The Reconstruction of Carla Millhouse (2 page)

Chapter Two

Normally, as Orson Hemmings drove home to Fountain Hills, one of the most exclusive towns in the valley, he enjoyed the view of Red Mountain standing high above the McDowell Mountain range as its red sandstone was transformed by the Arizona sunset into a fiery orange and rust color. That evening he didn’t notice. Preoccupied, he turned onto N. Fountain Hills Blvd and then took a right onto N. Sherwood Drive before turning into the paved driveway of a sprawling, split level Spanish-style, stucco and brick house overlooking one of the two golf courses in the planned community.

He noticed that the gardener had added a new flowering cactus to the terraced area on the left of the steps leading to the massive wooden doors. Nodding his approval, he pressed the automatic garage door opener on the car visor and pulled his Mercedes sedan into his five-car garage. Heather’s car was gone. This was the second night this week that his
charming
wife was missing in action. He got out of his car and slammed the door. His anger heated his thick neck and he felt his silk Armani shirt cling to his broad back.
Jesus, it was hot
.

Walking into the den, he heard a low growl as a pink blur catapulted across the room from the imported, Italian leather couch and attached itself to his leg. It was Heather’s crazy miniature poodle, Lovey. Every single time he came home whenever Heather was out, that insane dog, acting as if he was a home invader, would attack him.

“Grrr!” came from the coiffured ball of fluff as he tried to shake it off his leg. The damn thing was firmly clamped on as if his leg were a doggy treat. He’d kill that infernal animal if she ruined another imported silk suit. After a few failed attempts, Hemmings managed to swing his leg with enough force to send the dog streaking across the room like a guided missile. He heard a loud smack followed by an ear-piercing whelp and then, finally, blissful silence. With any luck, he thought, the nuisance was dead. He hated animals—especially that emasculated poor excuse for a dog. He sorely regretted his stupid decision to allow Heather to bring that thing into his house.

The silence was deafening. Guilt began to spread through him and he worried about whether or not he’d actually killed the damn thing. Perhaps he should go over and check on the mutt. However, that moment of weakness quickly passed aided largely by the noticeable tear along his trouser leg. Another Hugo Bass suit ruined by that beast.
Shit!
Orson applied his emotional brakes, squarely transferring the blame to Heather. It wasn’t his fault if the mutt broke its damn neck. Hemmings was only defending himself from the miniature canine Jaws. Nothing would have happened had she been at home to greet him like an adorning wife should.

Trudging upstairs to the kitchen, he knew what he’d find waiting for him for dinner—nothing, unless he counted leftovers. And with Heather, he’d better check the expiration date. He’d learned quickly to examine everything carefully for green or white fuzz. At his age, the big 60, he’d stopped playing daredevil with his stomach. Early on in their marriage he hadn’t been as vigilant and ended up with a week’s worth of the runs.

If his ex-wife, Mary, knew any of this she’d laugh her head off. During their bitter divorce she’d venomously remarked, “You may be replacing me with a younger model, but she won’t be better. Just wait until your stomach becomes more important than your pecker.” Had she been psychic? Or had she simply cast a curse on him? He pushed all thoughts of his ex-wife out of his mind as he read Heather’s scribbled note taped to the refrigerator.

“Went to dinner and a movie with an old girlfriend. Your dinner’s in the fridge.” He ripped it off and angrily crumbled it before tossing it onto the counter. With little expectation, he opened the refrigerator. Taking one quick look, he closed the door and went downstairs to the liquor cabinet in the den. He unscrewed the cap on a bottle of twenty year-old single malt scotch, poured himself a double and sunk down in his recliner to think.

* * *

“Where did you tell Orson you were tonight?” Martin Millhouse asked Heather Hemmings as he kissed the hollow of her slender neck.

“Dinner and a movie with an old friend,” she replied in her low silvery voice and giggled. She slowly ran a long, red manicured, nail along Martin’s back sending chills cascading down his spine.

“Hmm,” he said.

She shook her long, thick mane of honey-blonde hair. “What? Did you think I told him that I was meeting you here at the Fairfield Inn?”

A plane took off from the nearby Scottsdale Airport and the noise momentarily stopped their conversation. Though it was a municipal airport, it still had quite a bit of traffic.

“No! Of course not,” Martin answered as her hand dropped lower, causing his heart to thunder. Martin thought about the power she had over him that drove him crazy enough to risk his very livelihood, not to mention his marriage. He was certain that if Hemmings knew he was sleeping with his wife he’d lose more than just his job. His boss hadn’t become the automobile dealer giant by forgiving and forgetting. Many lesser men still bore the mark of Hemmings’ size 10s.

And yet, the more he tried to resist Heather, the more of a hold she had on him. Those pouting, full and rounded, red lips, electric blue eyes that could melt ice, long, thick, silky golden hair and a body that rivaled any calendar girl kept him coming back.

Martin had once heard that when you cheat on your wife, the first time is always the hardest. Perhaps, that’s why getting mixed up with Heather had been so easy.

She hadn’t been his first.

Sweet Carla seemed so content to stay home and write. Besides that, she’d let herself go, while he’d maintained his buff physique. Along with his classic good looks, full head of blond hair, and deep blue eyes, he’d found it exciting to attract the attention of a whole new crop of women.

Then, when Hemmings introduced him to his new trophy wife, a gorgeous creature half his age, the rest was, as they say, history. And so were his straying thoughts as Heather’s inviting mouth covered his.

Heather’s lips should come with a warning. Like a lethal weapon, her kiss intoxicated him as she slipped her tongue into his mouth. He felt her fingers snake their way through his hair as she closed the gap between their bodies. The very touch of her soft skin on his acted like a wakeup call to every nerve ending in his body. This feeling intensified as she worked her way slowly down his body planting tiny kisses. His spasmodic breathing interrupted the quiet of the hotel room. He knew her ultimate destination and the anticipation added to his excitement. As her mouth slid down and sucked on his penis, all he saw and felt was Heather.

