The MV
Neptuna
was hard to miss, a two-storey paddle steamer all done up with lights, orchestral music emanating from the top deck. A red carpet, its entry barred by two burly security guards, stretched from the promenade all the way up the gangplank and was surrounded by press photographers. Women in glittering ballgowns strolled down the carpet, arm in arm with men wearing flamboyant suits. Their feathered and sequined masks were attached to sticks so they could easily expose their faces as they posed and simpered for the paparazzi. I recognised a few people from the social pages at the back of the Sunday papers: weathergirls, pay-TV hosts, socialites.
I slipped my mask on. It was made of black felt, shaped like cat’s-eyes and secured to my head with a thin band of elastic, which suited me just fine. I didn’t want anyone seeing my face. The bouncers scanned the barcode on my invite and unlatched the velvet rope to let me in.
Photographers asked who I was, but I ignored them, hitched my skirts and rushed up the gangplank. Cinderella in reverse, racing
towards
the ball. Once I was onboard a liveried waiter handed me a glass of expensive-tasting champagne and I followed the rest of the crowd through a lower deck done up with red velvet curtains and gilt-edged mirrors. I couldn’t tell if the place was supposed to resemble a fancy brothel or a salon in the Palace of Versailles.
The top deck was open to the sky, and decorated with more of the ornate furniture I’d seen below. Couches, poufs and Louis XIV chairs had been pushed to the edge of a dance floor packed with guests chattering and quaffing champers. Coloured lanterns dangled from the railings, and at the rear of the deck I saw a small stage and a table stacked high with copies of Victoria’s new book,
Masquerade.
On either side of the table huge cardboard stands held blow-up images of the front cover. Under the title a beautiful blonde in a ballgown had lowered her mask and arranged her features into an expression of orgasmic rapture. In the background a mysterious caped figure stood beside a horse and carriage in front of a country manor.
To the left of the stage, in the corner, a string quartet played a waltz. With everyone in costume it was easy to imagine you were at a masked ball a couple of hundred years ago—if you ignored the neon lights of the Melbourne skyline on the north side of the Yarra, and the glowing casino tower on the south. Could have been a fun party if me and Chloe had been able to run amuck, but I was there to work. Not that I had a clue how I was gonna play it. I hadn’t even glimpsed Victoria Hitchens, and didn’t know how the hell I’d approach her, or what I’d say when I did.
I wandered around for a while, eating canapés, trying not to drink too much, and smiling at people in a vague sort of way. Everyone had their own interpretation of the theme, and even the century, with some men in wigs and waistcoats and one guy going around like a harlequin, although he could have been part of the staff. Most of the women had gone the corset route and I was confronted by an awful lot of up-thrust breasts, some soft and pillowy, others poking out of bodices like baseballs.
Engines rumbled and water churned as the boat began pulling away from the dock, the smell of brine and diesel mixing with the perfume and hairspray of the guests. Other boats passed, strung up with coloured lights and blasting out cheesy disco or thudding electronica. We sailed past Federation Square, the tennis centre, Olympic Park and the botanical gardens, before heading back to the city. At this point the band stopped playing and a woman who looked a little like a fairy godmother took the stage and tapped the mike.
She introduced herself as Victoria’s publisher and spoke for a while about how wonderful Victoria was, how many copies her books sold, and told the crowd a little about
Masquerade
, calling it ‘a sweeping, turn-of-the-century saga of one woman’s journey from the slums of Bucharest to the French royal court and eventually stardom on the great stages of Europe. A story of ambition, love, loss, betrayal and the wild triumphs and bitter tragedies that result when someone refuses to give up on a dream.’
She finished: ‘It gives me great pleasure to welcome the woman of the hour, our lovely author, Victoria Hitchens.’
The band struck up a triumphal march, the crowd parted like the Red Sea, and Victoria made her appearance. She was done up like a Disney princess in a jewel-encrusted ivory gown, her tiny waist corseted tight and her massive jugs squeezed halfway up to her chin. Her long blonde hair was immaculately coiffed, the front strands piled on her head and secured with a diamante tiara, the rest hanging loose in waves of bouncing ringlets. I couldn’t believe I’d compared myself to Cinderella. Next to her I was an ugly sister, for sure.
