DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE (5 page)

Kicking the sheet to join Grandma’s well worn quilt at the end of the bed, she swung her legs to the floor.

Jean wondered if agents ever took for granted walking through people’s houses when the owners weren’t there, invading their lives like peeping Toms with an invitation. You could touch what you liked, open drawers and closets if you were so inclined, note the books they read, the houses unnaturally neat, yet alive with insights into the owners’ most private corners, the underwear forgotten on the back of the bathroom door, the children’s pictures on the refrigerator that advertised how they felt about Mommy and Daddy, the sad houses whose neglect was the physical evidence of unhappiness, the holes in the drywall in battered homes that sheltered battered lives.
Will I always feel like an intruder?

The house was clean by Marge’s standards, but the new white paint in the living room made the old furniture look even more dingy. Jean set her briefcase on the dining room table and went upstairs to take pictures, turning on lights and opening curtains and drapes to make the rooms brighter. With buyers doing most of their shopping on line, pictures were important. The children’s rooms were much improved, although there was still plenty of “stuff” and there were bits of scotch tape where posters had been taken down. She made little adjustments, picking up a few toys, straightening bedspreads, trying to arrange the items around bathroom sinks in clusters.

“Harold, would you bring in the drinks and cookies from my car?” Jean called down when she heard the front door open. “Then lock it. Keys on the coffee table. And so’s my camera. Take a few pictures of the house when the sun’s right.”

Harold could take all the pictures. Harold was bound to be better than she was at that business.

“Family house,” Jean said to Tony, Jr.’s room, its walls lined with sports equipment. “It’s a lot better than before,” she reassured herself. It almost looked as though the closets had room for their contents. She walked slowly down the stairs to the dining room and arranged several owners’ disclosure forms, a stack of information sheets, a guest book and far too many business cards on the table.

“Why are you signing that?” Harold asked, putting a pile of his cards next to hers.

“Theresa always signs the guest book with a phony name and home phone number. Buyers are more likely to do the same if someone else did. And I don’t think you’re supposed to put
your
cards here.”

Jean lost her nerve. She needed to explain.

“I mean, it’s my listing. Theresa never let me leave my cards. Shouldn’t you just give your card to anyone who comes in that you talk to? That’s what I did.”

Harold grinned, a strangely doting thing, and picked up his cards.

He was uncomfortably close to her, shaving lotion not quite overcoming the tangy aroma that was Harold. Jean had dreamed of her first open house on her own listing. Three hours with Harold was not going to be a dream come true.

 
Chapter 9

An hour later, the scene had changed radically. Jean, Ed and a couple that appeared to be in their well-worn fifties and an elderly parent who felt her son and his wife had spent far too many years “throwing away money on rent” were talking numbers at the kitchen table. It was fortunate, if not surprising, that Ed had made this his first stop. Jean was not yet comfortable with the financing business.

Harold, with his usual exaggerated politeness, was lumbering about the house with a grim couple who wanted a home that required seeing their teenage children and their friends as little as possible, information not available on line.

It was necessary to leave the table and welcome a newcomer.

“I’m just a neighbor,” the woman said apologetically.

Words that killed hope.

“Please feel free to look around,” Jean said with the required smile of welcome.

As she turned back to the kitchen and its more promising occupants, the Powers got up from the table. A wave of sickness invaded her stomach. She met them crossing the living room, thanked them for coming and smiled them out the front door. A hand fell on her shoulder.

“They may be back,” Ed said. “Mom liked the house a lot. Separate bedroom and bath on the lower level are perfect for her. They’re qualified. Left the numbers on the table for you. If they come back and want to buy, give me a call and start writing.”

Jean felt only a little better. “Odds are, they’ll cool off,” she said, echoing Theresa.

“I know. But in this business, you have to have hope. The fuel that keeps us going.”

His hand moved to the doorknob.

“Check with Stan now.”

The other couple left with dubious backward looks at the grinning Harold.

Few others came. Jean was pacing back and forth in front of the bay window when the Powers’ car pulled up behind Harold’s. She met them at the door.

