DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE (17 page)

Reluctantly, the opener was placed back in the box and returned to Rita.

“I have no idea.” The voice was cold. “I haven’t been in the business for years, as you know. How amusing. This was for shock value, wasn’t it? Hoping to catch me off guard. I have—
had
—no motivation for killing my old enemy. Quite the contrary. If you ask around, you’ll find I prevented her from becoming president of the board. I can circulate rumors, too. My friends will also tell you I don’t believe in Hell. If I did, I might very well have wanted to kill Theresa. My final gift to the real estate world. However, I don’t. Hell is here on earth and I would just as soon have Theresa endure as much of it as possible. And now …”

She stood, taller than either of them, smiled her limited smile and indicated with a nod the way to the door. She did not accompany them.

 
Chapter 28

“Why didn’t you tell me you had that letter opener?” Jean demanded as they walked sedately down the wide sidewalk, sure that pale eyes followed them.

“Sorry. Got it from Stan couple of days ago. You were kind of sensitive on the subject of the opener. No need to bring it up. Told Stan I was sure Eleanor Harding had done it, wanted her reaction. Probably should have told you before I hauled it out. She never batted an eye, did she? You know, she actually wanted it! I’d have some explaining to do to Stan’s father if she hadn’t given it back.”

“You know what the worst of it was for me?”

Jean felt a little shaky as they got back into Rita’s car.

“What?”

“She had the same smile Theresa did. Small. Limited,” Jean said sadly.

“And she manipulated just like Theresa. But I think she’s a few shades of evil darker.”

“It wasn’t a bad thing for Theresa to do, driving this awful woman out of business, was it?’

“Noble, I’d say!”

“Her age makes it—think she could do it?”

“Mm. Got to be at least eighty. Doesn’t look weak. Don’t know, really. Never been eighty. Don’t see how she could have gotten that close—physically, I mean—to Theresa. I mean, they didn’t like each other. It wouldn’t have been natural. Guess she could have snuck up from behind okay. And she
was
stabbed from behind, you said.”

“Being tall would have helped.”

“We haven’t said what really convinced us she didn’t do it. Not the tell thing. I think she could have lied about anything without giving it away.”

“It’s too awful.”

“That business about hell being on earth.”

They drove in silence until they reached Wisconsin Avenue. That was one of the things Jean most liked about her friend, the lack of constant chatter many girls considered socially appropriate. Living with her quiet father, she had become accustomed to the mental space required to think her own thoughts.

It wasn’t until they had come to a stop in the office driveway that Rita said what they had both been thinking.

“Police were right, weren’t they? I argued about Joshua Evanston, but really, I agreed with you. Don’t really think he did it. And Eleanor Harding?” Rita shook her head. “It’s one of us.”

“Got to be,” Jean agreed reluctantly. “If you consider Harold one of us.”

Each stared out the front window for some time, trying to come to terms with the unacceptable.

“So Kevin’s in there,” Rita said finally. “That’s his car. Ed must have ordered him to make up some floor time.”

“And if he is?”

“Harold’s a problem. I guess we could ask him out to lunch. Sort of sympathize and grill him. Easiest thing is to eliminate everybody but Harold. Then we don’t need to talk to him. He’ll be
it
. The psychiatrist said he was dangerous, so probably not a good idea to see him anyway. Would have to be in public. So I’m not going home. I’m going to talk to Kevin.”

“Well, one thing’s sure.”

“What’s that?”

Jean unstrapped her seat belt and reached for the door handle.

“You’re wasting gas and I’m not sitting here without air conditioning. We go in or we go home.”

“You don’t think I can do it, do you?”

“What? Find out if Kevin did it? How would you do that?”

“I just had an idea,” Rita said.

“Like?”

Rita leaned toward Jean.

“Kevin’s on duty. Does he know what Theresa looked like?”

“What?”

“I mean when she was stabbed.”

Jean frowned. “Probably not. How could he?”

“Then we can do it! Come on!”

Rita jumped out of the car, leaving Jean to wonder what was so exciting that Rita left her briefcase and didn’t wait to lock her car.

Kevin was at the duty desk, idly flipping the pages of the message pad. It was impossible not to feel sorry for him. Somewhere there was a job Kevin could do well. He was strong, healthy and designed for the blue collar work force running a front loader or putting out fires, but he was determined to be a businessman with a suit and tie, something he had neither the confidence nor the personality to be.

