DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE (13 page)

“Much better, Marian,” Rita approved.

“Thank you.” Marian took a breath. “I think I can manage complete sentences if you think it’s important.”

She picked up her purse, took a few steps toward the door and turned back.

“And screw the Girl Scouts!”

They heard the water come on in the bathroom sink.

“Do you think she’ll be all right?” Jean asked.

“Jeff’s not much of a loss except for his money. A dweeb. And her family’s got money.”

“But she adores him.”

“She adores him adoring her. The big blow might be doubting her desirability. Maybe the first time. Mirrors don’t reflect sound.”

They started downstairs, Jean in the lead. Halfway down, she stopped and looked up at her friend.

“Wait! Okay, so she must have called Jeff. The upstairs phone light went on. But why would Jack Turok tell her about the affair?”

“To find out if she killed Theresa.”

Jean had nothing to offer but a blank look.

“She only had a motive to kill Theresa if she knew who ratted on her. And if she knew about Jeff’s other woman. Hello-o! Isn’t it clear this was all news to her?”

“But you said if she was a suspect, she would have to go to the police station.”

Rita shrugged.

“So I was wrong. Needed to catch her off guard, didn’t he? If she was guilty and knew they suspected her, she’d be prepared to put on an act.”

“But wouldn’t she kill Jeff?”

“Or the other woman if logic had anything to do with it. Emotions don’t lead to logic. She wants Jeff, obviously. Wouldn’t you hate the woman who ratted on you, pushed your husband into an affair and destroyed your marriage? And you know how Theresa treated her in the office. Like the dingbat she is.”

Marian’s ravaged face was clear in Jean’s mind. She saw what Jack had seen.

Rita gave Jean a gentle push.

“Sad thing,” Rita said as they continued down the stairs “is that none of this had to come out. We could have told him Marian didn’t do it.”

“Well, yes, I agree with you. But what makes you say that?”

“You’ve watched her. Girl Scouts, meetings, massages, shopping. She didn’t have time.”

Jean laughed. What would life be like without Rita?

 
Chapter 22

Jean marched silently and obediently beside the beautiful Wayne Schumacher, sneaking a look now and then. Wayne’s tan silk jacket was slung over one shoulder, his eyes straight ahead as he guided her through the foot traffic, explaining what he was looking for: someone to answer the phone, keep the office organized, run computer searches and scout for houses for sale that would make good rentals initially, to be sold when the market improved.

It was hard to keep up with his long legs. Jean synchronized the points of her pointed black pumps, slightly grayed at the toes where the leather was worn, with the blunt toes of the well polished oxblood loafers. At last he stopped.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “This is too fast for you, isn’t it?”

He took a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his forehead. The day was only beginning to cool.

“It’s too hot for this pace, anyway.” Wayne looked at her approvingly. “You know how to be quiet. That’s nice. I talk too much. So we’re a good match. We’re almost there.
Le Chateau Noir.
”

Le Chateau Noir
? It was too expensive for anyone Jean knew. Her head was full of questions, but how could she ask them when she had just been complimented for being quiet?

There was no further conversation until they were out of the noisy street and seated in the darkened, cool restaurant. Almost immediately, a waitress came for drink orders.

“Wine?” Wayne asked.

Jean nodded.

He ordered in what seemed to be flawless French, even those funny R’s, and the waitress left.

“Order for you?’

Jean nodded again, enlarging her smile for variety. She was beginning to feel like a dummy. Somehow during the walk, he had gotten even better looking.

“Good. Then that’s settled. And we covered a lot on the way here. I’m glad you were free tonight.”

Wayne took her menu, put it on top of his and set them both aside. There was one question Jean had to ask.

“Are you definitely going to work in our office then?”

Wayne frowned.

“Still thinking. Tempting. I need someplace soon. Ed has a great reputation and a small enough staff that he’s free to give me the help I need. I’m dealing with some very knowledgeable clients. Ed even knows more about these REIT’s than I do.” Wayne laughed with a noticeable lack of concern. “And I’m the one selling them! Most importantly, he has the time to help me get this thing started.”