‘Thank you so much for coming,’ Victoria said, her voice low and newsreader-smooth. ‘And for helping to celebrate the launch of my third novel,
Masquerade.
The idea for the book first came to me on a trip to France. I was visiting the Palais Garnier—the Opéra National de Paris—and saw an old gelatin photograph of a beautiful woman onstage in eighteen twenty-two. On my return to Australia the image continued to haunt me and eventually became my heroine, Gisele. I feel so privileged to have been the one to tell her story, and I hope you’ll enjoy taking this journey with her too. As my wonderful publisher said,
Masquerade
is about believing in your dreams, having the courage to overcome adversity, and the transformative power of true love.’
As everyone applauded I heard a snort behind me and turned to see who it was. A man in a heavily brocaded evening jacket was leaning over the railing, smoking, and gulping from a wine glass covered in greasy fingerprints. He looked forty-something, with a ruddy, bloated face and thinning hair mussed by the breeze. I figured he’d been on the booze for the better part of the day. And maybe something else. The rims of his nostrils were red and matched his bloodshot eyes.
‘Don’t you believe in the transformative power of true love?’ I asked, mock-serious.
He rolled his eyes and flicked his cigarette butt overboard, straightened up and moved closer to me. A little too close.
‘Spare me. If I have to hear about one more plucky heroine getting her bodice ripped by evil Count Van-der-fuck I’m going to shoot myself in the head. Of course, it is a nice little earner. The ducks love it, moistens the gussets of their support hose. Do I know you?’ He had a slightly camp, vaguely English-sounding accent which I was sure was put on.
‘I don’t think so. My name’s Vivien, I work for Wet Ink Press.’
Vivien had been my stripping name so I always used it as an alias: easy to remember and just rolled right off the tongue.
‘Hamish Kingston, otherwise known as
Mr
Victoria Hitchens.’ He swayed slightly, and not just from the movement of the boat.
‘Her husband?’
‘Nicely deduced. Ten points for you.’
‘How long have you been married?’ I asked.
‘Too fucking long. Ha ha. Ten years.’
‘Children?’
‘You have to have sex to have children.’
I pretended to laugh at his joke while he stared drunkenly at my boobs, the tops of which were wobbling above my corset like a couple of crèmes caramels. There was something deeply creepy about him, but if he’d been married to Victoria for ten years he’d have known Isabella too, so I stuck around. Wouldn’t hurt to find out what he knew.
‘I haven’t actually met your wife, but I did know a friend of hers. Isabella Bishop? Terrible what happened.’
‘Mmm,’ he grunted and lit another cigarette. ‘Well, people are capable of all sorts of things.’
‘You think Nick killed her, then?’
‘Only met him a couple of times. Seemed nice enough, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d provoked him. She
was
the type. I knew her quite well, she used to go out with a friend of mine, back in the days when it was all happy families and everyone was still alive.’
A waiter walked past, and Hamish clicked his fingers and grabbed another red wine from the tray.
‘And bring some snacks,’ he told the waiter. ‘Not that horrible vegetarian tart, either. I want the Peking duck, and that thing with the salmon on it.’
‘What type?’ I asked him.
‘Huh?’
‘You said Isabella was
that type
. What did you mean?’
‘A ball-breaker, drama queen. If she wasn’t actually playing around on James she’d make him think she was. Great screaming rows, but she loved the attention. Even more than the money.’
‘What money?’
‘James was—is—an investment banker, like me. Market was going through the roof in those days: seriously, we could do no wrong, bloody rolling in it. Always said I wanted to earn my first million by thirty-five, but I’d made a fair bit more than that by thirty. Course the market’s gone to shit now, but jeez we had some fun. Pity James was stuck with her. Not that she wasn’t gorgeous, but what a nightmare. Now, I’d never advocate violence against women, but what she needed was a good smack. James never touched her though, supported her so she could swan around uni pretending to be a writer, then she paid him back by running off with one of her married lecturers.’ The waiter arrived with a tray of canapés and Hamish took a handful, actually releasing his glass so he could eat. He licked his fingers suggestively. ‘Say, why don’t you take off the mask?’
‘Not till midnight.’
