this is my plan.’ She motioned around the empty hallway. I waited for more information. None was forthcoming. I had a dreadful feeling her plan had ended the moment I was escorted out of the hotel and she had been winging it ever since.
‘Did you know about the service entry?’
‘Yeah. Totally.’
‘So you planned for us to sneak in with that shift of workers?’
‘Um, yeah, sure,’ she said, nodding. ‘I totally planned all that crap. Now it’s your turn.’
The table was being cleared by a couple of waiters who had come from the galley kitchen behind the lectern which, upon further examination, was more like a miniature stage.
When had I been here before? A fundraiser? A silent auction? A fashion show? One of Anna Del Rico’s weddings? Or was it one of her engagement parties? Anna didn’t have divorce parties. She was one of those people who seemed to innately know how to extricate herself from a relationship, seemingly with no hurt feelings. Very Gwyneth. Even with her no-children policy and generous fiscal spirit and resources, it was still a feat of emotional and relationship magic.
I could feel cogs turning. Something was sparking. I felt a tug on my cardboard dress and blindly followed. What was it about Anna, this room and getting information out of Bettina? Bettina hated Anna. No surprises there. Anna disliked gossips. As did Dame Elizabeth. No one likes being gossiped about. Bettina loved gossip. Anna loved marriage. Did Max love Dame Elizabeth? Bettina loved Dame Elizabeth. Bettina would not have liked her grandmother having a boyfriend. Grandmother wanted us to work ‘undercover’ to find Max. Why? So Dame Elizabeth could avoid gossip? Or scandal? Or her family?
Wait.
‘Gossip,’ I said to Esmerelda. I looked around. I had been dragged through the door and into the dining room by Esmerelda who was pulling on my uniform’s apron-like skirt. I appeared to be sneaking along the edge of the dining room wall towards the row of skirted tables. What was supposed to happen when we got to the tables was anyone’s guess.
Esmerelda suddenly dropped behind me and shoved me under one of the tables. I crashed through the tablecloth like a Mack truck through a waterfall. I skidded along the floorboards on my hands and knees, my head connecting with the metal table leg in the centre of the second table. Clank. The tables pushed together, along with their silky gold tablecloths, created a giant fort. It was a canopy of gold, with metal table legs and feet everywhere.
‘There,’ Esmerelda said with satisfaction. ‘I totally planned that.’
I rubbed my head and ferociously scrutinised her. ‘I seriously doubt that.’ I held out my hand. ‘Phone.’
‘Nuh-uh,’ she said, turning her back to me, instinctively clutching her empty phone hand to her chest.
The last time I’d borrowed her firstborn, I may have cracked its screen somewhat. However, I was good to my word and immediately purchased her a new one.
We were both crouched under the table. The stiffness of her dress, although not a patch on mine, was firm enough to keep the front of her uniform in place when she turned her back to me. And there, poking out of the front pocket of her maid’s uniform, like a joey in its mother’s pouch, was her phone.
‘Dude,’ she whispered in warning tones, eyeing me. ‘Don’t do it.’
‘Trust me,’ I said in a tiny encouraging voice. It was pistols at dawn, or hands in pouches under tables at dinner. I was the quicker draw.
The handset was locked.
‘Unlock.’
She narrowed her eyes at me.
‘Please.’
Nothing.
‘Heinsmann,’ I said simply.
She unlocked the phone and I dialled.
‘Anna? It’s Indigo,’ I whispered into the handset.
‘Darling!’ came her booming voice from the other side of the world.
‘Anna,’ I hissed. ‘You have to be quiet. I’m hiding under a table in the Holly Tree Terrace dining room.’
‘How wonderful! I think I got engaged there once!’ she squealed—that solved that mystery. ‘Who’re you under there with?’
‘Esmerelda,’ I said reluctantly.
‘Kinky,’ she purred. ‘I didn’t see that coming, Indie. What happened to the two hot guys? The cop and the brother-in-law?’
