DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE (23 page)

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Walking down the stairs, she marveled at the way emotional pain could be felt down her arms, in her head and neck. It seemed that all her body mourned. Adding to it was the fact that she knew Wayne didn’t share any of her pain.

That evening, Jean did something she hadn’t done since her father died. Even as a child, strong emotion had often compelled her to write poetry. Unable to find words to respond to Wayne as he kissed her goodbye, it took two glasses of wine, a lot of tears but surprisingly little editing before she came up with:

Elegy

Genesis intense, swift,

Too soon abandoned.

Last moments a tangle of blood and nerves,

Of unhealing compassion,

Of mourning for the never born,

For love aborted,

For gifts ungiven,

Words to words reply,

Diminishing, confining.

They cannot say.

He had felt compassion. It was in the way he brushed back her hair to kiss her. It was in his eyes. He would probably never understand the pain his dismissal caused. It wasn’t his nature. In time, knowing that would help her heal. Every love was not permanent, every couple not right for marriage. She must learn to be grateful for periods of love, this one and hopefully ones to come. Meanwhile, there would be a kind of mourning for what she had thought would be their future.

 
Chapter 42

Brookside Gardens was one of the gems of Montgomery County, a quiet, walkable bouquet in a heavily populated suburb of the nation’s capitol. Chantilly would have to wait still another day. After her afternoon class, Jean sent an SOS to Rita.

Brookside was Rita’s idea. She was driving the new car George had bought her, a black BMW. She would have preferred red, but that somehow symbolized the woman she used to be.

The black asphalt of the parking lot was still hot in this second week of September. It would take another few weeks for the temperature to fall below eighty degrees. Walking slowly in shorts and tees, a nice change from the working clothes they used to wear together, they passed the hothouse and walked up the path into the nearly roseless rose garden.

“How old is Wayne?” Rita asked.

“Thirty-nine. Almost forty.”

“That’s a long time to run your life without adapting to someone else. Would you have had this problem last year?”

Jean stopped to stare at her friend, surprised at the truth the question revealed.

“You see,” Rita said. “You’re totally miserable, but you’re also right about him not being right for you. Marriage with him would be a ninety-five to five compromise.”

“A what?”

“You would be doing all the compromising. You could have done that a year ago quite happily. Couldn’t now. Will be able to even less in the future. You’re growing up. Growing stronger. Just think about it.”

Rita was silent, letting Jean think as they wandered into the steamy hothouse, over the small bridge across the water, past the vines and exotic flowers and came back out again.

“It was already bothering me,” Jean said with resignation.

“Of course it did. A Wayne is not what you want. You deserve a partner who will let you be an equal.”

They walked up the asphalt path past bushes needing pruning.

“Time to cut off the dead flowers and find some new blooms,” Jean said.

“Very dramatic. You ought to write poetry.”

Jean would have laughed if she hadn’t been so unhappy.

“This stuff about Theresa, winning your affection through approval and then withdrawing it, keeping you off guard and needing reassurance. Interesting. Not like my family. Not as honest, in a way,” Rita said. “Now
that’s
a surprise! I said something positive about my family.”

“It seemed like mothering at the time. I’d never had a mother who could help me. But she did keep me kinda down.”

“And Kevin. You’re right. Maybe a little bit with Marian.”

They walked slowly through zinnias and ageratum.

“Remember how Theresa was always late?” Jean asked.

“I know! Another kind of manipulating.”

“And Wayne did that, too. Made all the decisions. He was just—I don’t know—he didn’t make me feel inferior. It was just frustrating after a while.”

“You know, Jean, what you need to look for is someone like me. Someone who makes you laugh instead of worry.”

Straight-faced, Jean said, “I don’t think the sex would be as good.”

“No, idiot!” Rita said. “I mean, besides the laughing, someone you can talk to the way you talk to me. I’m kind of masculine in some ways. You notice I’m not swearing any more, though. George doesn’t like it.”

At a gazebo overlooking a pond, they sat down on one of the benches. It felt good to get out of the sun.

“Maybe that guy at the office.”

