The Reconstruction of Carla Millhouse (23 page)

“Jessie! What’s wrong?”

“I need your help.” Jessie sounded as if she’d break out in tears at any given moment.

“Come inside. We can talk. Orson’s away.” Heather closed the door and followed Jessie inside. She took Jessie into the den. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

Jessie shook her head no, but Heather walked over to the wet bar and poured two glasses of wine, anyway. Her friend looked like she needed something to help settle her nerves. She handed a glass to Jessie who clasped it between both her trembling hands before setting it down on the cocktail table.

“I really didn’t want to come to you—but I’m desperate and have nowhere else to turn. You’ve to help me!” Jessie grabbed at Heather’s arm before she sat down with such urgency she nearly knocked the wine off the table.

Heather knew she owed Jessie. If it wasn’t for her, she would have been snagged by that PI her husband had hired. “What’s wrong, Jessie?”

“Jake’s in serious trouble. He’s gotten in over his head with some bookie.”

“How much does he owe?”

Jessie gulped down some of the wine. “Fif…fifteen-thousand dollars.”

“Christ! I dunno…Hmm…maybe ten—”

“They’re gonna kill him if he doesn’t come up with all the money!”

Heather saw the naked desperation in Jessie’s eyes. She needed all of her money for her new life away from Orson, however, she couldn’t let Jessie down. An idea came to her. She unclasped her new diamond necklace and slipped it around Jessie’s neck. “Here, take this. It’s got to be worth at least five grand. I’ll go get my checkbook for the rest. It’s upstairs in my purse.”

Jessie grabbed Heather’s hands in hers. Breathing hard she cried, “I’ll pay you back every cent. Thank you!”

The doorbell rang as Heather climbed the stairs with Lovey in her wake. Thinking it was the delivery Orson had mentioned, she called, “Get that for me, Jessie, I’m expecting a delivery.”

“Sure.”

Jessie went to the front door and opened it. Her eyes widened as she stared into the business end of a sawed-off shotgun.

“Orson sends his love.”

Her brain hadn’t even the time to process what her eyes had seen or what she’d heard before her entire world was obliterated with the flick of a finger as the rest of her body sank to the marble floor.

“Who was at the door, Jessie and what the hell was that noise?” Heather asked as she rushed down the steps with Lovey in her wake. The words caught in her throat as she saw her friend’s body lying on the floor, in a gory pool of blood. Her head was almost totally destroyed above the gleaming necklace. The front door was still open but there was no one there.

“Oh, my God! Jessie!” Heather screamed staring at the splattered gore. That could have been her. In a flash of understanding Heather realized that it was
meant
to be her. “Screw the money!” She was taking the first flight out of there.
I can’t believe it! Poor, Jessie
. Heather scooped up the dog before it could run into the mess and put her in the garage.

She closed the front door and raced back upstairs. Tripping on the fourth step, she got up and continued to hustle the rest of the way. When she reached her bedroom, she forced herself to take deep calming breaths to rein in her emotions. Then she pulled out a large suitcase from a storage closet. She threw in the essentials. Before leaving the room, she made sure it looked neat. If she wanted to fool Orson, the last thing she needed was to have it look like she hastily packed clothes and bolted.

Back downstairs, she went back to the kitchen and washed the wine glasses. Placing her cell phone in a purse, she left it on the kitchen counter. Then she grabbed Jessie’s purse and car keys from the coffee table and left through the rear of the house. Driving Jake’s beat up pickup truck to the airport, Heather hoped she had erased all traces that Jessie had ever been there. She wanted that pig Orson to think she was dead. That way, he wouldn’t come after her.

* * *

When Carla left the last message on Richard’s answering machine, she’d hoped he’d call back soon. Now that she realized how much she cared for him, she had this burning desire to let him know—like yesterday. She could hardly focus her attention on anything else. Like a kid with Attention Deficit Disorder, she couldn’t sit still.

As she paced aimlessly in circles, wondering why she hadn’t heard from him, doubts chipped away at her resolve. Despite her new found self-assurance, she found some insecurities resurfacing. Quickly one awful thought after another filled her head.

Then her mind wrapped around the worst of the lot.

Richard had moved on and no longer cared for her. He’d even found a new love interest. That thought especially hurt! Perhaps she shouldn’t have called him and asked to meet. The more she dwelled on it, the more she regretted her actions and felt like a fool.

To end this matter before it drove her crazy, she decided to give Richard a day or so to respond to her. At that point, she’d call one more time before she forced herself to leave him be. She wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt—and herself some breathing room. He could be totally immersed in the case and not have the time to check his calls. She wanted so much to believe that one.

Why was life so crazy? Or was it merely her? Why didn’t she want Martin now that he wanted her? When he’d made love to her the night before, it was Richard’s face she envisioned at the moment of climax. How she’d wished it had been Richard’s hands that touched her, not Martin’s. Carla doubted she’d ever be able to make love with Martin again. She no longer loved him. She felt a new resolve surge through her. No matter what, whether Richard cared for her or not, she intended to ask Martin for a divorce. She and Blondie would be just fine.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Heather was still shaking as she sat nursing a drink in a darkened lounge at the Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix waiting for her flight to Italy to board. Rather than call Salvatore, she decided to check into the St. Regis and surprise him. She wanted to think of her future with him, but her mind kept replaying the scene at her house.

She had slipped up somehow and triggered Orson’s rancor. Whatever it was had to be serious enough to get him to hire someone to kill her. How had he found out that she’d been trying to put his lights out?