‘Nothing. I mean, there was, but—’
‘Ooh, details please!’ she roared.
‘Anna! Lower your voice and focus!’ I scolded.
Esmerelda shh-ed me. I pressed mute. Had they heard? I sat silently, trying to concentrate on the chatter coming from the other side of the room. Astor seemed to be having a conversation with Bettina about seesaws. Wait, no, sea cells. Lice cells?
‘Vegan stuff,’ Esmerelda explained. She spent way too much time with Mother.
Gregory was telling Gilly about the spa he’d just returned from. I blocked out the details regarding his ablutions.
I unmuted the phone. ‘Anna, be serious,’ I whispered. ‘I need a favour.’
‘Anything for my favourite maid of honour. Or matron of honour. Do you become a maid again when you’re a widow?’ she asked.
I could hear cheering in the background. I was tempted to ask where, specifically, she was, but I didn’t have time for the explanation. She could be almost anywhere, as long as anywhere featured her latest gorgeous young love. I turned the volume down.
‘Anna, how quickly could you start a rumour about Dame Elizabeth getting married?’ I wanted to know. ‘To a man called Max, ah, last name unknown. Money. From WA.’
‘Is Lizzy getting married to some mining magnate?’ she asked, suddenly attentive.
‘No,’ I said. ‘She is not.’
‘You want me to start a baseless rumour?’
‘Yes, please,’ I whispered back.
‘I don’t like gossip, Indie, and I like old Lizzy. She got me into the Whitehouse Institute of Design, you know.’ I could hear a siren and the pop of a Champagne cork.
‘You went to fashion design school?’ I asked, wondering how I had missed that.
‘No, darling, but I absolutely could have. You see? She’s a sweetheart,’ she said patiently. ‘Yes, Iggy, darling, love another.’
‘Pardon?’ I asked.
‘I’m at a game, Indie. You really should fly over for one. Bring your new friend. She sounds like a blast.’
‘The rumour, Anna. Can you do it?’ I persisted.
‘Well, of course I could, but I won’t. It goes against my good conscience.’
While all manner of things floated right past the good conscience of Anna Del Rico, the right things, the important things, did not. Mostly.
‘What if you could do it so that only Bettina and Gilly heard about it?’
This got me a few seconds of silence.
‘How would I do that?’ she asked, more cheering in the background. ‘Well done, darling!’ Presumably, that was not directed at me.
‘I don’t know, Anna, be creative,’ I said in a rushed whisper, one ear listening for signs the Holly family were on the move.
‘Why would I do that?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Dame Elizabeth might be in a tiny bit of trouble. She might be about to have her heart broken,’ I said, ashamed I had used Anna’s Achilles heel—love.
‘By this fiancé?’ she asked. The sound of her drinking stopped. I had her attention.
‘Possibly,’ I said, unsure. The truth was I didn’t really know one way or the other.
‘Bettina and Gilly would go wild if they thought old Lizzy was finally getting married again. That would drain the trust-fund pool. Oh my God!’ she yelped so loudly I pulled my ear away from the phone.
‘Be quiet, Anna!’ I hissed.
‘Gregory Holly would lose his shit if his mother married! He could get cut out! Imagine that. He’s a horrible old sleaze; can’t count the number of times I’ve had to slap that hand down. Lord my ass,’ she said, ignoring my pleas for quiet. She paused. ‘Old Lizzy wouldn’t get hurt, would she? Are you sure, Indie? I mean what …’
Esmerelda parted the golden tablecloths and we peeped out. Gilly and Bettina were both pushing away untouched desserts. They might slip out before the meal was over. Esmerelda was shaking her head. ‘Dude, get on with it. And gimme my phone back.’
‘It would absolutely kill Gilly and Bettina and it would help Dame Elizabeth get closure,’ I blurted. ‘She might even find love.’
Most likely the man in the lilies was not Max and who knows, maybe Max would turn up and they would live happily ever after. Still, I felt like I was going to go to Cupid Hell, via Best Friend Purgatory. I silently promised myself I would make it up to her.