“Kevin, how’re you doing?” Rita asked brightly.

He smiled, not returning the brightness.

“Fine.”

“We’re beat,” Rita said, pulling Jean down with her as she sat on the couch. “Trying to scare up business is a waste of time. And we’re still depressed about Theresa.”

Rita adjusted her facial expression to one of concern and Jean followed suit.

“How’s business?”

Kevin looked down at the pages he was flipping.

“Not so good. Market’s dead, isn’t it?”

“Totally. You probably expected to get Theresa’s listings. At least, the ones you helped her with. And you were like Jean. Really close to her. Her death hit you hard, too, didn’t it?”

The only response to this question was a tightening around his mouth. He didn’t look at them.

Jean felt Rita grab her arm. She was supposed to be paying close attention.

“Jean says she keeps seeing her laying there, that awful letter opener in her back.”

Jean started, opened her mouth to protest. Rita’s hand closed more tightly.

“I shouldn’t have left her,” Kevin said, barely audible.

“Sorry. I should have been more thoughtful. You’re probably feeling guilty.”

He nodded.

“Jean was completely out of it for a while. Shock. All that blood on the back of Theresa’s white blouse. Not easy to forget.”

Kevin looked up, frowning, and after a few seconds, said “Theresa took off her jacket? She never does—did—that. Always professional.” He looked down again. “Always very professional. I learned …”

That was as far as he could go. He was fighting tears. Jean and Rita looked at each other. This was completely unexpected. It hit Jean that Kevin had worked with Theresa far longer than she had.

She got up and put her hands on his shoulders, rested her head on his.

“I’m sorry, Kevin. I think we haven’t realized what Theresa meant to you. You must be feeling very alone.”

A sound, indecipherable, came from Kevin. Jean tightened her grip and said again, “I’m really, really sorry. Is there anything we can do?”

He started to rise.

“Would you …” He gestured at the desk.

“Sure. Sure. We’ll take over. It’s almost time for you to go, anyway.”

Lowering his head to hide his face, Kevin got up and walked out. He hadn’t even brought his briefcase.

The front door closed.

“Oh crap,” Rita said, throwing her arms across the back of the couch. “Who knew?”

Jean sat down at the duty desk, feeling guilty, although she had done nothing but try to console Kevin.

“I was looking for a mother. I guess Kevin was, too.”

“He’s just dumber than you.”

“Rita!”

“Oh, I know. My bad. It hadn’t even occurred to me how guilty he might feel. Or that he actually cared about her. I know he’s like you. In another way, like me, too. No family we’d want to go back to. This whole office is a bunch of misfits, isn’t it? I’m sorry I stirred up all that. But it was in him anyway. Difference between you two is he really needed her and you didn’t and now you see it.”

The two sat in silence.
Another suspect down.
That really was clever of Rita. Kevin didn’t
know Theresa wasn’t stabbed in the back and he didn’t know she hadn’t taken off her jacket. He wasn’t acting. He wasn’t capable of acting.

Jean was feeling limp. Too many suspects had been eliminated. Fear was invading her body again, stronger than ever now. She didn’t want to talk about the murder any more.

“Why are you dressed like Marian? I’ve been meaning to ask you that since we started today.”

“I wanted to look good at Eleanor Harding’s. But silk wrinkles too easily.”

“Then why’d you buy it?”

“I didn’t. George did.”

“George?”

“George Chernowski.” Rita’s tone was dismissive. “A customer. Wanted to show his gratitude. With that inheritance and a commission coming, you could buy a silk suit if you really wanted one,” Rita said.

“But I don’t,” Jean said firmly. “I want a future.”

“How about a George?” Rita suggested.

“I don’t have customers looking for wives. I don’t have customers, period. And I certainly haven’t been dating!”

“So who’s left?”

Rita wasn’t going to let go of the subject.

“Stan and Harold, really, unless we keep Frank in,” Jean recited dutifully.

“You know what? That day we did the office interviews, I didn’t get much from Stan. We’d covered it on the phone—no tells possible there—and he cut it short in the office. Had to study. But that letter opener convinced me. When he gave it to me, there wasn’t a trace of emotion, no guilt, no anger, no tells. Know what he said when he gave it to me?”