“Maybe. I’ll have to ask him out this time since I turned him down. He seems so young, though, after Wayne.”

“You can train him the way Wayne was training you. No.” Rita shook her head, rejecting her suggestion. “Forget that. Find someone right for you.”

They both leaned back and took some time to enjoy being with each other in this setting, carefully planned beauty in every direction. Below them, carp swam amid floating green algae. The birds sang appropriately. Jean felt Rita sneaking an investigative look at her from time to time, knowing it had been a good decision to come here. Nature offered perspective.

“So I guess we’re both off the hook. I think the police are stuck,” Rita offered by way of additional solace.

“Seems so,” Jean said. “But doesn’t it drive you nuts that we’ll never know who the murderer is? Motives, opportunity, but no prosecutable package.”

“Prosecutable package?” Rita mocked. “Where did you come up with that? You’re spoiling the mood here. If the police aren’t making a move, why should we worry?”

“I don’t like uncertainty. Your motive sounds pretty weak, you know, now that you’re married to George and not even working in real estate.”

A group of children arrived and began yelling to each other, pointing at the fish. It was time to move on.

A large tree offered haven. Sitting on the ground, leaning against its trunk, Jean dropped her head back, then thought of bugs in her hair and lifted it again.

“My shorts are too tight to sit like this,” Rita said stretching out her long legs.

“Mine are loose.”

“Not in style.”

“Comfortable is not in style.”

“You got it.”

Jean was glad to have her friend next to her, an event becoming rare. Wayne’s work and classes left her little free time during the day and George was claiming Rita’s evenings.

“Wish they’d find Wayne,” Jean said half to herself. “Not knowing if he has an alibi or not is … is …”

“Is something I can’t get you to forget about. Shit!” Rita said, throwing a stone at an innocent chrysanthemum. “Thought I had you over that.”

 
Chapter 43

“We have to talk! We’ve been stupid!”

Jean held her cell phone away from her ear. Rita was almost yelling.

“Where are you? I’ll meet you there! Unless it’s someplace like Chantilly!”

“At home,” Jean said softly in an attempt to lower Rita’s decibel level. “No class today. Have to go to the office soon to cover Wayne’s phone.”

“The office, then. Conference room if he’s there.”

Jean snapped her phone shut and set it on the end table. Why was Rita so … what, exactly? Angry? Just excited? Putting aside her father’s picture, which she was finally going to put into the much nicer silver frame they hadn’t used at Eleanor Harding’s, she turned off Chopin’s Etude in A flat, threw another report for Wayne into the briefcase he had bought her, gathered her things and locked the patio doors as she left.

Stupid?
What did Rita mean by that?

Jean started her car, curiosity growing. Rita was a dynamic personality. Loud didn’t always mean important.

In the conference room, Jean dropped her briefcase and purse on the table as Rita flew in the door and started talking before she could sit down.

“We screwed up!” Rita whispered, closing the door behind her.

Jean opened her mouth to ask how, but wasn’t given time to speak.

“We didn’t
think!
The neighbors!
”

“Enough,” Jean said emphatically. “Sit down and tell me what you’re talking about.”

Rita sat. Jean thought it was nice to be giving the orders. She turned the chair next to Rita’s and sat down facing her. For no particular reason, they leaned toward each other as if sharing secrets.

Rita waited a few seconds for drama and then said, emphasizing each word,
“
It …
wasn’t … Harold!”

She leaned back and waited.

Jean rebelled.

“Of course it was—I mean, or maybe Kevin. We—”

“You remember the day? July?”

“Do I remember the day? Be real!”

“I mean, do you remember the weather? Beautiful day. Small townhouses. Must have been some neighbors, back yard and front, right?”

Jean nodded.

“Doing yard work, kids running around? Does that tell you something?”

“You mean, who else came?” Jean asked. “It didn’t matter. They couldn’t have gotten the letter opener from the office.”

Rita didn’t say anything. She gave Jean more time, but not much more. Impatiently, she added, “
Picture it! The open house! Harold!
”

Jean saw it.

“Harold,” she said.

It was almost a whisper.

“
Exactly!”

Rita’s green eyes were shining.