“Welcome back!”

Too eager?

“We just want to look again,” Mr. Powers said, the friendliness Ed had created replaced by a noticeable defensiveness.

“Of course. Perhaps you would like to be left alone?”

Something approaching a smile appeared on both their faces. How were they to know this was a standard move? Buyers needed to feel free to take their time, argue, complain and mentally arrange furniture. The couple headed for the kitchen where, of course, her cell phone was in her briefcase. No using Harold’s to call Ed, either. Mother had dropped heavily onto the sofa, pulled a magazine from her oversized handbag and settled in. It wouldn’t do for her to hear the call for reinforcement.
Relax
, she ordered herself. The Powers couldn’t stay in the kitchen forever.

Feeling the need to look professional, Jean plucked at a vase of flowers, hovered hopefully near the front door for a few seconds, walked upstairs, counted to fifty, came back down again and shuffled the papers on the dining table.

“We just want to see …” Mr. Powers said vaguely as they came from the kitchen and headed for the stairs.

“Please. Take your time. Choosing a home is too important to rush.”

That was definitely good. Jean felt much better as she went to the kitchen to make sure the necessary sales forms lay in order, there was still coffee in the pot, a few cookies left and the drinks she had put in the refrigerator hadn’t walked away.

No! Call Ed!

His line was busy. At first, she didn’t believe it. It stayed busy as Jean grew more and more worried. The Powers could come downstairs any time. Jean got her phone in case Harold didn’t have his, scribbled a note telling Harold to go outside and call Ed, strolled into the living room and, with her back to Mother, dropped both onto Harold’s lap as the Powers came down the stairs.

“It’s like …” Mrs. Powers began.

“We like the house,” her husband continued. “We really do. It’s just …”

Jean knew just what to say.
Thank you, Theresa
.

“It’s wise to be cautious. Finding the right house is a major step. While we have time and no one else is here, why don’t we go through the sales contract so when you find the house you want to buy, you’re familiar with it? Perhaps you’d like something to drink?”

Jean turned to lead the way before they could make any objection. Mother got up and followed.

From there, it was all mimicking Theresa, starting with the buyer-friendly clauses, filling in some blanks “just to show them,” considering when they would like to move, lingering over the things they liked, what they would like to change, allowing their connection to the house, the feeling of living there, to grow. Over the course of an hour, they became Edna and John, the house became
their
house and Mom gave up her role as cheerleader and went to rest her back in the living room.

The sales price, usually the big sticking point, wasn’t an issue. The DeLuccas knew they had to price low in this market and the Powers had seen enough houses to recognize this.

When the contract and all the addenda were reviewed, Jean slid the contract form she had been completing to John Powers. Her heart took off as she said, “This is where you sign, John.”

And he did. And passed it to his wife as Jean followed up with the first addendum. The papers kept moving, Jean’s finger pointing, names signed in a silent miracle Jean was to relive over and over.

Copies of every form in John’s hand, several of her cards in his pocket, Jean led the way to the front door, offering congratulations for a wise decision and promises to present the offer to the DeLuccas as soon as possible. They woke Harold, dozing in the recliner, as they passed. He struggled to rise, but he could manage only a smile and a groggy goodbye.

The door closed and she was about to heave a sigh of relief when the realization that Ed had never arrived hit her.

A wave of anxiety wiped out Jean’s elation.
What have I done? More to the point, what
have I done wrong?

“Harold! Where’s Ed?”

Harold pushed shiny black hair off his forehead, rubbed his nose and mentally gathered words of response.

“Huh? Ed? Oh. He didn’t answer his phone for a long time. Guess I fell asleep.” Harold shook his oversized head, waking himself up. “Don’t worry. You can ask me.”

Anxiety created an anger unusual for Jean.

“I don’t need to
ask
anybody anything! It’s beyond asking! I’ve got a signed offer! I needed him to make sure I didn’t make any mistakes!”