‘You’re quite the mysterious minx, Miss Vivien. You know, I’m hoping that by twelve everyone will be sufficiently lubricated that the party might start to resemble the only good scene in
Eyes Wide Shut
.’ He wiggled his eyebrows so that I’d get the point.
‘What would your wife think about that?’
‘Unfortunately, she doesn’t believe in the transformative power of a good screw.’
He laughed at his own joke, then moved in close and put one clammy hand on my bare shoulder and kneaded it a little. His fingers felt greasy.
‘Actually,’ he said, looking from left to right and lowering his voice, ‘I’m thinking it might be time for another bump, if you’re so inclined.’ He sniffed and rubbed his nose. Nice of him to give me so many visual clues.
‘I would, but I’ve just seen one of our authors.’ I pointed into the crowd. ‘Maybe later?’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’ He gave my shoulder another squeeze.
H
amish headed downstairs to the bathrooms and I did my best to melt into the crowd, wondering why every sleazebag in the country seemed drawn to me. Maybe the residue of stripping clung to me like cheap perfume. Talking to Hamish had made my skin crawl and I doubted he’d told me anything useful. Only one thing stuck in my mind. What had he meant by
back in the days when everyone was still alive
? Was he just talking about Isabella, or other people who’d died?
I kept an eye on Victoria, but couldn’t get near her; she was surrounded by people, constantly getting her photo taken and still being trailed by the two-man documentary team. Still, she’d been sipping champagne for over an hour and no woman’s bladder was an island. She’d have to go sometime. I ate more canapés, avoided her husband, and bided my time.
Just before nine everyone gathered on the deck to watch the start of the fireworks, and I noticed Victoria slip away. I followed her downstairs to the lower deck where the toilets were located, close to the rear of the boat, and waited outside, pretending to inspect a black and white photograph of an olden-days showgirl. When she came out I almost missed her. Instead of walking past me to ascend the stairs, she slipped off to the stern.
I followed and found her leaning on a railing, looking over the water as she lit a cigarette. She jumped slightly when she saw me.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘Oh, it’s not that. For a second I thought you were a photographer.’
‘You hiding?’
‘As long as it takes to have a ciggie. Can’t have pictures of me smoking up a storm.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m patron of the bloody Cancer Council. You try and leak this I’ll deny it.’
‘Secret’s safe as long as I can bludge one off you.’
‘Sure.’ She handed me a pack of Winfield, which surprised me. I would have thought she’d have some fancy brand, Cocktail Sobranies, Cartiers or at least Dunhill. I noticed something else incongruous about her as well. Her voice wasn’t nearly as well modulated as it had been up on stage. She wasn’t exactly a bogan, but her vowels had lengthened and a slight ocker accent was peeping through.
‘Damn this is good.’ She sucked back deeply and put one foot up on the railing, not so much a poised princess as a plumber on smoko. ‘Can I’ve a sip of your champagne?’
‘Go for your life.’ I handed it over.
‘I hate these things,’ she said.
‘Cigarettes?’
‘No, book launches! Does that sound awful? Most people would kill to have a book published and here I am, complaining . . .’ She looked at my face. ‘I’m sorry, but have we met? It’s a little hard to tell with your mask. You can take it off, you know. Isn’t it digging into your skin?’
‘A bit.’ I slid my mask to the top of my head.
‘I do know you. You’re from Brandenburg, right? Publicity? Editorial? I remember your face. God, this is embarrassing, but I meet so many pe—’
‘We’ve never actually met, but I would like to speak with you. I’m Simone Kirsch.’
‘I’ve heard that name.’
‘I’m a private—’
‘The stripper who found Isabella’s body! Jesus. What are you doing here?’ Her eyes were wide and her mouth was hanging open. She didn’t look angry, just amazed. ‘I know I didn’t invite you and I doubt my publicist did.’
‘I’m trying to help Nick.’
‘Why? Didn’t he burst into your place with a gun?’
‘Yeah, but he wasn’t trying to hurt me. I think he wanted my help. I’m working on the theory that he didn’t actually kill Isabella and someone’s setting him up and blackmailing him in the process. I just need to find out why.’
So much for a clever ruse. I hoped to hell she liked Nick and didn’t yell for the cops.
‘Did someone hire you?’