Murder most fancy, p.1
Murder Most Fancy, page 1
KELLIE McCOURT has worked as a national and international television anchor, scriptwriter, producer and reporter. Kellie is also an experienced print journalist and magazine editor.
She has a double BA in Journalism and Creative Writing from Curtin University, studied journalism in SE Asia and completed a postgrad scholarship program at UNSW. Alas, her mother is still waiting for her to ‘get a real job’, like a lawyer. Or an accountant.
Kellie had a misspent youth as a wayward socialite, and loves shoes, friends, reading, shoes and baked goods.
Kellie is passionate about creating entertaining, gender empowering stories. She lives in Sydney with her two incredible children and two scruffy toy poodles.
Also by Kellie McCourt
Heiress on Fire
harpercollins.com.au/hq
To my girlfriends, I dedicate this book to you. Your support is so appreciated.
I hope that writing funny, twisty, diverse murder mysteries without commodifying sexual violence against women or children makes your lives safer and more secure, as well as the lives of your children, and their children.
CONTENTS
Also by Kellie McCourt
Chapter 1: The Garden Miser
Chapter 2: Two Odd Feet
Chapter 3: Grand Requests
Chapter 4: Hitchhikers
Chapter 5: Nothing Doing
Chapter 6: The No-Fly List
Chapter 7: Gatecrashers
Chapter 8: Under the Table
Chapter 9: The Morning After
Chapter 10: Secrets, Faith and Dentures
Chapter 11: This Bites
Chapter 12: Tricks
Chapter 13: Bake Out
Chapter 14: Ducking Out
Chapter 15: Whiteboards and Snapple
Chapter 16: I’ve got your Redback
Chapter 17: Grape Fanta
Chapter 18: Tunnel of Love
Chapter 19: Unwanted Services
Chapter 20: Driven
Chapter 21: A Bathroom with a View
Chapter 22: Mui Mui, Is That You?
Chapter 23: Come Fly With Me
Chapter 24: Committed
Chapter 25: Batman in Chanel
Chapter 26: Family
Chapter 27: A Long Time Ago
Chapter 28: Money Well Spent
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
THE GARDEN MISER
I was sitting quietly in the morning sun, sipping freshly squeezed juice, having popped around the corner from Mother’s Barbie Life in the Dream House Vaucluse mansion to Grandmother’s Downton Abbey Vaucluse mansion to borrow a cup of sugar and to admire her spring bulbs.
‘I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU EXPECT US TO PAY THAT KIND OF MONEY FOR THIS!’
Well, I might have known Grandmother was away in London this week. And by sugar, I mean a tiny Vermeer oil painting. And a minuscule Monet. Both simply borrowed, you understand.
I might not actually have been in direct sunlight per se; rather, I was laid out inside Grandmother’s enormous glass orchid palace, with hundreds of handcrafted hanging baskets lined with dazzling green sphagnum moss suspended from the transparent ceiling by copper rods, brimming with white Cattleya orchids. The vast polished concrete floor thick with giant ceramic pots of vibrant blue Vandas, pink Cymbidiums and purple-blooming Phalaenopsis. Impossible to pronounce, but very pretty to look at.
And by juice, I mean a caipiroska. Which is full of lime juice.
‘IT CANNOT POSSIBLY TAKE A TEAM OF YOU THREE MONTHS TO GROW A FEW BULBS!’
Spring in Sydney is usually a happy time. Bulbs planted in the winter work their way up through the rich dirt, blooming into a rainbow of tulips, fragrant oriental lilies and bright daffodils. The more spectacular the spring garden, the more adulation the proud estate owner receives, and the larger the garden staff’s Christmas bonuses. The Gorgeous Garden Game is a kind of win-win spring sport that doesn’t involve horses, shooting or a roulette table.
‘AM I SUPPOSED TO BE IMPRESSED BY THESE PALTRY TULIPS, CLAIRE?’
The obnoxious voice belonged to Bettina Holly, a classic Garden Miser. The Garden Miser is a child or grandchild who thinks all estate expenses, from garden staff wages to life-support bills, should be cut to the bone or, better yet, switched off and the resulting surplus diverted directly into their trust fund.
