DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE Read online

  “I really hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Too much coming at you at one time.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Maybe I’ll wait and see what this Wayne thing is all about. God knows the market is lousy everywhere.”

  The tightness in Jean’s heart loosened a little. She took another bite of her salad. It had no taste. She was a murder suspect. She had no regular income. One of her friends might have killed Theresa. Her best friend was probably leaving her.

  “The world has gotten a lot darker,” she said.

  Rita laughed.

  “You read too much!” she said.

  Chapter 18

  The largest room in the funeral home had been assigned to Theresa Vanderhoff. It was rose and ivory and gold and Theresa would have approved. The large number of people assembled there would have been a cause for even more approbation.

  Jean’s mother was there, looking like a Christmas decoration in red and white ruffles and sequins, a contrast, as usual, to her gray-suited daughter. At least, Jean had now mastered Rita’s makeup instructions. Ellie hadn’t noticed. Someone had finally helped her make the connection between the murder at a house held open by Brumm Realtors and her daughter. She had insisted on coming, was as impressed as Jean with the huge crowd and thought the sprinkling of matching jackets of gold or red representing different companies humorous. “Like athletic teams,” she said too loudly.

  There was nothing humorous to Jean, not because she was accustomed to the jackets, but because of who lay in the open coffin and because she kept thinking of her father. Neither seemed to bother Ellie.

  Jean was stopped often as the crowd moved about. Many knew her as Theresa’s protégé and offered sympathy. Ellie never failed to jump in with “it was my daughter who found her, you know,” which elicited horrified exclamations followed by another round of sympathetic murmurings. Ellie insisted on seeing Theresa, but she had to make her way up front alone. Jean had no need to see Theresa’s corpse again.

  Rita wasn’t there. She needed to do some previewing for a buyer and this morning, with the rest of the office staff there, was the best time for her to leave Jean. It hadn’t been a good plan. Ellie was not to be inflicted on her friends. Only one thing made the experience bearable: the compliments paid to Theresa. Apparently, Jean wasn’t the only one she had helped, so there was a good deal of gratitude mixed with admiring comments. There was also a good deal of business going on. Bits of conversation about listings, sales, or lack of sales seemed inappropriate and disturbing. Jean was glad when the time came to be seated. The front row was conspicuously empty until Ed ushered his agents to those seats. Apparently, the husband had not been found.

  It was not surprising that the man who came to the podium was neither pastor nor priest. Theresa never went to church, whether because she had no faith or because it was the big day in real estate, Jean had never questioned. Today she discovered which reason applied. Ed had arranged a non-religious service except for the one hymn, “Onward Christian Soldiers,” an odd one for such an occasion. As Jean sang “marching as to war,” she realized the service must have been arranged by Ed and this was a disturbing comment on the Theresa he knew. She could sing no more of the hymn.

  Most of the service consisted of a eulogy by the President of the Board of Realtors. Theresa Veronica Vanderhoff, he assured the audience authoritatively, had given her entire adult life to the industry she loved, donating time to unpaid activities that benefited her fellow agents and the community. This lengthy tribute was followed by a general invitation for anyone to speak. Many did so in firm, confident, sales agent voices.

  By the time the service was over, the confusion that had disturbed Jean from time to time in the last three days was gone. Of course Theresa had enemies! Of course you hated her or loved her! She was not a meek, ineffective person who tried to get along with everyone. She would not tolerate incompetent, unethical or slipshod behavior that tarnished the world she loved. She took the directive of the Annotated Code of Maryland seriously: she had an obligation to the public and to other Realtors to help police her industry. The President had made exactly that point.