* * *

As Hemmings stared at the amber-colored liquid in his glass between sips, the anger within him resurfaced. He’d have to take charge of the situation. He’d never let any man make a fool out of him, why allow a mere woman to cuckold him? Then again, there was always the chance that she really was out with a friend—though as slim as it may be.

Either way, he had to be sure.

That required hiring someone to follow her. He’d have Jessie Thompson, his administrative assistant, do some checking in the morning and hire a private investigator. Someone discreet—but damn reliable. He wanted to find out about whatever dirty little things his wife was doing, but he didn’t want anyone else to know.

No one got the better of Orson Hemmings—no one! He took a healthy sip of his whiskey and smiled for the first time that evening, flashing a complete set of blinding white caps.

Chapter Three

Jessie Thompson owed a huge favor to her Aunt Louise.

When Jessie’s screw-up compulsive gambler of a husband, Jake, went on a bender after discovering that the sure-thing he’d bet on was in the crapper, he hugged a tree with their car, and set off a chain of disastrous financial events that went down like a wall of dominoes.

First off, Jake neglected to pay the insurance premiums on the car. Then when he needed to be hospitalized, Jessie discovered they had no medical coverage, either. He’d let their policy lapse and that cheapskate boss of hers didn’t offer health insurance. To add gasoline to the already burning fire, Jake, who’d been laid up in the hospital for over a month, lost his job as a security guard at the bank leaving them flat-out broke and him at home still recovering.

If it hadn’t been for Aunt Louise, they would have lost their house in Tempe, as well. They had fallen so far in arrears with their mortgage payments that the bank had threatened foreclosure. If her aunt hadn’t given her the money, they’d be living on the street. That’s why when Orson Hemmings asked Jessie to hire a PI, she called her cousin, Haywood. He was Aunt Louise’s youngest son.

While watching TV, his favorite pastime, Haywood had seen an ad for a-learn-at-home career opportunity and had sent away for the private investigator’s kit. Though Aunt Louise considered her son to be a late bloomer, she’d hoped he’d finally found an occupation he would stick to for more than four months. To help her cousin, the least Jessie could do was throw a little business his way. It would certainly please Aunt Louise and ease some of her debt to the woman, and her boss would be none the wiser.

Hemmings stuck his head in the door of Jessie’s office. “Hire a PI yet?”

“He’ll be here around two. Said he had to take care of something first.”

“Good,” he said, smiling to himself.

“I’ll send him in when he shows,” she said, but Hemmings had already walked away.

Jessie opened her desk drawer and pulled her cell phone out of her purse. Then she went to the ladies room where she’d have some privacy. She checked to make sure that no one else was in there. Slipping into a booth and closing the door, she keyed in a number.

Heather Hemmings answered on the third ring. “I thought it was Orson checking up on me. Lately, he calls at least twice a day. You’d think he didn’t trust me.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Huh?”

“Stop whatever it is you’re doing that’s making him suspicious.”

“What are you getting at?” Heather asked her childhood friend.

“Why else would he ask me to hire a private investigator?” Jessie said softly.

“Ouch!”

“Not to worry. I hired my cousin, Haywood.”

“Haywood Wish?” Heather chuckled. “Is he still such a hick?”

“You know him?”

“Yeah. We went to school together and to make a long story short, I went on a date with him.”

“I didn’t know. Must have been a pity date for you,” Jesse replied, remembering how popular and beautiful Heather had been back then.

“You might say that.” Heather chuckled.

“Say, Heather, did you ever tell Orson that we went to school together?”

“Of course not. What Orson doesn’t know about me can fill a book.”

Jessie breathed a sigh of relief. “Look, I gotta go. And Heather…”

“What?”

“Be careful. Haywood may seem like a country bumpkin but he’s not a fool.”

“I will.”

Jessie closed her phone and left the stall. She glanced in the mirror. A harried-looking woman with mousy brown hair starting to gray stared back at her. When had she gotten so old looking? It seemed like only yesterday she’d gotten married and her future had been one of bright promise. Now, she hardly had two cents to rub together and was saddled with a husband who hung around her neck like an albatross.

“Cut the louse loose,” Aunt Louise told her time and time again. “He’s only going to drag you to a dark place you’ll never climb out from.”

“Soon,” Jessie vowed to the woman in the mirror. “Real soon.”

* * *

Heather began to laugh at the thought that Haywood Wish would be following her. The last time she saw him, he couldn’t find his way out of a classroom. They had been in the same high school English class. He sat across from her and stared at her like a moron half the time. He never really worked up the nerve to ask her out. Besides, at the time she’d been going out with Joey Carstairs, the tight end of the football team.

She smiled at the memory of his
tight end
, as well.

Then she’d been invited to a wedding and needed to bring a date, but Joey couldn’t go. He had some family function of his own to attend. She was furious with him for turning her down like that and lashed out at him in the hall between classes. When he told her to ask somebody else, she noticed Haywood standing a few feet away.

She took Joey’s suggestion and marched up to Haywood and asked him right then and there if he’d go with her. He agreed and she ended up ignoring him the entire time. The only reason she’d asked him was to spite Joey.

Even though she’d treated Haywood like dirt, he took her home and tried to kiss her goodnight. She laughed in his face. That hurt look on his face had meant nothing to her until now.

She stopped laughing. She had humiliated him. What if he came back at her with a vengeance, so to speak? She’d have to be careful. With the lousy prenup Orson had forced her to sign, she had everything to lose. She took heart, though, for Orson was a cheap SOB and wouldn’t keep Haywood on the payroll long.