The Reconstruction of Carla Millhouse (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Heather remained in the bed after Martin got up to dress. After they’d made love the second time, she had lied to Martin by telling him how her previous conversation was all just wishful thinking on her part. They’d have to be content with the status quo for now. Martin seemed to buy the bull she was slinging and now as she watched him dress, she thought about what she’d do next. After his refusal to help her plan and execute Orson’s demise, she wanted to send him packing with a one-way ticket, but knew it was wrong to burn her bridges. Now that he was aware of her desire to kill her husband, it was best to keep him an ally, especially if Orson turned up dead. She didn’t want him pointing the finger at her and she might still need his help in some indirect capacity.

As for getting rid of Orson, she knew there were several other options. A voracious reader of true crime and forensic science, she’d squirreled away enough information, which would now prove helpful. Martin had scoffed at her reading tastes. According to him, a sensuous woman like her should immerse herself in romance novels. She’d never read one in her entire life and doubted she ever would. The lives of the characters depicted in them were so removed from reality, it made her laugh. There was no such thing as ‘happy ever after’. Living in the
real
world, one constantly had to be on guard for all the rainy days. And as sure as they would come, there was no escaping them.

She could hire someone to do the nasty deed for her. There were people out there who were nothing more than murderers for hire. These hit men were professionals who did their job well and thanks to her mother’s sometimes unsavory choice in men, she knew where to look to find one. But, being honest with herself, she knew involving a third party was always risky. It was a chain. The more links you had, the more places there were for it to break. Besides, she had this trust issue. She learned early in life to trust no one but herself. Also, there would be less screw-ups if she took care of the matter herself. She realized as soon as she mentioned her intentions to Martin it had been a mistake. What was she thinking? The man was spineless, useful only as a boy toy, nothing else.

“Call me,” Martin said as he bent to kiss her mouth.

“And if Orson says anything to me, I’ll let you know.”

Heather watched him leave and padded toward the bathroom naked. She passed a mirror and paused a moment to study her body. There were angry red patches on her neck and chest remaining from their love making, but for the most part she gloried in her body’s beauty. It had served her well and would continue to do so, but for how much longer? That’s what worried her the most. She wanted to have a nice nest egg tucked away by that time. She would not follow in her mother’s footsteps and die a lonely, embittered woman who didn’t even possess enough money to pay for her own funeral.

Turning on the shower tap, she reached in and tested the water with her hand. When it was hot enough, she stepped under it and let the heat permeate her body. As she began to soap her chest, she focused her thoughts on how she might kill Orson. Whatever she planned, it had to be flawless. There would be no point in getting rid of Orson if she had to spend the rest of her life behind bars or, God forbid, was executed. She began to think through all the possible modus operandi or methods. Shooting him popped into her head first. Aside from being messy, she had an aversion to guns. She knew her husband kept a handgun in the drawer of his night table in case of an intruder, but for her to use it would remain as a last resort. Just thinking about firing a gun gave her the willies.

One of the men her mother was seeing happened to be a step up from being classified as a dirtbag—bad-tempered with a hair-trigger fuse. One night her mother, Estelle, hadn’t felt well and refused to accompany him to the pool hall. The man became so angry that he pulled a gun from the back of his waistband and shoved the barrel in her face. Spittle flew from his mouth as he threatened to shoot her right in front of Heather.

Estelle had been so frightened that she lost control of her bladder and peed herself. The man, whose sharp beaklike nose and beady, black eyes reminding her of a rat, laughed and ridiculed her for it.

The fear and embarrassment on her mother’s face were forever engraved in the back of Heather’s mind. She hated the man for what he had done to her mother, wanting to scratch his eyes out and rip his smile off his ugly, pock-marked face. He fortunately didn’t hang around to bully her mother too much longer and never returned. However, the incident was forever burned into the recesses of Heather’s memory giving her an aversion for guns.

Trying to make Orson’s death look like a suicide was out. Orson would no sooner take his life than dose himself with medication. No one would believe it. There was no reason for him to be depressed. He had a trophy wife, a thriving business and had been actively seeking a good location to open a new dealership. Her mind moved on to the next viable option.

She could wait for him to come home and then hit him over the head as he walked through the door. It would certainly stop him
dead
in his tracks. That idiot idea made her giggle. The logistics, themselves, made such an idea inconceivable. She was shorter than him by nearly five inches and would have to stand on a stepstool in order to have enough force behind her wallop. She mentally scribbled a line through that idea.

Heather dropped the soap and bent down to retrieve it as she recalled an article she’d recently read about a woman who was electrocuted when she came in contact with a high tension wire that had fallen on her car during a hurricane. Had the idiot not gotten out of the car to investigate, she’d be alive today. Curiosity
does
kill, Heather mused.

She’d gleaned some useful facts from the story, namely that more than a thousand deaths every year result from household-related electrocutions. People were literally shocking themselves to death. Could that work? If she remembered correctly, when an individual got zapped, his heart muscle would begin to quiver and cut off any efficient pumping action. And if no life-saving-methods like CPR or electric defibrillation was used to restore the circulation, the individual would be dead in minutes.

Soaping one long, slender leg, Heather imagined electrocuting Orson. All she had to do was get him to join her in an erotic bubble bath. She’d place candles around the bathtub for effect and play some nice mood music on a portable radio plugged into the wall. After a few minutes, she’d make the excuse of getting the champagne she had chilling in the fridge and get out of the tub. That’s when she’d knock the radio into the water and fry the sucker.

The thought of transforming Orson into a crispy critter made her giggle again. Actually, that’s not what would really happen. He’d die from cardiac arrhythmia because she wouldn’t give him CPR. The only drawback to this method was the telltale wound pattern that appeared at the entrance site on all victims of electrical accidents. It would be too tempting for a prosecutor to make a circumstantial case about the scheming trophy wife who wanted out of the marriage, but was hampered from asking for a divorce because of a prenuptial agreement.