‘Anna?’
‘Done and done,’ she said and resumed drinking.
‘Thank you!’ I said, giving Esmerelda the thumbs up (quite possibly the only time I have given a thumbs up signal while not underwater). ‘Anna, how long do you think—’
‘Oh! My! God!’ Gilly screamed from the other side of the room. ‘That trucking bitch! Bettina, did you see this?’
‘Never mind.’
Anna’s family had made their money in something just slightly more glamorous than dairy cows—trucking transportation. The Del Rico clan were a one hundred per cent Sicilian blood line, so what specifically was transported in those trucks, especially in the early days of the business, was the subject of some speculation. I didn’t care. As a child, and as an adult, I found Anna’s family delightful. Compared to my family, they were practically traditional. They were my port-in-a-storm family.
‘You’re welcome, darling!’ Anna said, signing off.
I returned the phone to Esmerelda and motioned her forward under the cover of our bizarre tablecloth tent city. We had only crawled halfway down the row of unused tables but it was far enough to give us front-row seats to a double-header Gilly and Bettina meltdown. I was hoping they would download while melting down.
Gilly grabbed Bettina’s phone, clicking onto something. ‘Here!’ she said as she shoved it back under her nose. ‘She’s sent you one too!’
‘Classy,’ Esmerelda said, grinning at me under the table.
‘Daddy!’ shouted Gilly. ‘I thought we’d decided this loser wasn’t good enough for Granny! Now he’s marrying her?’
‘What?’ Gregory said, dropping his fork onto his embossed plate, giving his lemon meringue pie a well-earned break. ‘We did. He’s as good as gone.’
‘Anna Del Rico just messaged me asking if it was true that Granny was marrying some magnate from the ass-end-of-the-earth Perth,’ Gilly demanded. ‘Perth! God, she can’t even gossip right.’
Gilly looked nothing like Bettina. One of Bettina’s more irritating features was that she seemed to be in perpetual motion. She was dark and slight and her hair had never seen a straightening iron it didn’t like. Gilly, on the other hand, was a bigger woman, both horizontally and vertically, with fairer hair, usually worn in loose curls around her face to cover her tiny gill holes. Gilly moved at a more regular human pace, if not slower. Which was not to say she was slow. She was a plotter, a planner. Like a boa constrictor.
Gilly, much like her father, spent vast amounts of time and money at health, beauty and wellness spas. Gilly got more value for money than Gregory.
Astor was, without doubt, the genetic jackpot of the family. He was quick like Bettina, clever like Gilly, and graceful and generous like Dame Elizabeth. A pristine model.
Gregory’s thoughts, as limited as they were, revolved around Gregory. He was like a factory second, an overstuffed, tuna mornay pie with filling spilling over its wonky pastry seams. Astor was symmetrical—all his seams lined up.
‘Granny’s dating?’ Bettina asked, looking at her sister and then her father.
‘Yes, you idiot!’ Gilly snapped. ‘While you were off scrutinising some ridiculous vegan napkins, we’ve been taking care of Granny. Fending off some gold-digging geriatric from Adelaide.’
‘They weren’t napkins, they were ecologically sustainable inhouse hygiene wipes. And at least I do my job, Gilly. You spent the first two months of winter trialling food in the south of France. We all know what the food in the south of France tastes like, Gilly. It tastes the same as it did last year and the year before that. It tastes like an all-expenses-paid eight-week vacation.’
‘It was not eight weeks! It was seven and a half, not including flights, and I’ve been sweating it out in the kitchens every day for a month!’ She slammed her fist on the table, making the tea and coffee cups jump.
Bettina eyed Astor. ‘Is that true, Uncle Astor? Has she been in every day?’
Astor gave her a semi-hearty nod. ‘Giuliana’s trying very hard. She’s been in almost every day … well, every weekday, for weeks, except when she’s been under the weather. One can’t help being unwell. Great work, Giuliana!’ he encouraged.
