DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE (3 page)

“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, darlin’,” 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.

 
Chapter 5

Jean woke just before her alarm went off. Almost immediately, a wave of happiness swept through her.

A listing! Only her mother’s presence on the love seat threatened to subdue her elation. Ellie’s current
inamorato
, as her mother liked to call them, had kicked her out and she had been waiting, ready to dump her load of misery on her daughter when Jean bounced into her apartment last night.

Jean moved about the small space quietly, running water slowly, filling the coffee pot, setting her mug and spoon carefully on the scratched grey Formica. In the combination dressing room/closet, she checked her gray suit and found it still damp in places. At least it was wrinkle-resistant polyester. She could buy a new suit when the DeLucca’s house sold. Another little jab of happiness, then a subdued laugh. Was ever before a damp suit cause for joy?

For a moment, anxiety froze her hand halfway to her brown dress.
What if the listing
expired and the DeLuccas gave it to someone else?
Sellers did that all the time, taking for granted the effort and money spent by one Realtor, then switching to another in the hopes their luck would change.

Then her hand reached confidently for the dress. The DeLuccas wouldn’t do that! In this market, it might take a year or more to sell, but they wouldn’t abandon her.

By the time Jean poured her coffee, she didn’t care if she woke her mother. In fact, she took a certain pleasure in the few noises her small breakfast of an English muffin and microwaved bacon required.

“Oh, good morning, honey,” her mother crooned as Jean snapped the microwave door shut.

“Morning, Ellie. Sleep well?”

“Not in this thing! I’m all cramped.”

Jean smiled as, perched on one of her three kitchen stools, she smeared peanut butter on her English muffin. It went well with orange juice and bacon.

The little efficiency was furnished with items carefully pruned from her father’s collection of badly worn, ornate furniture inherited from his mother. The one exception was the wide, square chair that opened up into a single bed Jean had ordered on line. Her father had said that almost worse than Ellie’s spending habits was her total lack of interest in taking care of anything but her own body. Jean retained a small amount of affection and sympathy for the self-indulgent woman curled within the confines of the green velvet love seat, but had made sure there was no bed to offer her.

“You sure you have to go to work, honey?”

Ellie Terrence opened her blue eyes wide and Jean had to admire the fact that her mother, with her baby-doll face, bleached hair and still pleasingly rounded figure looked good at thirty-five. Ellie had been sixteen and pregnant by a halfback on the high school football team when she married the kind and homely man Jean called father. For a short time, he had considered himself lucky to have rescued the class beauty and for a few more years Jean would have to admit that her mother was much sexier than she was. Slender was good, but her unmemorable features failed to echo her mother’s looks or, to judge by the picture in her mother’s yearbook, the halfback’s handsomeness. She was her father’s daughter. In some ways, not such a bad thing.

“Sure, Ellie. Got to enter the listing.”

“I thought we might go shopping first.”

“You have no money, Ellie. I have no money. Therefore, no shopping.”

“But you have that nice listing.”

“A listing is not money.”

“It will be.”

The soft, almost sexy, whine. Part of life with Ellie. Jean could feel her heart switching into fourth gear. She had to get away. But her mother wasn’t done yet.

“You could buy me lunch.”

It was no use. There was no way Jean was going to enjoy her favorite breakfast.

“
You
could buy
me
lunch! That’s what parents do for teenage children!”

Ellie’s adorable little nose wrinkled. “You’re mean. You know I don’t have a job. And you got the money from that college fund. I didn’t even get any furniture!”

“Because you were living with Hal and didn’t have any place to put it. You got the money from selling what I didn’t take.”

“A measly four hundred dollars. Besides, you’re younger, not twenty yet.” A trace of envy entered the self-pitying whine. “You should have let me have your chair-bed thing last night.”

Jean sighed. Ellie also got the bank account, the proceeds from a small life insurance policy and the car. She had to stop letting her mother push her buttons.

“Yeah, Ellie, I’m mean. But I’m also working, which you’re not. You can sleep all day.”

She filled her blue Eddie Bauer mug and snapped on the lid. The office’s coffee was, as Stan liked to say, “piss poor.”

“Coffee’s ready. Gotta go.”