Billion Dollar Murder

by Sloane Peterson

  You practically had to be living under a rock not to have heard about the case by this point. It was all over every news channel, plastered on every newspaper, and it had been for several weeks on end. The man who'd committed the murder had been wearing a mask at the time. But DNA evidence from the scene and the records for the gun he'd used in committing the crime had revealed him to be the housekeeper's husband Stan.

  He'd obviously denied the charges vehemently, and no one seemed able to come up with any sort of motive for the crime. Passion, maybe? A domestic dispute? It was really anyone's guess. The evidence of his guilt was hard to ignore, though, and with the man behind bars, Mr. Heyman was embarking on a search for a replacement housekeeper.

  His ad in the local paper had been running for almost two weeks by the time my roommate Marcie encouraged me to apply for the job.

  “This would be perfect for you,” she said with a playful grin on her face, setting the paper down on our kitchen table. I raised an eyebrow at her.

  “You've got to be joking,” I'd said, and she shook her head.

  “You think those student loans are just going to start repaying themselves anytime soon?” I knew what she probably really meant by this was “It would be nice if you would pay your damn half of the rent once in a while,” but she was too polite to come right out and say that. I really couldn't argue with the sentiment.

  “Well no, but,” I began, though I really didn't have a follow up. I'd been a Fine Arts major, and I'd been working hard on a series of paintings that I hoped would help me break into the spotlight a little bit and get enough recognition to start earning money from my work. Blind ambition wasn't something you could really spend, though, and I knew before long I was going to have to start facing the fact that it would take more to support myself than just my art, sad as I was to admit it.

  “And do you have any other better leads on anything right now?”

  “Well no,” I admitted, “but Marcie this is completely-”

  “Then that settles it. You're sending in your resume today. And if you don't, I'm sending it for you.”

  I knew that she wasn't bluffing, and so here I was, five days later, ringing the doorbell at a mansion that was worth at least a dozen times more than any home I'd ever lived in. I stood there with my heart in my throat, practically shaking, but an unexpected calm came over me the moment the door slid open.

  I thought I might pass out at the sight of him...

  He had a gorgeous, angular face, with dark brown eyes that seemed to gaze straight into me. His cheeks kind of flared at the sight of me, like he was considering my presence, and gradually a smile spread across his lips. I tried not to think of the chiseled muscles he so clearly harbored beneath his tight black sport coat, or to sniff too fervently at the scent of his cologne, wafting up over to me from that perfectly tanned skin.

  “You must be Veronica,” he said, and I know I must have looked like the world's biggest idiot gaping at him. I honestly felt like little more than a schoolgirl with a crush.

  “I must be...” I echoed, transfixed by the visage of such a beautiful creature. His grin became larger, and I shook my head, trying to snap myself out of it and regain my professional composure. “I mean yes. I'm Veronica, hello. It's lovely to meet you.”

  I swung my arm toward him to offer up the prospect of the world's stiffest handshake. He took my hand in his own, and I shivered at the warmth of his palm emanating so gloriously through me. I felt the muscles in my arm go slack, and managed to relax some in spite of myself.

  “At ease,” he teased me. “It's lovely to meet you Veronica, I'm Johnathan. I have some business I need to attend to soon, so why don't you come in and I'll go ahead and show you around, give you some idea of your responsibilities if I decide to hire you?”

  “That sounds lovely,” I said, as though I'd just been invited in for tea and biscuits.

  Lovely.

  He gave me a look, like kind of sizing me up. I felt myself blushing, and I wondered whether he might have been checking me out a little bit, the same way I'd been having a nice tall drink of him a moment before. If he was, though, he didn't say anything that would indicate any sort of romantic attraction. At least nothing like I felt the moment I laid eyes on him.

  God, I needed to get a hold of myself, and fast.

  “Right this way, please,” he said, gesturing for me to move forward, and placing one hand on the small of my back. It was innocent enough, but it sent a shimmer of sensation up along the course of my spine, and I thought my legs might just buckle and give way underneath me right there on the spot.

  “So, Veronica,” he called back to me as we made our way along an extended hallway lined with a variety of paintings. “I understand you're an artist?”

  I blushed behind him, as though he'd just gotten through asking me, “So Veronica, I understand that you enjoy sexual intercourse?”

  “Who told you that?” I joked, and brushed a strand of hair from my face, though I knew he couldn't see me.

  He laughed. “Well, I was just going by what was on your application. It said you went to college for Fine Arts.”

  “I'm a painter,” I said modestly. “But I guess in my mind there's a difference between aspiring to be an artist and actually being an artist.”

  He looked back over his shoulder at me, considering this with a mild grin on his face.

  “I suppose a lot of people would agree to that,” he said.

