DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE Page 2

  “Sorry, sorry,” Hua said. It came out “Soddy, soddy.” “Late. Rain no good for me.”

  Assurances came from all desks. Everyone liked Hua. Theresa displayed an atypical patience waiting for her to get settled before beginning again.

  “We have good news, always the best way to start a meeting. Hua will have a new listing soon and both Marian and Jean …” Theresa paused to nod to her protégé. “… have listing appointments tonight, I believe? Will we have two more listings soon?”

  Marian nodded vigorously. “Oh, I think—Yes! I—”

  “Congratulations,” Theresa said, cutting her off. Marian had many appointments, few listings. “Jean?”

  Jean wished she could be as positive as Marian. “It’s just a lead. I … you know…” The thought crossed her mind that she sounded like Marian and she finished firmly. “I’m in competition with at least one experienced agent from ERA. I’m seeing them at seven.”

  “I will be glad to come with you if you like.”

  “Thank you, Theresa.” For a moment, Jean’s mind was filled with happily dancing dollar signs. Theresa would nail the listing. “But I need to learn to do this.”

  Jean couldn’t afford to split the listing commission. Anyway, she had decided, it was time to find out if she could make it in this business or not. Seven months of earning only what she had made from assisting Theresa didn’t foretell a bright future in this job.

  The line of Theresa’s mouth became a little thinner. Her gift had been refused. The slightest of nods acknowledged Jean’s decision.

  “If you get those listings, you ought to hold them open Sunday. You want contact with buyers and even perhaps a chance to sell them yourselves while the listings are fresh.” Theresa leaned her head over and looked at the two younger women from the tops of her eyes. “In-house sale means double commission, ladies. We need to know by Thursday morning to get the ads in The Post.”

  Jean and Marian nodded obediently.

  “Now. I have several articles here of interest.”

  Theresa was an avid reader of anything related to real estate and used these rare opportunities when Ed was absent to “teach” the staff what she had learned by reading selections. Jean tried to listen, but soon retreated into a daydream in which she was the agent for the relocations of a large company’s employees.

  A horn tooted outside.

  “Yes,” Theresa said. “There was a strange car in our parking lot.”

  There was never enough space in Bethesda for the buildings, the people, their possessions and especially their cars. Usually, the office didn’t care if their notice indicating possession of the small parking lot was ignored. Only on Tuesday mornings did their vehicles fill both the lot and the driveway, occasionally trapping someone who wanted breakfast at McDonald’s without the challenge of Wisconsin Avenue traffic.

  Stan got up.

  “We don’t move our cars during meetings,” Theresa ordered.

  Ed Brumm had made the ruling when Marian had been hit backing out to accommodate an intruder.

  “I know. I know. I’m just going to close the door.”

  Stan finished his walk across the room and shut the staff room door just as the loud knocking started that always followed the sound of a captive’s car horn.

  “Thank you, Stanley.”

  The words were encased in ice. Theresa didn’t like being interrupted. She also didn’t like Stan, who consistently failed to demonstrate the appropriate reverence for her age and accomplishments.

  “You’re welcome, Theresa.”

  Stan’s voice echoed Theresa’s sarcasm.

  Theresa finished her last article and then announced Ed’s return on Thursday.

  “Until then, call me if you need assistance. Is there anything else that needs to be discussed?”

  There was no response.

  “Fine. We’ll take a quick look at my new listings then.”

  On the way out, they filed past a man in a soggy brown suit sitting on the front stoop, elbows on knees, head in his hands. The rain had stopped, but not soon enough.

  Theresa was her most gracious self.

  “Dear me. I am sorry. You must have parked in our lot. We really don’t hear a thing in the back when all the doors are closed. I’m sorry you didn’t notice our sign.”

  She handed him her business card.

  “If we can ever be of any help …”

  Chapter 3

  It was five o’clock and the Brumm agents were once more arranged around the sales room desks. By this time of day, the whining air conditioner that blocked one window couldn’t cope with nine people. Perhaps because Ed had been the one to call them in, even Kevin had responded in jeans and a Redskins tee shirt and was now slouching over the side of Theresa’s desk. Stan had come from a summer school class looking Marine neat in a tight green polo shirt and khaki shorts. Those still in business dress had hung their jackets over the backs of chairs except for Theresa. She showed no sign of the heat. She never did. Rita said it was because she had ice in her veins. In this heat, without his jacket, Harold’s aroma was even stronger than usual, a blend of sweat, deodorant and after shave.

  Something important enough to bring the broker back from Annapolis and require another meeting had happened. “Tell you when we get together,” Ed had said over the phone as each asked what was going on. Now all eyes were on the blocky figure whose rumpled shirt and trousers were evidence of his rushed return. As usual, Ed was half-perched on the computer table, his hands resting on it, the forward curve of his shoulders made more evident by their width. His face was square with strong features, a wash of red warming his dark complexion. Today, the usual pleasant grin was missing and, before he began, he rubbed the back of his neck, a sign that he was worried.