Having Christian and surnames hyphenated four times (my name is Indigo-Daisy-Violet-Amber Hasluck-Royce-Jones-Bombberg) means I have multiple trust funds. I don’t want any additional funds diverted into any of them. This doesn’t mean I want less—I have a certain lifestyle to maintain. My point is I am in no rush to turn off anyone’s hoses.
I didn’t usually give much thought to the Gorgeous Garden Game. After all, my primary residence was the three-storey penthouse of a recently exploded Double Bay apartment building. Not much ongoing gardening there. However, the louder Bettina the Garden Miser shrieked, the more I felt the borrowed paintings, wrapped carefully in silk scarves and sitting safely in the bottom of my black leather Bottega Veneta Cabat, glow with not-quite-yet-bequeathed, could-possibly-technically-be-considered larceny.
In my defence, Grandmother has so many and I needed the art to freshen up Mother’s pool house, where I was residing until the insurance company and the local council deigned to cooperate long enough to rebuild said three exploded storeys. While it’s true that my living arrangements had changed because my penthouse had been set on fire by me, it was a complete accident. I was not responsible for the exploding part either. Okay, maybe I was technically responsible for some of the little explosions, but not the giant fatal ones.
‘YOU THINK THIS IS A GOOD RESULT?’
I may have also set my husband, Dr Richard Bombberg MBBS FRACS, a shortish, endearingly plump, thinning blond-haired, uber-conservative, ultra-reliable, reconstructive plastic surgeon and a very loyal sex worker named Crystal Devine, on fire. Another terrible accident. I should clarify that their deaths were not my doing, even though I had been the prime suspect.
A video of me escaping said fire while on fire was watched by two billion people. A torrent of Heiress on Fire tabloid and social media gossip followed. Overnight I went from mysterious, elusive billionairess to black widow, social circus freak. Mortifying.
According to the best PR women in New York, London, Singapore and Sydney, a scandal of this magnitude would take two to three years to fade from the minds of polite society. And that’s assuming Extremely Good Behaviour and Zero Publicity on my part. On the upside, being a disgraced billionaire social pariah has saved me from having to attend dozens of dull parties, at least six weddings and innumerable fundraisers for charities no one has ever heard of.
As tempting as it was to hide out on a host of incredible tropical islands forever (I’d spent many, many months island hopping, so believe me, two to three years on any island is forever), I realised I needed to come home to Australia. I was not exactly sure what I was coming back to do, but whatever it was, I was going to do it extremely quietly.
‘IF GRANDFATHER WERE ALIVE, HE WOULD NEVER HAVE ALLOWED SUCH WASTE!’
Bettina is the granddaughter of Grandmother’s neighbour and, despite all odds, best friend (not that Grandmother would admit to having a best friend), Dame Elizabeth Holly. Bettina is a petite, mousey brunette who has fewer muscles than a banana and, if my childhood memory served—I attended St Ignatius Ladies College (SILC) with Bettina and her sister Gilly—ate nothing from the fun food groups.
Unlike Bettina, Gilly or Grandmother, Dame Elizabeth is a lovely woman: kind, generous and gentle. She donates a shocking amount to the liberal arts and although her granddaughters are neither liberal nor artistic, she donates a shocking amount to them too.
‘WELL?! SPEAK, CLAIRE! SPEAK! SAY SOMETHING!’
Through the gaps in the orchid-clad glass wall, I could see Bettina standing at the edge of Dame Elizabeth’s garden, shrieking at a shell-shocked, khaki-clad middle-aged woman desperately clutching a couple of gardening tools. That had to be Claire. Poor, unfortunate Claire. Claire who was now desperately looking around for something—perhaps Dame Elizabeth to use as a human shield, or a seed bag with which to suffocate Bettina.
‘PRIZE-WINNING?! I DOUBT IT!’ Bettina yelled, pointing to a row of metre-high tulips with heads the size of teacups.
Tulips are to Dame Elizabeth’s enormous garden what orchids are to Grandmother’s glass palace. Her garden is a sea of flowers. If she chose to turn commercial, Dame Elizabeth could give the Netherlands a run for its money in the tulip exportation game.
With immaculate timing, Esmerelda exited Grandmother’s scullery and sauntered down the garden path into the orchid palace while snacking on a sandwich inconceivably wide with filling.