  Jean felt better about funerals in general. She had been too disturbed to appreciate her father’s, but something worthwhile had been achieved here today. The presence of all these people showed how much the life of Theresa mattered. Jean looked over the crowd. Solemn faces, but not a tear. Not a tear anywhere. Perhaps because the tributes were more professional than personal. She herself felt only a sense of loss and some sadness. Theresa had always been there when help was needed, but Ed would be there now. And Rita, at least for a while. The grief she had anticipated since Sunday had never come and she realized that Rita was right. Her new “mother” had not really been warm and loving. She had been impressive, helpful, but intimidating. The help was gone, but so was the criticism and the worry that came with it. It was difficult to admit, but Jean’s grief now was primarily for herself. The commission from the DeLuccas would last a while, probably long enough for her to find a new job, but there would be no small financial favors from Theresa.

  Jean made her way to the back through a distressing babble of what seemed, now, to be exclusively business conversations towards Ed, who, in the absence of any relatives, was serving as host, thanking people for coming and inviting appropriate ones to the office, where catered refreshments for friends were being supervised by Vivian.

  “Sorry you can’t come, Jean.”

  “I’m not sorry. I don’t want food. And Rita sent me off with a health food bar just in case.”

  Ed hugged her. “You going to be able to handle this inspection all right? As you asked, I told Harold he couldn’t come, but I told him it was my idea, that two agents made too big a crowd in the house. He didn’t take it well. I warned Jim that you were new and to look out for you.”

  “I’ll be fine. Jim and I know each other from a couple of Theresa’s inspections. Thanks for arranging it for me. I could have done that. And I’m not worried. It’s Jim’s show.”

  “Ring me if you need to.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, pleased to know he would worry anyway.

  At the door, Ellie put a hand on her arm.

  “I don’t have to go with you to this inspection, do I?”

  Sometimes Ellie’s ignorance was hard to accept.

  “No, Ellie, of course not.”

  Her mother smiled. “Good. Then I can go straight to your office.”

  “No,” Jean said firmly. “You can’t.”

  “Well, why did I come to the funeral, then? A free meal, Jean! And I brought some baggies,” she added with a conspiratorial look.

  Jean wondered if the almost painful tension in her chest that Ellie always managed to elicit would ever become easier to stifle.

  “You came for me, Ellie. Mothers do that when their daughters lose someone close to them. The reception is for Theresa’s friends. You didn’t even know her. And you didn’t send flowers or contribute to a charity in her name, so you’re not entitled to a feast. That’s the way it works.”

  Ellie’s face must have looked exactly as it did when she was a child refused a treat, Jean thought. She couldn’t have been more different from Theresa. For the first time, Jean wondered if perhaps Ellie was why Theresa seemed so admirable.

  Chapter 19

  Jean stood on the front stoop of the DeLuccas house until she felt like a restless ornament. At last the Powers arrived. It was obvious they were nervous, too. No smiles or waves from this couple. She walked down the two steps to meet them.

  It was not like any inspection she had ever witnessed. Jim was the same, confident, competent, explaining the problems and how to fix them. What Jean had never encountered before was a buyer who cared nothing for small imperfections and almost welcomed the chance to get to work on his own house. Burt Powers said little, as usual, but did a great deal of nodding and saying, “I can fix that” as his wife clung to his arm, her
eyes taking in every inch of every room.

  Jim ended in the living room. Jean knew that was because he wanted to leave Jean to deal with her end of the inspection in the best room in the house. As soon as Jim was out the door, Burt opened up. He wanted to talk about everything he was going to do. He was going to do a lot. Jean had to stifle her impatience. She wanted the inspection contingency signed off, making the contract binding. Eventually, she got the two needed signatures and ushered the couple out the front door amid a rainbow of Edna’s color ideas for painting the bedrooms.

  Jean couldn’t move. She just stood in the open doorway, removed her smile and told herself to drop her shoulders and breathe.

  It was over. The signed paper was on the coffee table. She could buy food now. Maybe a new suit.