  “One detail the police left out in their initial report to the news people was that a couple of June’s business cards were found torn up at the scene of her murder. Mary Markey was holding an open last Sunday, too. This morning, she was counting the leftover information sheets and found a few of her cards torn into small pieces and a note saying she was lucky the buyers in the house saved her life. Called the police and they made the connection. Seems this is someone after agents.”

  Ed looked at each agent individually to emphasize the importance of what he was saying.

  “Board phoned every broker in Montgomery and Prince Georges. Not sure we want opens Sunday.”

  He stopped. Good salespeople knew when to stop talking and let their people think.

  “Mary was somewhat like June,” Theresa offered. “Maybe this is a vendetta against unscrupulous agents.”

  “Hardly think you can call both women unscrupulous.”

  “Perhaps it depends on how well one knew them,” Theresa persisted, her voice as empty of emotion as her expression.

  Ed looked away from his most successful agent, dismissing her comment.

  “I think we ought to consider canceling our opens until the police know more,” he continued. “We are definitely going to put two agents on each one. We do that on big homes to prevent theft or damage anyway.”

  Theresa frowned. She was the best closer in the office and didn’t like sharing commissions.

  “I could take Jean with me if she doesn’t have an open house herself.”

  Theresa would use their time together for the mini-lectures she enjoyed giving, a teaching experience, no commission split owed. Stan needed the experience more, but they were the oil and water of the office.

  Ed avoided that issue for the moment.

  “The first question is: do we want any opens?” He looked around. “Thoughts?”

  “No open house. Bad, bad,” Hua said, not surprisingly.

  “I’d like to hold the DeLucca’s house open if I get the listing.”

  Jean was tentative. She had very little hope of getting that listing.

  “And you need to show the owners you really mean to work for them. Okay then. Show of hands. How many think
they might want an open Sunday?”

  Theresa’s, Stan’s and Jean’s hands went up.

  “Stan? Got a lead? Great! That’s three. Okay. Who’s with Theresa?”

  “Me,” Kevin announced loudly, pointing to himself. “I’m always helping Theresa.”

  “But not a fifty-fifty split,” Theresa objected. “Twenty percent should be quite adequate.”

  That Kevin was well known to be broke and Theresa borderline wealthy was irrelevant. This was business.

  “Kevin, you okay with that? You are, after all, providing protection.”

  Kevin wasn’t a fighter. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Right, then. Kevin will make a good bodyguard, Theresa.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Stan said.

  “I’m sure you can. But when I set a policy, we stick to it.”

  “Then I’ll bring a buddy from college. I can split the commission any way I like.”

  “You can’t split commission with someone who isn’t licensed.”

  “Then I’ll pay him as a bodyguard.”

  Ed nodded approval. “That works. A set fee. Get a receipt for taxes. Jean, then.”

  Ed’s voice had a worried note. The only man left was Harold. Not someone Jean would want to spend an afternoon with, as Ed would know. But two were claiming attention, Harold’s arm propped on the desk, waving languidly, and Rita’s, flailing urgently.

  Rita, Rita, Jean prayed silently. Rewards were supposed to go to the ones who brought in the most business. That would be Rita by a mile.

  “I’ve learned how to take care of myself,” Rita said.

  They had heard enough down home stories to know this was true, but it was not the choice a man would make.

  Harold was delighted.

  “I will be most pleased to take care of Jean,” he said in a voice suitable for marriage vows. “And I do not require a fifty-fifty split. Twenty percent will be quite adequate for me, too.”

  Jean returned his smile, genuinely grateful for that offer.

  “Then that’s settled. Now …” Ed paused for emphasis. “Be careful. Park your cars directly in front of the houses instead of leaving those places for buyers. Makes it clear more than one person is inside. Have your cell phones handy. I’ll tour all three houses, checking on you.”

  He looked around. Even Marian seemed to have nothing to say.

  “That’s it, then. Have your ads ready for me tomorrow. You can change your minds about the opens in the meantime. Safety is more important than money.”

  Jean wasn’t so sure.

  Chapter 4

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the top award of the evening!”

  The nearly four hundred people in the ballroom of the Pook’s Hill Sheraton Hotel were silent, waiting.

  “With thirty-two million, seven hundred thousand dollars worth of properties listed and sold, astonishingly, a newcomer to our ranks, may I give you the top residential sales agent of the year, Jean Terrence of Brumm Realtors!”

  With the faces of her fellow agents beaming at her from around their tables and the roar of the huge crowd that was standing now, she got up and strode to the stage, confident in her ice blue gown from a small Georgetown boutique. Microphone in hand, she spoke.

  “Thank you. Thank you.”

  The crowd became quiet.

  “The recognition of one’s peers is gratifying. But …” she paused and looked steadily at the President of the Board and then at her audience before saying in a subdued voice, “I cannot accept.”

  Murmuring rose and quickly subsided. They wanted to hear what came next.

  “This quantity of sales could not have been achieved without the help of my real estate family. But the main reason that I choose not to accept this award is that it is based solely on the value of the houses sold. The money I earned is reward enough. Those who have provided good service helping a few people buy or sell inexpensive homes are surely as worthy as those who take on more clients than they can adequately service or who sell only high-priced homes. Many of you here have spent many unpaid hours on committees and public presentations to raise the level of professionalism in real estate. We must gauge our value in terms of service. If such an award is ever offered to me, I would be proud to accept. Thank you.”