‘Dude,’ she managed between bites, ‘that chick next door’s pissed about them flowers.’
‘Where is my caipiroska?’ I asked, inspecting my now-empty glass.
She shrugged. ‘I dunno. Who the hell’s John Quills?’
Bettina had stopped yelling about tulips and had moved on to the jonquils.
‘Jonquils,’ I explained, joining the flower back into one piece.
‘Huh?’ she asked, shaking her head, pointing her half-eaten sandwich at me.
‘It’s a flower. A type of daffodil.’
‘I get it.’ She nodded, taking another bite. ‘Like River.’
It was my turn to deliver a blank look.
‘You know, Jonquil, and like, River.’
& nbsp; Working the lanky surfer out was like trying to escape from mental quicksand. The more you resisted, the more trapped you became.
‘Rain,’ she said loudly between chomps, raising her voice to be heard over Bettina’s yelling. ‘Summer!’
I tried not to struggle. It was almost always best to breathe deeply, assume the prayer position and wait for the sand to stop moving.
‘Phoenix,’ she said once she’d finished her sandwich. ‘You know, River Phoenix. Jonquil Phoenix. The actor dudes. They’ve all got them nature names. Rain and Summer Phoenix.’
See?
Esmerelda is a five foot ten Asian–Australian with a rap sheet of suspected crimes almost as long as she is. She has impossible cheekbones, naturally flawless skin and long silky shampoo ad hair. Her beach-browned body is too toned for someone who has never seen the inside of a gym and too thin to be fair. Esmerelda is like a Limited Edition crocodile Birkin bag—with the teeth left in.
I am not remotely exotic. I come from all British and western European stock, am at least an inch shorter, bounce between size 10 and 12 (okay, mainly 12), have bright green eyes, skin that is only flawless thanks to high-priced pharmacological adherence, and too-thick long brown hair that requires highlights and daily professional maintenance.
When Esmerelda’s luck at dodging convictions finally ran out, she found herself in Silverwater Women’s Correctional Centre. Which is where my mother found her, up for parole, and the perfect candidate for Mother’s latest pet project—the absurd, but very real and state-sanctioned Model Mentor Prison Program.
My mother is Catherine ‘The Cat’ Jones. Yes, that Cat Jones. The flawless, semi-retired, six-foot, super slim, supremely gorgeous blonde supermodel, super mogul, semi-Buddhist woke guru.
If you think that sounds wonderful then you stand next to her in a bikini.
While modelling loved Esmerelda—she walked for Dior and Gucci in her first few weeks of freedom—she did not love it. She did not like being touched by strangers. Or being told what to do. Or wearing anything except spray-on jeans and T-shirts. Esmerelda would rather skirt the law than wear an actual skirt. Even if the skirt is Chanel. And the designers at Chanel are willing to pay her to wear it. This was problematic.
Being gainfully (ahem, legally) employed was and remains one of Esmerelda’s parole conditions. Given her limited legitimate employment history and her dislike of modelling, she ended up with me. Richard’s death devastated me, and I had needed someone unconventional to assist me in addressing the many issues that arose from being a mourning widow and a double homicide suspect. Esmerelda was uniquely qualified.
Technically speaking, Esmerelda is my personal shopper, although I would die before I let her shop for me. For anything. And that includes basics like bread and water. Her role lands closest to Extremely Unique Personal Assistant (EUPA).
Shockingly, we work well together and were able to find Richard and Crystal’s killer. Then again, not finding the killer could have landed us both in jail, so we were highly motivated. Regardless, it was an enormous relief—for a while there, even I thought I was guilty.
I always thought Esmerelda would be an improper influence on me, and she is, but to be fair, I may also be a tiny, ever so slightly, not completely law-abiding influence on her. Only when absolutely required though. Such as when one needs a Monet.
After the real murderer was arrested, I went into hiding in the Phi Phi islands, dragging Esmerelda with me. I needed time to grieve, time to think. Some people fake their deaths; Richard, my perfect, nutritious, Bran Muffin husband had, as it turned out, faked his life. Which meant that the life I’d thought I had with him was an illusion.
Esmerelda was walking along the inside edge of the glasshouse, tapping at the polished concrete floor with her sneaker-clad foot.