  She walked down to the sign in the front yard, removed the “for sale” insert, moved on to her car, opened the trunk, lay that insert inside, took out another, walked back to the sign and dropped in the replacement. Stepping back a few feet, she stood and read very slowly several times:

  SOLD

  Jean Terrence

  Chapter 20

  On Thursday morning, Rita had floor duty. Jean was there to change the Board status of the DeLucca’s listing and to avoid being alone.

  When the phone rang, Jean got off the couch.

  “Got to go change the status.”

  “Let Harold do it,” Rita said as she moved her hand toward the phone.

  That sounded like a very good idea. He hadn’t done anything else. Jean went back to her desk and played with updating her personal file on the DeLuccas until Harold walked in. He once again took Theresa’s chair. It was probably his now. At least Harold was bringing money into the office, buying a rental property every year or two. He used to sell one of his properties once in a while, too, she was told, but not in this market. It was the time to buy, if one had the money, and the home of the United States government was the one place that would always need housing. She wondered if he would join Wayne’s group. Dad had always said it was good to spread your investments. Not that Ellie had left Dad anything to invest.

  “Glad to see you, Harold,” she said. “You can change the status of the DeLucca’s listing. They signed off on the inspection.”

  “You haven’t done that yet?”

  “No. You can make a note on your calendar to take down the sign in two weeks, too.”

  “Of course, Jean. I would be glad to help you with these—” he waved a hand languidly toward the computer “—trivial details. I do think that, as the more experienced agent, I should have handled the inspection for you.”

  “I want to become an experienced agent, Harold. And the DeLuccas are my people. I wanted to be the one to report to them.”

  Jean was surprised at the firmness of her response. She was becoming more confident. It felt good.

  “Yes, I see that. You may be right. I thought we might have dinner together tonight, Jean. To celebrate our sale. My treat, of course.”

  Words wouldn’t come. The invitation was completely unexpected. Unwanted.

  “I can’t,” she said when she could stand Harold’s stare no longer.

  That wasn’t enough. She had to work with this man.

  “I have…” Her mind clawed for an excuse. “It’s just I’m not…”

  The enemy saved her.

  “I understand.” Harold’s voice was softer than usual. “You’re not over Theresa’s death. I do understand. Not the time to have fun. But I could be your confidant. Console you. Offer you comfort.”

  The idea was ludicrous. Jean had her bearings by now.

  “Not yet, thank you, Harold. I just don’t know you quite well enough to cry on your shoulder.” Your enormous shoulder! Oh, that’s cruel! He’s trying to be nice! It might even be bearable if he weren’t so … so very odd. “If you could just change the status for me, that would be helpful.”

  “Of course. First, I have a phone call to return.”

  He left the room, his heavy footfalls fading on the way up the stairs. Even that was odd. The sales room was full of phones. Rather proud of the way she had handled that mini-crisis, she was on her way to the reception room to brag to Rita when the phone rang again.

  As Rita picked up the phone, Jean leafed through the message book. It was a way to kill time, but there was also a little curiosity. Telling herself it was none of her business, she found and read the copy of the message Harold needed such unusual privacy to return. It was from a Dr. Carol Chou. It had been very uncomfortable with Harold at the open house. The thought of a date with him was more than unattractive. It was borderline frightening. Dr. Chou? Maybe Harold had a medical problem that would make her a little more tolerant or understanding.

  “Call the doctor,” Rita ordered when Jean told her about avoiding the date.

  “I can’t do that!”

  “Of course you can. He’s after you. You need as much information as possible. Maybe he’s allergic to something you can wear.”

  Rita laughed and took the phone slip from Jean’s hand.

  Harold was coming down the stairs, dropping heavily from one tread to the next.

  “I will take care of that status change for you now, Jean.”

  As soon as he was in the sales room, Rita got up and walked quickly into Ed’s office.

  “He’ll catch the phone for a few minutes,” she whispered to Jean as she returned.

  They both ran up the stairs to the conference room. Rita dialed the number and turned on the speaker phone.

  This was useless, Jean thought. What would a doctor tell us about one of her patients?