“No.”

“He took it out of the box and ran his hand along the edge. It wasn’t sharp like Theresa’s, of course. He looked sad. Honestly. And he said, ‘Poor old girl. A bitch for sure. But she didn’t deserve this thing in her neck’.” Rita shook her curls vigorously. “He didn’t do it. He’s too young and too smart to risk his future unless there’s really some major motive we don’t know about. But he didn’t sound like that.”

“So,” Jean said reluctantly. “We’re down to Harold or Frank.”

“I guess we’re done. Can’t interview those two. But this is fun, don’t you think? I had a blast this morning.”

“I didn’t.”

Rita scowled.

“I know. I don’t like the idea of you being a suspect, either, though I don’t take it very seriously. Obviously, the police can’t find Frank and they can’t convict you till they do, so relax. He’s too good a suspect even with the locked door thing. You need to live in the moment.”

“I am who I am.”

“Print that on your business cards.”

Jean almost laughed, but fear clogged her throat.

 
Chapter 29

Jean was back in her apartment, an easy move. She hadn’t taken much to Rita’s. Sunday afternoon was spent cleaning up the mess her mother had left. Now, waking on Monday morning, it felt a little lonely, although she had always liked being alone, a preference developed in the many hours when her father was at work and she had the apartment to herself. Nothing to do at the office, either. Why not call Rita? Anything with Rita was fun.

Jean sat up on her cozy bed and pushed number three on her cell phone. The office was one, Ellie two, Rita three.

There was no answer. She left a quick “where are you? Call whenever.”

Resigned, Jean stripped her one set of sheets from the bed, folded it back into a chair, got the clothes basket from her dressing room and took the elevator to the basement.

She was fortunate. Sometimes it was difficult to get a machine on a Monday morning. Today only Millie was there, one of her many Jewish “mothers” here because of the building’s proximity to Kehilat Shdam synagogue.

“Jean, sweetheart! Everybody’s been wondering how you are!” Millie looked at Jean’s full basket. “No time for laundry lately, I guess. We saw in the paper! Terrible! Terrible! Are you safe, sweetheart?”

Millie was four feet nine inches short, as she liked to say. She had a dumpy little figure, white hair with a purple rinse and alert brown eyes peering out from a wrapping of tiny wrinkles and folds.

Harold’s image responded to Millie’s question, but Jean couldn’t quite bring herself to ask if Millie had seen him. That would require an explanation that would be all over the building in twenty-four hours, undoubtedly frightening some inhabitants.

“I’m perfectly safe, Millie. No worries,” Jean said.

She dropped her basket on the nearest washing machine. “Is this one working yet?”

“Fixed Thursday. They’re afraid not to fix things fast. Most of us got nothing to do but complain. Listen, sweetheart, you get nervous any time, you come stay the night with me. I got two bedrooms on the eighth floor. Beautiful view. We could have some sherry. We play Mah Jong on Wednesdays. Never mind.” She waved the thought away with a gnarled hand. “Forget the Mah Jong. You got better things to do!”

“Sounds like fun. Thank you, Millie. It’s kind of you to ask, but I’m fine.”

Jean shoved the sheets into the washer.

“Ah! Polite! Always polite! My granddaughter should be so polite! You have fun like young people. Like
good
young people. Some of the fun they have today doesn’t sound so good.”

“Don’t worry about me, Millie.”

“That’s not so good, either. Young people should do something for us old ones to worry about. Keeps life interesting for all of us.”

Jean laughed. “I’ll keep you up on what’s happening. Police are—” She broke off, suddenly remembering the message left on Rita’s cell phone. Hers was still in her apartment. “Oh! Forgot. Expecting a call. Have to run.” Jean poured detergent into the dispenser, slammed the washer shut and pushed the “start” button. “Sorry.” She was already headed for the door. “Don’t mean to be rude.”

“Rude, schmude,” she heard behind her. “Go be young!”

An hour and twenty minutes later, the wash was done. Rita still hadn’t called. Jean was showered and dressed for the office in a washable skirt and blouse and her oldest acceptable shoes. It was raining. At least there would be someone at the office to talk to. In the hall by her door, she stacked her briefcase, her suit for the dry cleaners, her purse and umbrella and was just locking the door when her cell phone called softly from the depths of her purse. It was Stan.