God, the sneakers. I cannot discuss it.
Bettina continued to berate the poor gardener. She seemed determined, through sheer volume, to trip someone’s security alarm or awaken one of the ancient security guards.
‘For goodness sake, Bettina!’ I shouted through the glass wall. ‘Be quiet!’
Bettina’s voice paused momentarily, as if she had heard me, then started up again.
‘LOOK AT THESE, CLAIRE! THERE ARE CRAWLY BUGS ALL OVER THEM!’
She was not going to stop. Ever. And I had my eye on a sweet little Ming vase that would look fabulous in the pool house kitchen. Its addition to my tote would be difficult if Grandmother’s security guard woke up.
I found myself involuntarily up and out of my intensely padded Titanic-style deckchair. I stalked out of the orchid palace and down the path towards the perfectly trimmed chest-high boxwood hedge that separated the two properties.
‘They’re ladybugs, Ms Bettina,’ Claire said. ‘Ladybugs eat aphids. That’s a good thing.’
‘Excuses, Claire, excuses! And I’ve told you before, address me as Lady Bettina.’
Many modern Australians are embarrassed by their inherited English titles and either never mention them or actively hide them. Not Bettina. She attempted to have all her SILC teachers call her Lady Bettina. It was not a popular move.
The stone pathway was annoyingly uneven and was wreaking havoc on my balance and my heels, so I broke a cardinal etiquette rule by gluing my eyes to my feet. I’d had some bad experiences with heels and tripping. It can lead to surprisingly flammable catastrophes.
I was wearing ankle-length grey Dior Homme pants, so I had a clear view of my feet (which were encased in a pair of perfectly manageable Jimmy Choo stilettos), and a pale tailored silk shirt, buttoned bra-line low in rebellion. Which was fine because Grandmother was 17,000 kilometres away. Even so, I could hear her voice in my head. Indigo! For goodness sake, look up, child! Your feet cannot possibly be that interesting. Why is your shirt like that? Have you lost half of your buttons?
I slowed my stalk to a walk and peeled my eyes off the ground.
‘Bettina!’ I growled venomously. ‘Be. Quiet!’
Even from a distance I could see Bettina’s head swivel towards me and her eyes narrow. It had been years since I had seen her in person. I was astonished to discover her nose had changed shape yet again.
‘Look what the cat dragged in, Claire,’ Bettina said, not looking at Claire. ‘It’s Cat’s Little Kitten, Indi-slow.’
Bettina had been using the same witty taunt since the third grade.
Claire was sharp enough to know a diversion when she saw one. She began backing away from the briefly distracted Bettina. ‘I’m going to find Dame Lizzy. She can explain the jonquils better than me.’
‘You mean Dame Elizabeth,’ Bettina snarled, her head snapping back to see Claire’s swift retreat.
‘Right you are, Ms Bettina,’ Claire said, her head nodding as she ran. ‘I’ll go get Dame Lizzy Holly.’
‘But she’s not home,’ Bettina yelled after her.
Too late. Claire was gone. I didn’t expect her back. Wise.
Bettina made an exasperated face and turned her attention to me. ‘Shouldn’t you be in jail or something for killing your dead husband?’
We weren’t eight anymore; I was going to rise above the insults.
‘Bettina, please, just be quiet,’ I said, desperately trying to channel some serenity. ‘We don’t all need to know what you think about your grandmother’s gardener.’
With my eyes confidently fixed on Bettina, I navigated my way down the last section of the garden path, twisting between hedges and beds of fresh spring flowers. I peered more closely at her. ‘What on earth are you wearing? Did you steal that poor woman’s clothes as well as her dignity?’
It just popped out. In fairness, they didn’t teach serenity at SILC. And Bettina was sporting an awful lot of khaki and there were pockets in everything. I could not see her feet, but my money was on Birkenstocks.
‘Shut up, Indigo!’ she spat, dusting dirt off her cargo pants. ‘Shouldn’t you have your hooks in another dull pudgy accountant by now?’
I was busy ignoring the fact that Richard was a reconstructive plastic surgeon, not a bookkeeper, as I attempted to correct my footing and stay upright on the rocky garden path. Perhaps manageable was not the best word to describe my shoes. I was more falling than walking towards the hedge line.