Heather held the cold glass against her throbbing forehead. Over and over again, she sifted through her memory of the events leading up to Jessie’s murder, but she could glean nothing new. She had to be overlooking something, but what?

How she wished there hadn’t been such a long wait before take-off. Heather wanted to wrap her mind around Salvatore and his slow hands, but all she could think of was poor Jessie’s lifeless body.

* * *

Orson Hemmings sipped a drink in the cocktail lounge of the hotel hosting the convention with two other dealership owners. These two men were matching bookends from Texas dressed alike in their beige linen leisure suits and oversized white cowboy hats and spit-shined black boots. Their hearty laughs were loud and annoying, but they provided him with the perfect alibi. Hemmings hoped he’d never have to be graced by their company again. Besides, this one time would remain in his memory for a long, long time.

His cell phone vibrated. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled it out. One glance at the screen told him who was calling.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. “I need to take this.” Attempting to remain calm, he rose from his chair and flipped open his phone as he walked toward the restrooms. When he was out of hearing range he answered, “Yes?”

“It’s done,” A tar-paper sounding voice whispered before the connection was broken.

Hemmings smiled to himself and returned to his chair.

“Good news?” Jonas, the older of the two men, asked.

“The very best. An adversary just went under.”

“Then let’s celebrate with another round,” Jonas suggested and waved at the waitress.

Hemmings could hardly keep his mind on the inane conversation. A nagging thought had wormed its way from the back of his mind toward the forefront. Why had he waited so long? When the blush had first left the rose and he’d seen Heather for what she really was—a cold-hearted money pit—why hadn’t he had her whacked then?

One of the bookends raised his glass and made a toast. Hemmings clinked first his glass and then the other man’s with his own before downing the rest of his drink. Another round had been ordered. He was going to be piss drunk, but he’d survive. Having a hangover the following day was all for the cause. Remembering Heather was no longer breathing the same air as he made him feel warm and toasty. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so good.

* * *

Heather had always fantasized possessing enough money to afford staying in hotels like the St. Regis. She wanted to have money socked away for those times when relationships went south. This was the lesson she learned from her mother who had died penniless. Heather had money, but nothing nearly as much as she would have liked to possess. She loved Salvatore, but, she didn’t truly trust him. She didn’t trust men in general. Nothing was forever and she always wanted to be prepared.

Self-preservation trumped all other drives in Heather’s life. Another lesson learned. Right now she needed to protect herself from Orson—especially when he learned the wrong woman had been murdered. Being the cheap bastard that he was, she doubted he’d make any move against her in Italy. Besides, he didn’t even know she was there.

When she got to Fiumicino Airport in Rome she’d grab a cab after claiming her luggage.

Smiling, she couldn’t wait to see the look on Salvatore’s handsome face.

* * *

Jake paced the floor cutting a new path in the already worn rug of the motel room, chain-smoking until his throat was raw. His head was spinning with worry. Jessie should have contacted him by now. He’d tried to reach her by cell phone, but only got her voice mail. Something was wrong. Could she have gotten a flat? Those tires on her car were beyond bald. Or had she been in an accident and taken to the hospital—or worse?

He raked his free hand through his sweat-dampened hair. This was all because of him and the awareness cut him sharply like razor blades. She had identification with her. He would have been notified by now. A knot had formed in the pit of his stomach tightening around his guts with each passing hour. If he didn’t hear from her soon, he’d start calling the hospitals.

She had to be somewhere.

Suddenly, an awful thought stopped him in mid-stride. What if the bookie’s muscle grabbed her? Wouldn’t they use her as leverage against him? Or had they decided he’d been warned enough and needed the ultimate persuasion.

“Sweet Jesus, no!” he screamed slamming his fist into the wall, cracking the plaster. He didn’t even feel the pain in his hand over the awesome foreboding that had overtaken his body.

* * *

As the evening wore on Jake called every hospital in the vicinity. Jessie hadn’t been admitted to any. He’d gotten the same response from the morgue. It was time to go in search of her. He was well aware of the danger to himself if he left the motel, where he’d been hiding out. But if something had happened to Jessie, what difference did it make? His life would be just as worthless.

He sat down and reached for his shoes. As he slipped them on and tied their laces, he made a simple prayer that Jessie was all right. When she told him of her plans to ask Heather Hemmings for the money he hadn’t seen any danger in her doing so. However, something had happened to her on the way to the Hemmings’ house. And he had to find out what it was—no matter the cost. Grabbing his coat from the rack, he left the motel room. There was a taxi stand a block away.

As he stepped out of the room, he felt something cold pressed against the side of his head. His throat closed as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

“Move and you’re a dead man. Did you think we couldn’t find you?” The man asked, drilling the muzzle of a gun harder into Jake’s head.

“Who are you?” Jake asked. “What do you want?”

“Guess,” the man said as he snapped a plastic tie around one of Jake’s arms and roughly pulled it behind his back before repeating the process with the other. He shoved him out of the motel.

“Look, I’m not gonna give you a hard time. My wife’s in trouble and I’ve got to find her.” Jake tried to reason with the guy.

“She gambles, too?” the stranger asked and laughed.

“Let me go find her and makes sure she’s okay and then you can do whatever you want to me,” Jake pleaded.

The guy spun Jake around, slamming him into the side of a parked step-van. “Asshole, here’s a news flash. I can do whatever I want right now.”

“But—”

The gun slammed into the back of Jake’s head silencing him as he crumpled to the ground. Another stocky man, also dressed in black, got out and unlocked the two back doors of the van. Together, they tossed the unconscious man into the gaping black maw of the van before driving off.