“I’m here. I guess …”

Jean couldn’t quite summon the rudeness to say that he had written offers only for his own purchases and they had been carefully reviewed by Ed before presentation.

“Forget it,” Jean said abruptly. “Give me the phone. I’ll call Ed.”

She paced back and forth as it rang, realizing she was angry with herself, too. Harold looked … She searched for a word. Sort of melted.

Ed’s phone asked her to leave a message. She tried Theresa. No answer there, either. They must be working with buyers. Phone calls were never allowed to interrupt the momentum of a sale.

It was almost four o’clock. She could leave. Harold was here. Maybe she could get to College Woods before Theresa closed up, but not to Ed in Bethesda.

“At four—” she called to Harold as she ran back to the kitchen “—clean up our mess. That means wash these glasses, turn off the lights, pick up anything I’ve forgotten, lock the door—” She was back at the front door now, briefcase in hand. “—and pick up the signs!”

She paused to send him her best imitation of Stan’s drill instructor’s glare. At least she hadn’t fallen asleep and she had written the offer that would make money for both of them. “I’m going to Theresa to make sure
our
offer is okay.”

Harold looked crushed. Jean felt a little guilty as she slammed the door shut without giving him a chance to respond.

 
Chapter 10

The first arrow was still in place leading to Theresa’s open at seven minutes past four. A mass of muscles from Jean’s neck down her arms relaxed a little. She couldn’t be sure her offer was okay, but Theresa would fix it. Then she might have the humiliating task of taking it back for the Powers to initial the corrections.

There were few parking spaces available in this townhouse community, but she found one and ran to the house, passing Theresa’s white Cadillac. Kevin must have had to park farther away. She rushed up the sidewalk and turned the doorknob. It wouldn’t move. She tried again. It was definitely locked. That was unusual. Theresa always welcomed anyone until she closed up. Jean knocked. There was no answer. Fortunately, it was the end townhouse, so, careful not to snag her clothes on the rambler roses consuming a trellis, she could walk around to the back door. It wasn’t even completely closed. A slight push revealed the all white kitchen they had previewed on Tuesday.

A short distance from the door, the kitchen counter jutted into the center of the room. There lay the materials for buyers, bits of paper scattered over them. Moving closer, Jean could see they were pieces of torn business cards. Fear jumped from her stomach to her throat, but then retreated. Kevin was here to protect Theresa. This was like the second open where the killer had torn the agent’s cards and left. That would explain the open back door. There were only two floors in this townhouse. Kevin and Theresa must be upstairs, perhaps showing the house. Jean turned, walked to the end of the counter and took a few steps toward the living room. A dark spot came into view on the floor and she froze. It looked like the tip of a dark shoe. Like the tip of one of Theresa’s orthopedic, stubby-heeled shoes.

Her father’s black shoes were the first things Jean had seen when she had opened the bathroom door and found her father. This was very different. Then, she had assumed a fall from which, of course, her father would recover. She had been wrong then. Now those torn cards created a far different assumption. There was no impulse to run to help, but rather a need to run back out the door to her safe little car. Then maybe call someone. She couldn’t do this again. Thoughts jumped haphazardly over each other.

Is the killer in the house? Is Theresa really dead? Where is Kevin?

She opened her mouth to yell for him, then stopped.

If the killer is still here, I can’t yell. If Theresa is still alive, I must phone for help.

I must.

That obligation at last unlocked her. Jean quietly set her briefcase and purse on the counter and tip-toed past the familiar navy blue shoes. She heard a whimpering sound, but knew it wasn’t from the dark form stretched face down on the floor, feet next to her own, head at an awkward angle. The silver hair was pressed against the stove and obscuring the familiar face. It was impossible to see if the eyes were open, whether they could see the dark red drops splattered on the side of the white counter. Surely there was no need to feel for a pulse. There was too much blood. Theresa’s head lay in a pool of red, her neck and face and hair stained by it, the blue jacket shoulder now purple. It all had the same source: the slender, silver instrument imbedded in the side of Theresa’s neck.