The Reconstruction of Carla Millhouse (25 page)

Now it was all coming back like the eternal tide.

The doorman greeted her and took her bags over to the elaborate front desk. She was too busy looking around at the ornate décor and hardly noticed the man. Two gentlemen in suits stood behind the desk ready to serve her. About to ask for a room, she was distracted by movement to her right and turned.

Salvatore, of all people, was coming toward her looking just as mouth-watering as he did when they’d first met. However, he wasn’t alone.. Instead, he had his arm possessively around a well-dressed, beautiful woman in her early forties and was whispering something into her ear.

Anger had already replaced Heather’s romantic desire and clouded her judgment with fury, but she could hardly contain herself when they stopped walking and he began to kiss the woman with the passion that had been promised to her.

The neurons in Heather’s head seemed to spark and ignite as she barreled full-speed over to the oblivious couple.

“How could you?”
she spat, her ample chest heaving.

“Heather! What are you doing here?” Salvatore asked as soon as the shock of seeing her wore off.

“You invited me to come. ‘Desperate and alone’, I believe you said.”

“Yes…but a man like me has needs—”

A sharp slap across his face stopped his words. The woman glared at Heather and others moving about the grand lobby stopped to watch the action. This was unexpected excitement. Heather’s hand was poised to slap him again when Salvatore’s arm shot out and grabbed her wrist.

“You’ll never hit me like that again,” he sneered, dark eyes flashing.

Realizing she’d made a spectacle of herself, Heather grabbed her bag and headed for the doors.

She should have known better. Men weren’t to be trusted.

However, she never reached the door.

As if she weren’t embarrassed enough by her scene with Salvatore, the latch on one of her suitcases opened, spilling its contents onto the marble floor. Trying to keep the tears swimming in her eyes from falling, she knelt to sweep the clothing back into the bag.

“Here, let me help you, Signorina,” a deep accented Italian voice said.

She looked up to see an attractive man with beautiful grey-green eyes smiling at her.

“Oh, thank you,” Heather replied, her mind already calculating the possibilities.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The taxi dropped Orson Hemmings off in front of his house early Sunday evening. On the ride over, he steeled himself to what he’d see. The sight of blood had always freaked him out since he was a kid. He’d hoped to get over it as an adult, but the mere sight of that red, life-giving liquid still had the power to sending him reeling.

Perhaps he should have offered Louie more money to strangle her instead. Hindsight. Why hadn’t he ever gotten the great ideas before the fact?

As he approached the front door he heard the dog yapping in the garage. He chuckled. He figured Louie didn’t like the mutt too much and left it there. Inhaling deeply, he steeled himself before he turned the key in the lock. As he opened the door a funky smell assaulted his nasal passages.

He flipped the light switch. The crystal chandelier instantly lighted the room. No matter how much he’d tried to prepare himself on the drive from the airport, nothing could have stopped the nausea that rose from the pit of his stomach. The room spun around him at the sight of all the gore. Bloody chunks of what he guessed to be brain matter had spattered all over the tiled floor across the center hall and walls.

Feeling the bile rising to his throat, Hemmings half-ran, half-slid in blood as he fled the room. He made it to the bathroom and fell to his knees before the commode just in time to vomit up the contents of his stomach. As he barfed, the sickening image of Heather, lying there in a pool of congealed blood with a bloody pulpy mass where her beautiful face once had been, danced before his mind’s eye, the diamond necklace she wore sparkling obscenely.

He groaned.

He could hear the damn dog yelping its head off and scratching in the garage as his stomach heaved and convulsed causing him to spew again. He remained in the bathroom until his stomach finally settled.

The next thing was to call 911 and report Heather’s murder. He would have to sound convincing since the call would be recorded and scrutinized later by the police. He’d seen enough
Law and Order
episodes to know that and would have to watch his every move until his wife’s body was buried and the case closed.

Hemmings lifted the phone receiver, but dropped it as if it were a hot potato. A wave of unexpected uncertainty passed through him. What if the cops didn’t believe his story? Could he hold up under their extensive questioning? No way did he want to spend the rest of his life behind bars because of that bitch.

Then he remembered he had a water-tight alibi. There were two business cards in his pocket to prove it. He had no powder residue on his hands or any other incriminating evidence to link him to Heather’s murder.

Nor did he have any motive.

The investigation by the private investigator he’d hired months ago had shown no reason to kill her. He also had a prenup so he could have divorced her without too much of a dent to his bank account. So, why in the world was he hesitating? Decisively, he grabbed for the phone and keyed in 911.

“I’ve just come home. My wife—Someone’s killed her!” He gasped.

He answered the dispatcher’s questions sounding as upset as he could in order to give the impression he gave a damn. Too bad no one could have seen him spew. Now that would have been helpful to his cause. He shouldn’t have flushed the toilet. Yet, it may have looked odd if he hadn’t.

He looked down at himself. There was a little blood on the lower half of his trousers. He’d probably gotten it on him when he tripped on the way to the bathroom. As much as he wanted to change and wash, he knew the cops had to see him that way. It wouldn’t be long, though. According to the dispatcher, the police were on their way.

While he waited, he thought about what he’d say to them.

Why did he have to rehearse his spiel? With his airtight alibi all he had to do was tell the truth—plain and simple. Still, he was troubled. Would the police find him convincing? He didn’t know how a bereaved husband should behave. And afterward, should he submerge himself in his work—in order to drown his sorrow of the loss of his
beloved
wife—or should he remain at home acting like a man who could no longer face the world without his
ray
of sunshine?