“Could any neighbor have missed that tank? He moves like a slug, would have taken two forevers to get in and out. Police showed everyone our pictures. Two people remember Kevin putting up the sign. Two remember Ed, but neither remembers when. Could have been two different times. Some teenage boy washing his car saw you and said it was around four. This is good. At least it proves you called the police shortly after you got there.” Rita paused and stared at Jean for a second before adding, “
no one saw Harold!
”

She gave Jean time to absorb the implications. They weren’t good. A familiar wave of nausea moved from Jean’s stomach to her throat. Rita made no attempt to ease the fear. Rita didn’t do that.

“It seems the only thing saving you is that it was too unbelievably stupid to use the letter opener and go to her open house. And if you’re in, girlfriend, so am I! And we can’t both be guilty. So stop looking like a scared rabbit.”

The nausea subsided a little.

“Harold never came,” Jean repeated. “All this time—how do you know all this?”

“Had to do something after Brookside. I thought you were over all this. So I called. Why not? Public servant, isn’t he? I’m public. We’d gone as far as we could. Wanted to know what they knew. Much more willing to talk this time. They’re stuck.”

Pictures
. Rita had said …

“The police showed our pictures? What pictures?”

“In our advertising brochure. Faces. Plus their descriptions of the rest of us. Fat, short, tall, whatever.”

Jean didn’t want to give up Harold.

“Maybe the neighbors forgot.”

“Jack said they took the brochure over the same day. They know it’s possible someone could have come in without being noticed. Just couldn’t be someone as memorable as Harold. Picture him lumbering slowly across the front yard, out the back door and back to the street. I told them about Kevin’s possible motive. They weren’t too impressed, especially since he lost income with Theresa gone. Not into subtle psychology for motive. They want something they can sell to a jury.”

“Poor Harold,” Jean admitted slowly. “I’ve been afraid of him all this time.”

“So there’s good news and there’s bad news. You don’t have to be afraid of Harold any more. But we lost our best suspect.”

Jean felt ill.

“So it’s Kevin? Or Frank, who didn’t have a key? How likely are they?”

“Well, girlfriend, it ain’t us!”

“No. They think it’s me! Rita, what am I going to do?”

“Stop being afraid, for one thing. First of all, it’s been two months now. Remember I said they’re stuck. You’re not really their best suspect. Frank is. Inherited lots more money and he hated her. Easy to prove that. Must be some way around that stupid letter opener.”

“But nobody saw him, either, right?”

“Yeah. Right. But you’re a lousy suspect. Way too wimpy. And if Frank has an alibi, then I’ll confess and confuse the hell out of them.”

This offer had calmed Jean’s fears for months. Now it became a mere wisp and drifted away, leaving a hole in her stomach.

“Rita,” she said slowly, fighting tears. “Your confession won’t work. That teenage kid washing his car. If he noticed me, he sure would have noticed you. Anyone would.”

She didn’t need to explain. Rita knew eyes followed her red hair and the bright, tight clothes that advertised her figure.

“Then Frank—”

“Who might turn up with an alibi.”

Rita grabbed a handful of her curls, pulled lightly and frowned.

“Then maybe Kevin came back. Some people already saw him and didn’t exactly know when, remember?”

“I can’t believe Kevin did it. I don’t think you do, either.”

“Well then, that leaves you and I don’t believe that!”

 
Chapter 44

There had always been a small lifting of her spirits when Jean unlocked the patio door and walked into the spacious blue and yellow living room she now called home. It had been an incredible summer, loving Wayne, learning from him, flying high, then falling hard when they separated. Rita was an invaluable friend who set an example with her flexibility and toughness and a joyous spirit that was medicine for a tendency to be fearful, easily depressed. The loss of Theresa was followed by the inheritance and a promising future. It was fear of Harold that gave her this lovely apartment. Over all her emotional terrain, there were shadows that floated, passed and returned, grief for her father and the knowledge that she was the only suspect the police could be sure had both motive and opportunity. There would be no more little shots of anxiety when she turned corners, fearing Harold might appear, but Harold was lost as a suspect, along with Rita.