  “And not you?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Well, it's different for me. I'm a businessman. For people like me it's always been about faking it until you make it. Even if I was still a first year art student I would still present myself like Leonardo Da Vinci. That way if I believed it long enough it might come close to being the reality, or at least as far as the people around me saw it.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “So basically just keep lying until it becomes the truth?”

  His lips twisted into a thin smile. “I think you might be putting words into my mouth...”

  I suddenly felt embarrassed, like I was walking on thin ice.

  “Oh, no. I didn't mean that... I guess I shouldn't have-”

  He laughed, and shook his head. “No need to apologize for sincerity. Believe me. The type of people I spend most of my days around, it's a refreshing quality to find in someone.”

  “Oh,” I said, relieved, but still on my guard.

  “I'm not saying my way is right or wrong, just that that's how I got to where I am today. Maybe the world would be a better place if there were more people like you and fewer like me.”

  “Oh I doubt that,” I said, and I think my girlish desire for him shined through a little bit more clearly than I wanted it to. Even as an artist, I don't think I can describe the shade of red my face must have turned by that point.

  “Regardless,” he said, “I would love to see some of your work sometime.”

  “Oh?” I asked, and it was starting to feel like the only thing I was capable of saying to him.

  “Of course,” he said. “And who knows. If you're as good as you pretend not to be, I might even be interested in buying a piece or two. I've always made a point of supporting the arts.”

  “Yes I can see you have quite a collection,” I observed, as I watched the long walls of paintings going past me. We were moving too quickly for me to really get a good look at them as we went, but I could tell that it was some good stuff. Mostly contemporary artists, not all of whom I immediately recognized. But some older stuff as well, some lesser known pieces from a few very prominent figures of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

  Color me impressed, I thought. This guy knew his stuff.

  “I suppose so,” he said. “Obviously if you're hired, you would need to be careful not to damage them in any way. Not that I think that should be any problem, but I feel all the same it would be a mistake not to say something about it.”

  “Believe me,” I said, “As an art lover, I would be sur
e to exercise the utmost care.”

  He smiled back at me and nodded. I tried to imagine my own work set up here among the ranks of the professional looking gallery he'd assembled. Ordinarily, it would have been almost impossible for me to conceive of. But there was just something about him, so confident, so reassuring, that if he told me I could, I thought I could imagine my amateurish work hanging right up on the walls of the Smithsonian, surrounded by the very best of the best.

  We moved on from the main halls and into individual rooms of the house. He showed me around each one, telling me what needed cleaned, what precautions I should take in maintaining certain areas, and assuring me that I didn't need to remember everything right now. He would have it all written down for me in case I had trouble remembering- this was more of a crash course to give me a general idea of what was needed from me, to make sure I felt up for the task.

  I'll be honest. It was a big ass place. The idea of cleaning the whole thing every day seemed almost impossible, but the way he talked seemed to suggested it only needed to be kept at a basic level of cleanliness. Maybe each day of the week I could focus on a different sector of the house, and just make sure it was as good as I could get it to be, without worrying about doing the whole thing all at once.

  At last, after making our way through what was becoming a dizzying amount of space, he stepped softly up next to the final door, and placed a gentle hand upon the knob.

  “And finally, we have the most important room in the house,” he said.

  He pushed it open very gently, and I felt my heart skip a beat at the sight of a crib in the corner of the room, a small body lying there, twitching with sleep in the darkness.

  How the hell had I not known this man had a child? Why hadn't this been mentioned in the job description? Had I simply not been paying attention? After all, I'd never really expected to get a callback for this job, much less actually make it to the interview stage.

  “She's beautiful,” I forced myself to say, because what the hell else could I say?

  “Do you like kids?” he asked, and I feel like I almost surely hesitated for longer than I should have done.

  “Of course,” I said, “I love them!”

  The truth was I'd spent a minimum of time around kids of any age, and I had no real opinion of them one way or another. I was reasonably confident that I didn't want them for myself, unless I miraculously wound up with the ideal partner in my life. But otherwise I had very little experience on which to base my answer.

  “That's good,” said Johnathan. I wondered if he could see through my lies. Whether a man so admittedly used to faking it until he made it was more inclined to detect a person's bullshit or less so.

  I tried to play along with my own lies, and crept gently into the room to look down at the little girl snoozing away in the lazy afternoon sunlight. She was a gorgeous little thing, as far as that goes. Jet black hair, as dark as her father's, with tiny little hands and feet that made me feel I understood exactly why so many women decided to have children.

  “She's precious,” I said, and by that point my smile wasn't as fake as it had been.

  “You don't need to tell me,” he said, beaming over at her.

  “She looks just like you,” I ventured, really believing this, but regretting having said so in very short order.