And what about the funeral? He’d have to plan some kind of a sendoff as soon as the police released the body. A devilish thought then occurred to him. Would her former lover attend? What would it matter? He didn’t know the man’s identity. It would have to remain one of the mysteries of life. His thoughts on the subject were cut short by the door chimes signaling the arrival of the police.

Fast
, he mused. Nice to know his taxes were being put to good use.

Hemmings opened the door to two detectives in cheap, off-the-rack polyester suits. Behind them he could see the coroner’s truck, and a police cruiser parked behind an unmarked car. Both detectives flashed their badges.

“I’m detective Price and this is detective Ortega.” The older of the two said. “Is that your dog making all that racket in the garage?”

Hemmings visibly sighed. “It was my wife’s. I never cared for it.”

“Did you put it in there?” Ortega asked.

Hemmings shook his head.

“Must have been the perp,” Price said.

Price looked like he was ready for retirement, overweight and tired looking. He wore a brown suit and what was left of his hair was grey. Ortega looked younger. He was a wiry short man with thick black hair. His blue suit looked just as rumpled as the one Price was wearing. Overworked, probably.

“Be careful where you step,” Hemmings cautioned as he led them inside.

“Jeez!” the younger detective shouted as he jumped back to avoid stepping in the blood.

Then he noticed the blood on Hemmings’ trousers. “What did you do, swim in the stuff?”

“I slid in the blood and nearly broke my neck.”

Price’s complexion blanched a moment before returning to normal. “This is one of the worst I’ve ever seen,” he mumbled. “Shotgun,” he told Ortega.

“Nothing else less than a bazooka could do such damage,” Ortega quipped and received a warning look from his partner.

Both men took a final look before taking Hemmings away from the crime scene so forensics could do their thing. Most of the questions came from Price while Ortega took notes in a small pad. Hemmings explained where he’d been over the weekend, establishing his alibi. He pulled the two business cards from his pocket and handed them over to the older detective. The entire ordeal took about forty minutes. When it was over, Hemmings picked up his overnight bag once more and drove to a hotel. The detectives promised to stay in touch.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Aunt Louise felt a tinge of guilt. She must be mellowing in her old age, she thought, as she lifted the phone to call her niece once more and see if she had gotten the loan from her friend so she could pay off Jake’s gambling debt. All she got was the generic answering machine message to leave her name and purpose of call. She tried three more times that day and couldn’t reach Jessie or Jake. She got worried. Suppose they hadn’t gotten the loan? Either they had fled or… She was unable to complete the thought. She hadn’t figured Jessie might have been in danger, too!

She called Haywood and asked him to go and check things out. He reported back that no one was home and Jake’s truck was gone, so she still had no answers as to her niece’s whereabouts. Then she saw the news flash late Sunday night. Heather Hemmings was murdered!
Had Jessie had anything to do with it?
After a sleepless night, she called the Mercedes dealership and was told that Jessie hadn’t come to work that morning. Now she was truly concerned and contacted the police.

* * *

After sleeping like the dead, Hemmings returned to work on Monday afternoon. When he entered Jessie’s office and found her absent, he went looking for her in the break room. When she was nowhere to be found, he went back into the showroom to speak with Martin. He found the younger man in a wrinkled suit sporting a day’s worth of stubble on his usually clean-shaven face, looking dazed.

“Did they find out who killed Heather?” Martin asked.

“How did you know about that?” Hemmings asked Martin.

“It’s all over the news.”

Hemmings sighed. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come out so soon.” Trying to look as if he were going to cry, the older man said, “She was murdered while I was away this weekend.” Then turning his full attention to Martin, he asked, “Why do
you
look like crap?”

“Carla threw me out. Been living out of a suitcase.”

Hemmings grunted. “By the way, have you seen Jessie?”

Martin wasn’t prepared for Hemmings’ abrupt transition. “Jessie? No. I haven’t since Friday, I think.”

“How strange,” Hemmings thought and walked away, leaving Martin gaping at him.

Martin sat dazed, staring down into his coffee cup. He’d been thinking about Heather all morning. How could she be dead? Had he just lost both of the women in his life with the blink of an eye? It would explain why Heather hadn’t returned any of his calls.

“Where can we find Orson Hemmings?” a deep voice asked, interrupting Martin’s thoughts.

Martin looked up at the two men who obviously fit the stereotype of detectives. “In his office. Through there,” he pointed, “third door on the left.”

After they’d gone, Martin was left with his thoughts again. Who would want to kill Heather? Suddenly, the strange conversation he’d had with Heather in the hotel, when she told him how much she wanted him, replayed in his head. It was also at that time that she had asked him to help her kill Orson so that they could always be together.

Jesus H. Christ! Had Orson beaten her to the punch?

No. It couldn’t have been. He was miles away in Las Vegas. But, what if Orson had hired a hit man to kill Heather, instead?

* * *

Price and Ortega found Hemmings sitting behind his desk looking at the specs of the new showroom left by the contractor. A faint look of surprise flicked across his face before he greeted them.

“Do you have news about my wife’s murder?”

“When was the last time you saw Jessie Thompson?” Detective Price asked.

“Right before I left for Vegas last Friday.”

“Her aunt is worried about her,” Ortega added. “Seems she and her husband have up and disappeared.”

“This is not like her. She’s the most efficient, level-headed woman I know.”

“Did you know that her husband had a gambling problem?” Price asked.