She reminded herself that Orson’s death had to be such that no suspicion would fall on her. Therefore to avoid any finger-pointing, she knew she had to take the time to be careful. Rushing into this project would surely get her caught and she’d lose the prize: all that lovely money and Salvatore as a bonus.

Heather pushed aside the shower curtain and grabbed a bath towel from the rack. Something else occurred to her as she stepped from the tub. Recalling the anthrax scare and how people had become ill from merely inhaling the spores gave her pause. If she were able to bring Orson in contact with an agent like anthrax, he’d surely die. It probably wouldn’t be instant, but from neglect. He hated doctors, and as sick as he would be, Orson would most likely think it was a bad cold or flu and refuse to go see one. There was an inherent problem with this idea, namely, anthrax wasn’t easily obtained and too dangerous to handle. However, she felt she was on the right track.

Heather liked the idea of finding a poison that would cause heart failure. It had to be one that was unusual and yet able to be ingested anywhere. Obviously, if she cooked him dinner and he died right after, the authorities would look at her cross-eyed. Then again, like peanuts, it could be a common food item that triggered allergic reactions in some people. The woman who had lived in the trailer next door to hers had been allergic to peanuts. She’d accidentally eaten a cake that had been prepared with them. Almost instantly, the woman began to choke. As a small child, Heather hadn’t understood what was happening to her. She watched as the woman’s face and throat swelled, closing off her airways until she lost consciousness. She never awoke. It all happened so quickly. One minute she was alive and laughing and the next she was dead.

As far as she knew, Orson didn’t have any useful allergies, but the idea of his ingesting an agent of some kind to cause cardiac arrest appeared to be the best way to kill him. Of course the substance had to be something easily obtained and not traceable—at least back to her. She wanted to spend her future sunning herself alongside Salvatore on the Mediterranean and not as some dyke’s bitch rotting away in a prison cell. That’s when Heather realized killing Orson was out of her realm.

What did she know about killing a person? All this fantasizing was okay, but that’s all it was. She was an adulterer—not a murderer. She needed a professional.

As she finished drying, the memory of Salvatore emerging nude, his magnificent cock standing proudly to attention, from the water on a secluded beach flashed before her eyes and gave her added purpose.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Martin drove back to the Mercedes showroom conflicted. On the one hand, he was thrilled with the way Carla was looking lately. She reminded him of a moth breaking free of its cocoon and transforming into a beautiful butterfly. When he thought of her, he felt the same stirrings within himself that he’d known when their love was new.

Yet, on the other hand, there was Heather. And even though the conversation they shared earlier scared him, he wasn’t certain that he could let her go. She was too exciting and had slipped into his blood like some hypnotic drug. Carla could never excite him in the same way that Heather could. Having them both made him complete and happy. How could he ever choose between them?

Then, on the other hand, why should he have to? To the best of his knowledge, Carla didn’t know about his affair with Heather. If she had, wouldn’t she already have given him an ultimatum? That gave him wiggle room. And after Heather’s declaration of love for him, it was obvious he owned both their hearts. Why not maintain the status quo and keep both women? Men did it all the time. Take the Italians, for instance, with their
goomahs
or mistresses. Their wives seemed to have accepted them as a fact of life. Why on earth was he even stressing over this?

A sudden insight put everything into perspective. There was a simple way to keep Carla preoccupied and at home while he continued his dalliance with Heather. At the same time, he’d become the most loving husband by giving Carla the one thing she’d always wanted. He’d knock her up. She’d be so preoccupied with the baby she’d hardly miss his absences. Martin’s handsome face brightened as he smiled triumphantly. Now why hadn’t he thought about that before?

* * *

Don, a salesman with deep-pitted skin resulting from teenage acne, passed Martin as he entered the showroom. “The boss was looking for you.”

Martin swallowed hard. He hadn’t wanted to hear this. Had Heather’s fears been true? Was Orson going to can him? Martin managed to say, “Thanks.” He headed straight for the men’s room to make certain there was no telltale lipstick on his face or collar before speaking to Orson.

The face that appeared in the mirror was pale accentuating the blue of his eyes. He dabbed cold water on the beads of sweat that had formed a chain across his forehead. He couldn’t go into the office showing any fear. A shark like Orson would pick up the scent immediately. If he hadn’t spoken to Heather he wouldn’t suspect his boss knew anything about their affair. He had to walk into Orson’s office assuming it was still a secret.

He found Orson sitting behind his massive desk poring over an opened manila file. The older man, dressed in his usual attire consisting of an imported three-piece, handmade suit, motioned for Martin to have a seat. Swallowing hard, Martin dropped into one of the wide, cushioned, Italian, leather chairs in front of the desk.

The office served Orson as one of his sanctuaries away from home with its massive leather couch that opened to a queen-size bed, small refrigerator and fully stocked bar. A 52-inch wide screen TV hugged a paneled wall over a library of DVD movies.

While Orson read, an awkward silence enveloped the room not much different from the disquieting seconds a condemned prisoner experienced before the executioner pulled the switch. Worry hit Martin again alongside the ping-pong of “what-ifs” careening off the insides of his head like a pinball. His innards were reeling and he fought his rising nausea.

Martin was at the brink of collapsing with fear and about to shout at his boss to get it over with—whatever
it
was—when Orson took off his thick-rimmed reading glasses and put them down on the report he’d been reading. He looked up at Martin, whose palms had become so slick with sweat that he had to wipe them on his slacks. Another sharp bolt of fear pierced Martin’s gut. He tried to reassure himself that Orson knew nothing of his fooling around with Heather.