  Jean looked at her watch. It was five minutes to seven. Time to knock on the DeLucca’s door. Rain had returned and was pouring down the windshield. Jean started the reluctant engine and drove the half block to her destination. Her heart was banging for attention as she stopped in front of the split level home she wanted so much to be hers to sell. Ordering herself to calm down, she determined to get it right, to be in control, impressive.

  Maybe later they would even think back and be sorry they hadn’t given her the listing.

  Making her usual awkward exit with her umbrella, Jean staggered on her heels to the door. It wouldn’t do to make tracks on the living room rug. She noticed that in this wet July, she had gotten rather good at this mode of walking. Leaning into the roof’s scant overhead, she stood the folded umbrella under it, opened the screen and, chin lifted, shoulders back farther than usual, knocked on the scarred red door precisely at seven o’clock.

  Both DeLuccas answered. They were a matched pair, average height, average looks, slightly overweight, brown hair framing plain faces, hers without makeup, his with the shadow of a beard. Both wore shorts and tees that had lived a full life, but they were smiling and that was beautiful.

  “Hi, Marge! Nice to see you again. And this is Tony? Hi, Tony!”

  Theresa had cautioned her always to use formal titles because of her age. That would have put distance between herself and these first-name people. Tony’s hand wrapped around hers, his flesh rough.

  “Hi back! Come on in!”

  He led the way, as she expected, to the kitchen table.

  Jean spread out her materials, taking as little room as possible so they didn’t seem intimidating, patted the aging golden retriever as he sank to the floor next to her and arranged a smile on her face. She was supposed to start with something personal.

  “Where are the kids? You have six, I think I remember.”

  “Four are with the youth group at church. You know, the one where we met. I guess you’re not a regular there,” Marge DeLucca said.

  “No. I was helping Judy Leach.” Silently, Jean blessed her friend, who had introduced her as an agent and was the reason for this meeting. Jean didn’t say she didn’t attend any church. One stupidity avoided tonight.

  “The other two, Angela, she’s with my mother and Tony, Jr. is over at a friend’s.”

  “Now,” Jean said. Was this too soon? Not enough friendly? Too late to shift gears. The “now” sounded too much like an order, too. Taking charge was hard.

  She knew the openings and chose: “Let’s talk a little about your needs. You told me you were going to Florida.”

  She leaned forward to show interest.

  The rest of the interview went according to Theresa’s guidelines. Ask questions about the amenities to make them see the house through buyers’ eyes: little updating in the kitchen or baths, old carpet, no fireplace in the living room, high metal windows in the bedrooms never replaced with more energy efficient ones. Then have fun going through the house. Finally, the tactfully phrased recommendations to make the house more saleable, in this case primarily storing much of the unused and out of season items in a rental unit to make the closets and rooms look larger and more attractive.

  It went well. They even approved her suggestion to paint the living room and front door and take down the torn screen door. Jean offered to get them two potted plants—she didn’t mention they were from her balcony—for the front stoop.

  Gradually, it became clear they were going to give her the listing. It didn’t seem possible. She had to ask.

  “You really are going to let me sell your house, aren’t you?”

  Totally unprofessional. Ick!

  “We really are, darl
in’,” Tony said. “Been through this before. You did a good job here.”

  “Thank you for trusting me. Really,” she added fervently.

  Marge smiled a very motherly smile. Not an expression Jean ever got from her real mother.

  “We know you’re young and probably don’t have much experience, but we know what we want,” Marge said.

  “Someone who cares. Who will really work for us,” Tony picked up. “Our family has sold a lot of houses. My brother picked a real—I guess you’d say successful—agent. Not what I’d call him. Ralph never saw him once he got the listing and he made eight mistakes on the internet stuff. You’ll work like hell to sell this house, won’t you? And you have back-up at the office.”

  “Oh, yes! My broker will come with me every time we have an offer. Or if anything unusual happens. I really do know how to do the rest.”

  They were both smiling at her, anticipating. Jean saw that it made them happy to give her this gift. They deserved a better reaction than this spastic nodding.

  “I will kill myself trying to sell this wonderful house! Thank you!”

  Jean reached out to touch their arms, holding on for a moment as she said a quiet, heart-felt “thank you.”

  They liked that.

  There were a lot of details to go over, but she was good at the paperwork and the light coating of anxiety gradually wore off as she became absorbed in them.

  There was a sign in the trunk of her car. There was always a sign in the trunk of her car. Jean danced through the rain, over the wet grass and easily sank the metal supports into the soft ground as the DeLuccas smiled from the bay window.

  Wet and happy, Jean turned the key in the ignition, flipped on the windshield wipers and sat for a moment staring at her house, windows still lit from the tour, the white siding and black shutters glistening in the lamplight. She would hold her own listing open on Sunday. The reason for the second office meeting was pushed aside. There was only joy in her now.