“It isn’t started?”

“Seemed pretty simple at first. Buy houses. Put them in a trust. My investment broker can take care of that. Rent them until the market comes back. Then sell for a profit. Doesn’t matter when. The rentals are good enough on their own. I have people interested. Talking to them in their homes, giving them the general idea, that’s my thing, but I found a couple of them knew more than I did. That’s damned embarrassing! I need an office and I can’t take this any farther without a licensed real estate broker. Ed’s perfect. But …”

Wayne left the sentence dangling.

“But until Theresa’s murder is solved …” Jean continued for him.

“Right. Sort of a shadow over the office. Especially …”

Another sentence awkward to finish.

“Especially since one of us might have done it.”

Wayne laughed again.

“See? Already we’re a team. You got it, darlin’.”

The wine and bread arrived. Wayne sniffed the cork, the aroma of the initial small offering, sipped and approved. Not something that ever happened at
Manny’s. And wine had
legs?
How very peculiar.
The glasses were filled, not as generously as at
Manny’s,
and there was more French before the waitress left and Wayne continued.

“You also have an empty room to offer me, a pretty rare item in a Bethesda real estate office and one for a friend I want to bring in, a loan officer.” Wayne frowned. “Situation’s perfect.” He leaned toward her. “You’ve just talked to the police. Do they really think someone in your office is the killer? Ed was honest enough to warn me. I can’t afford to be associated with anything shady. Not with this clientele.”

Jean wanted to assure him that it was probably Eleanor Harding or Joshua Evanston or even Frank, but Harold’s bulk stood massively in front of that assumption.
Was Harold associated in any way with the office now or was he really gone? And do the police really suspect me?

“Yes, I see that,” she said.

Wayne picked up on the emotion in her voice.

“Not a good situation for you, is it?” he asked. “How did you get into this business at your age, anyway?”

She told him of her father’s death, her mother’s instability, her entry into real estate and that final, awful day that had begun so well. Wayne was a good listener. That was probably part of what made him a good salesman.

She finished with, “You owe me your story. I told you mine.”

He shrugged. It quickly became apparent why his story was difficult to tell after hers. He defined himself as the spoiled only child of wealthy parents. He didn’t have to work but, as he put it, “there was this pride thing.”

“I’m not all that bright,” he admitted. “Didn’t do well in college.” His eyes went into the distance. “Had a good time, though.”

He joined in her laughter. She liked that, someone who could laugh at himself.

“Came to my senses in time. Graduated. Gave up women who were into their own looks. Too demanding. Maybe I’m too spoiled to cater to anyone else. Someone like you, now …”

It was an echo of Rita’s advice.

“You’ve had responsibility young and apparently handled it well, from what Ed says. Says you’re independent, not looking for a father to take care of you.”

That was exactly what she had been looking for. It was amazing how fast plans could change. But the huge question was: was he asking these questions for personal or business reasons?

“No, of course not,” she assured him as the waitress put their salads on the table.

Conversation was easy. That was probably part of being a great salesman, too. She didn’t know sports or politics or classical music, so Wayne left those openings behind. They found they were both avid readers and traded titles and authors until dinner arrived.

The empty salad plates flew away, the glasses were refilled and without words they agreed to concentrate on the food. The music was good, mellow selections Jean didn’t recognize. Sort of classical, she thought.

“I have no idea what I’m eating, but it’s wonderful,” Jean said when her plate was half empty.

Wayne laughed.

“I love that you admit it! French country dish,
coq au vin
, chicken in red wine.”

“With a lot of other stuff.”

“With a lot of other stuff,” he agreed.

Walking back to the office, Jean realized she hadn’t thought of Theresa or Harold for over two hours. They were hours she was going to enjoy reliving. The office was locked, but she had her key. It was dark just inside the door and, as they stood next to each other, he looked at her in a way that signaled clearly that he was wondering what it would be like to kiss her.

Wayne only touched her cheek with one finger.

Jean collected her gear and they walked to their cars.

“See you tomorrow,” he said as she got into hers.

That stopped her breath.