  “Dr. Chou’s office,” came through the speaker.

  “Yes. Dr. Chou has been recommended to me. Can you tell me, please, something of her qualifications?”

  Rita was an admirably creative liar.

  The response was largely incomprehensible, a string of letters and the names of schools. It served to make one thing clear. Dr. Chou was a psychiatrist.

  “Would it be possible to have just a quick word with the doctor, please?”

  Jean expected the receptionist to say the Doctor couldn’t take a call at the moment and then to ask who was calling. Neither happened and Rita was scrambling for words when a softer voice said, “This is Dr. Chou.”

  “I … um, this is—my name is Rita Hanson and I work with Harold Akana. I probably shouldn’t be calling you, but some things … I just want to know, can you tell me if Harold is …” Rita hesitated. “He has, uh, sort of approached me in a way that is scary. Is he in any way dangerous?”

  “Yes. He is.”

  “He is?” Rita’s surprise was evident. “Are you, I mean, I thought all that stuff was confidential.”

  “I am legally allowed to warn you, nothing more.”

  “Okay. I guess … I guess that’s all.”

  “I think that will have to be all.”

  The dial tone hummed the end of the call.

  It took a minute or two for their thoughts to settle down. Then, Rita said, “Go, girl!”

  Jean ran quickly downstairs just ahead of Rita, knocked on the frame of Ed’s open door and, without waiting for a response, they stepped inside and closed the door behind them.

  Chapter 21

  Jean pretended an absorption in conversation with Rita at the duty desk until Harold obeyed Ed’s summons to his office. They came out only a few minutes later.

  “We’re going to Dunkin’ Donuts,” Ed said.

  Harold was smiling hugely. It was probably the first time Ed had ever invited him anywhere.

  “Smart,” Rita said when the door closed. “No fuss in the office. Harold won’t be back.”

  Jean fell onto the couch. With a little luck, she would never see or hear from Harold again. She could no longer afford a home phone. Only a few close friends, Ed and the DeLuccas had her cell phone number. Even Ellie could phone her only at the office.

  “Jean! Hey!” Rita had one hand over the phone. �
�Can you take my duty? I really need to go. Anxious customer wants to see a house.”

  “Sure.”

  The emptiness of the small house seemed palpable as Rita closed the front door. Jean was alone for the first time since Theresa’s death. Harold must not return. Not even with Ed. Rita could put up a good front, say a cheery “hello” as if she knew nothing. Jean couldn’t do that.

  She sat in the slightly shaky duty chair and distracted herself between phone calls by examining the room, especially the entryway. She felt the pictures should have been closer to the orange couch. They were hung too high. Who had left the umbrella in the stand? She straightened the magazines. Why didn’t they have canned music the way so many businesses did? Why did the phone never ring? The big round black-rimmed clock offered the answer: most agents were having lunch at this time of day.

  When the phone did ring, the sound shot through her.

  It was Jack Turok.

  “Ms. Arendtz is on her way in. She’s expecting me. That upstairs room available?”

  “Yes. You’re coming here?”

  “About ten minutes.”

  She wouldn’t be alone much longer.

  Marian arrived first, staggering through the door with her usual baggage.

  “Wants to talk to me. Well, I do know—almost six years—know everybody here pretty well.”

  “Jack Turok, you mean.”

  “Mm. Sexy. Not tall and elegant like my Jeffrey, but—”

  The sentence ended there as she dropped a knapsack on the couch and continued into the staff room with her purse, briefcase and a large shopping bag. There must be some Girl Scout event coming up, Jean thought, as Marian returned for the knapsack. Today she was a walking confection in a pink dress, the kind that Ellie would call a “little number.” Her accessories were white except for an airy scarf in a rainbow of pastel colors thrown around her neck in that seemingly artless way that Jean could never achieve. Fabric just seemed to fall right for some people. Or maybe Marian paid more for scarves that behaved themselves.