  “I don't know,” he said with a shrug. “More like her mother, actually.”

  My stomach immediately fell.

  I felt so guilty all of the sudden, and so awkward, thinking of his dead wife.

  “I'm so sorry,” I blurted out, before I even had the chance to think about it. He kind of gave me a funny grin, and raised one eyebrow at me. Then he seemed to understand what I'd been thinking, and his smile relaxed. He was clearly trying to reassure me with the look on his handsome face, and I was only too happy to let him do so.

  “Come on,” he said, pretending as though nothing had happened. “Let's let her sleep.”

  We stepped back out of the room and into the hallway. He closed the door softly behind us, and turned to me, his expression earnest.

  “So what do you think? Are you up for all of this?”

  I panicked. I opened my mouth to speak, but felt the words trapped in my throat. I absolutely had been until I'd realized child care was also part of the bargain. It was a tall order, to be sure. I worried that I might not in fact be up for it, but I worried still more that upon even the first hint of doubt he might change his mind, deciding I wasn't right for the position after all.

  Fake it til’ you make it, I told myself. If it had worked so well for him, which it clearly had, then why not try it on for size myself?

  I took a deep breath, grinned, and nodded at him.

  “I am,” I said, adding none of the million disclaimers I probably should have.

  He nodded back at me.

  “Well then. Excellent. You make a wonderful first impression, and as far as I'm concerned I would be comfortable hiring you right on the spot.”

  “That would be amazing,” I said, beaming at him.

  He smiled, like he was glad to see how happy this made me.

  “Perfect! Be here first thing tomorrow morning, and we'll see how this goes!”

  “I can't wait!” I said, already wondering whether I'd stumbled into something that was way over my head.

  3

  Johnathan

  Veronica's presence around the mansion was like a sorely needed breath of fresh air in my life. A life that had begun to seem so empty, almost cursed. But which had taken on such new emotional depths, and finally felt worth living again whenever she was around.

  I mean, yeah. I know. A guy like me falling in love with his housekeeper- not exactly a well-advised decision by any means. Celia had been some twenty years my senior, and, without being disrespectful to her, not quite the sort of woman I'm prone to falling in love with. I'd always been insulated from any such temptation whenever she was around, but Veronica had all but torn away my last defenses.

  Judge me as you will, but God you should have seen her. That thin body, all wrapped up in a maid's uniform. Tight black skirt, sexy white dress shirt wrapped tight around a body that wouldn't quit. Her prominent breasts making my mouth water every time she walked into a room. Then there was that beautiful face- the dark brown hair, so silken and lustrous. Penetrating blue eyes, the cutest little nose, and deep red lips, capable of forming themselves into the prettiest of smiles.

  One look at her was enough to make my knees go weak, and the world around me careen about in wild circles.

  Thank God I only saw her for a short time each day. Sometimes for just a few minutes as I left for work, sometimes around the house as I worked from home, unable to concentrate with that beautiful girl anywhere within a hundred feet of me.

  Was I being ridiculous? Hell yes, I knew I was.

  I mean, of all the beautiful women I encountered on a daily basis, most of them only too willing to fall into the arms of a heartbroken billionaire, why was I setting my sights on the one woman in the world who I really should have avoided?

  Because I'm an idiot, that's why. And because Veronica was just too pure, too perfect for me to want to stop myself.

  I think part of it was, with so many other women, they were so obvious about wanting me. They would practically ooze into any room I happened to be in, turning on their maximum sexual charm, fluttering long eyelashes at me and flaunting more cleavage than the situation typically called for. They wanted to claim me. Me and my fortune, anyway. They wanted to believe that everyone wanted them, and I was like the golden goose. The top prize for women so deserving as they were.

  And don't get me wrong for one second. Veronica was drop dead gorgeous, in every way. But she was gorgeous in a way that she didn't seem particularly aware of. Like if someone came up and told her she was beautiful, she would just turn to them with wide eyes and ask, without a trace of irony, “What? Me? Really?”

  I'd seen that about her the very first time s
he walked through my door, and I saw how flustered she acted around me. It was a pretty flattering experience, to be honest. Having someone be in awe of you, instead of wanting to claim you as their own. I mean, I'm no arrogant bastard, but I'm aware of the effect I can sometimes have on women. I've always tried to use that responsibly. Not take advantage of the situation, and exercise caution in turning on the charm.

  But damn... In all honesty, she was the first woman I could remember acting that way around me, so shy and so gentle, yet so clearly desirous of me, since- well, since I met my wife Lydia.

  For the first time in the year since she'd been gone, I began to feel something other than pain. I felt desire, and I felt guilty about feeling desire, but it wasn't something I dared suppress.