“Ed said you’d be on duty tomorrow morning if I wanted to talk to you then. We’re going to review what he would do with the office. That’s
if
I join you.”

Jean was jerked sharply from her daydreams.

 
Chapter 23

Jean woke at two a.m. And at four. And at five thirty. Harold had inhabited her nightmares and Wayne wouldn’t get out of her bed. Marian’s smeared face was also a part of her dreams. Theresa never had left, her stern, pale face and the inert, dark form on the white floor. Bits of merchandise that the commission from the DeLucca sale would allow her to buy floated through the fragmented dreams.

At five, she gave up, threw back the sheet and stared at the painting on the opposite wall. One of the four posters of the bed ran through the face of a woman painted in impressionist style. Her spotty face had unreally blue eyes that made her think of Wayne. Everything made her think of Wayne.

Last night, Rita had wanted to plan more investigating, insisting they had to try to remove the shadow over their office or Wayne might go elsewhere. Jean was also insistent. It was Harold and he was gone. No proof and no motive, Rita countered. Theresa had ignored him. He hadn’t killed anyone else in the office. He had the personality, but the two outsiders who had been there Saturday had motives. Good ones. It wasn’t enough to know who the killer was, anyway. They needed proof the killer wasn’t working in their office or Wayne wouldn’t come.

That had been convincing. Maybe another office—wherever Wayne went—would accept her now that she had a year’s experience. Maybe not.

She slid off the silk sheets and landed quietly on the intricately patterned rug. It wouldn’t do to wake Rita.

She went to the kitchen and punched the button on the coffee, ready for a quick morning take-off. Her clothes, too, were laid out, a simple white blouse and navy skirt. The suit needed a vacation once in a while. She walked quietly to the bathroom, came back to the bed to lie down until the coffee was ready and fell asleep.

Banging on her door woke her. She was feeling sensual and rested. It was a good thing Wayne wasn’t around. The clock registered eight fifteen. Okay. There was time. Rita’s apartment was much nearer the office than her own.

In the kitchen, she found Rita sucking on a ripe peach. Rita always ate fruit for breakfast. Jean needed an English muffin, or any muffin, preferably with bacon.

“I wish you were free this afternoon,” she said.

“Told you. Lunch date at one.”

Rita had a lot of lunch dates. And dinner dates. She had been out until late last night.

Jean picked up a banana and began peeling it. It was the nearest thing to starch Rita had to offer.

“Okay. But when are you free to play detective? I can’t lose that job.”

“Lose the job? You mean lose Wayne, right?”

“I mean both.”

Rita laughed.

“Jean!”

Hua was resplendent in orange, pink and gold.

“Not see you yesterday! Company! Company! Many, many cousins from Taiwan! Eat, eat, eat! Chop, chop, chop!” She slumped over. “Very tired.”

Jean stashed her purse in its usual inaccessible corner, took her place at the duty desk and picked up the paper to read until the phone rang. But the phone didn’t ring. The funeral had probably taken care of Realtors’ need to know about Theresa’s death. The instrument had returned to the silence the agents had come to expect in this market.

“Jean?”

Ed came out of his office.

“I need to talk to you. Hua—” He aimed his voice at the sales room door. “You might as well come in, too.”

Hua came in and sat on the couch. She never stood when she could sit. “Save feet for work,” she said.

“Hua, we have found Harold is potentially dangerous.”

Hua nodded her head, but showed no surprise.

“I not like Harold,” she said.

“Got his office key and he’s been told to stay away from here. No excuse for him to come back. I took all his gear to him last night. I’ll mail the check from the DeLucca sale. Don’t let him in and maybe don’t be in the office alone for a while. I’m usually here.” Ed looked worried. “Jean, I can’t guarantee he won’t go to your home, but he won’t come here. Maybe he’ll go home, at least for a while.”

Hua stretched out her arm.

“Hawaii good. Far, far.”

“Hawaii would be good,” Jean said. “Although he seemed to accept that I wasn’t ready to date yet, he didn’t sound ready to give up, either.”

“Feasible for you to move?” Ed asked.