Death Comes to an Open House

Waiting for Rita was an emotional torment, visions of herself sitting in prison, unable to live the life this inheritance offered. When at last her slightly disheveled friend walked through the door, only Ed’s presence in his nearby office prevented her from shouting. “We need to interview Joshua and Evelyn!” Rita received the verbal attack without apparent distress. Rita was raised with verbal attacks. “Yeah, we were going to do that. Why this sudden anxiety? I was convincing you this morning, remember? And why are you still here? It’s way past one o’clock.” “Kevin didn’t show up for duty and I don’t have a key to your apartment.” “Got to get you one.” “No. I’ve got to move out. But, more important, we’ve got to find out for sure who killed Theresa!” Rita sat down on the couch and raised her eyebrows in invitation. Jean explained. “So now I’m it, the suspect!” she finished. Rita was leaning back on the couch, twisting a lock of her hair between two fingers. She didn’t seem at all concerned. “You were with her all the time,” she mused. “You could have killed her at a better time and not hung around and called the police.” That sounded good. “And you’re not in jail.” That was a big one. Jean took a deep breath. Her shoulders dropped an inch or two. “Rita, I love you.” Rita frowned. “My family doesn’t say things like that. Unless you’re programming sex. But thanks.” “Still, I am the only one with opportunity and motive. And I had access to the opener, although there’s just no reasonable explanation why I would have used it.” “Unless, like we said, it’s so crazy it just might be a good defense.” “Go back to being helpful.” “Got to be realistic.” Rita lay down on the couch; sandaled feet propped on one wooden arm, and closed her eyes. “Okay, then explain why I would take the opener to take to her open house when I didn’t know I’d write an offer and have to go there.” “Don’t use that sentence on the stand. The jurors will never follow it,” Rita advised, deadpan. “And the answer is you were clever again. Weird Harold was there to close up for you. You could have taken off immediately at four just to have a chance to discuss your new experience. Killing her at an open house is smart. Opens the door to tons of suspects who could have walked in and also keeps open the possibility of a connection with the earlier murder. If this ever goes to trial, the prosecution could claim that Theresa took the silver slayer with her.” Rita pushed her sandals off with her toes and curled her legs up under her. “Let me think. Timing’s a bit tricky, though. Had to be when you would have expected Kevin to be out collecting signs, which is, now that I think of it, just about the time you did get there.” “Shit!” “You’re stealing my vocabulary.” “Rita!” “Sorry. Okay, go back to you’re not in jail. But you’re right. Better see these two guys while you’re still ‘at large’. I’d like to find out why the police eliminated them. They might have used the letter opener to throw suspicion on us. That’s the only way that thing makes sense.” “Nice to know my agents are making sense.” Ed came in from the hallway, followed by Wayne Schumacher. Ed put an arm around Wayne’s shoulders and smiled with obvious pleasure. Wayne was dressed almost exactly as the attorney had been. He didn’t look at all like a politician. “Meet our newest agent. I guess he drank enough scotch to buy my story that the guilty party is definitely not on our current staff.” Jean and Rita looked at each other, then quickly aimed innocent looks at their broker. Ed may have convinced Wayne it was Joshua Evanston, Evelyn Harding or Harold, but he didn’t know about Jean’s inheritance. Wayne didn’t hide an approving look at the seductively reclining Rita, but his eyes moved to Jean. “You ready to go to work, Jean?” he asked. The word caught in her throat for a split second before it came out. “Absolutely.” “We’ll talk soon,” he said as the two men moved toward Ed’s office. “Ed! Joshua Evanston and Eleanor Harding. How can we find them?” “Look in …” Ed’s eyebrows asked a question, but it wasn’t the right time to get into it. “Two thousand two or three for Eleanor. She sold one of our listings. Home phone should be there. I’ve got Joshua’s new number.” Jean followed the men into Ed’s office, wishing she had on something besides her boring white blouse and navy skirt, as Rita sat on the floor in front of the filing cabinet and began pawing through the bottom drawer. “Didn’t anybody ever put these old files in some sort of order?” Rita asked when Jean returned. “Chronological. Any other way would have been too much trouble.” Jean had done all of Theresa’s filing. “No help there. Crap! They were big years.” The phone rang. “Get that, will you?” Floor duty, no longer a prize in this dead market, was becoming a burden with so few agents. Jean took a message for Hua and put it on the corner of her desk. “I got it!” Rita announced from the floor as she got up awkwardly, pulling down her skimpy skirt. “But now what?” Jean asked. “Are we just going to drop in and throw questions at them? That won’t work. Need an excuse.” Rita dropped onto the couch again. There were several minutes of silence before Jean sat up straight. “That looks like an idea,” Rita said. “It is! Theresa just died. Lots of people who die—I mean, who are dying—no, I mean who are getting older and thinking of death—want to make up for things, bad—whatever—things they did in their lives. So why couldn’t we pretend she left a list of people she wanted to apologize to? Maybe even take them something.” “Flowers?” Rita was partial to sarcasm. Jean frowned. “That’s not right, is it? Box of candy?” “Old guy’s probably diabetic.” That made even Jean laugh. “Seriously, now. Being diabetic isn’t really funny.” They laughed again. “Now stop!” Jean ordered. “We have to have a thing that must be delivered. What can we snitch from her desk? Is anything still in her desk?” “Vivian cleaned out the records they needed to pick up on her people. I think they don’t know what to do with the rest. We need to ask Ed.” “Wayne’s in there,” Rita countered. “We can’t exactly talk about your precarious position or you’ll lose your new job.” Rita headed for the sales room, obviously not concerned about asking permission. They didn’t expect to find anything. Surprisingly, the bottom drawer of Theresa’s desk offered more than one possibility: a couple of elegant, boxed pen and pencil sets with givers’ cards that could be removed, a silver picture frame without a picture and a small marble statue of the White House, intended as a paperweight, still in its box. It had a note attached saying “At the rate you’re going, you’ll be listing this house soon. Carol.” There was also a birthday card Jean had given Theresa with overwrought thanks for all her help. She took that as a memento for herself. “How sad she had no picture to put in the frame,” she said. “Her husband’s picture used to be in it, I bet,” Rita said. “Oh. She didn’t want it on her desk?” Rita just gave her one of those “you’ve got to be kidding” looks out of the tops of her eyes. “The paperweight is perfect for a professor. But this is just the sort of thing she liked on her desk,” Rita said. “An excuse to tell a story that made her look good. Why is it still in the box?” “She didn’t like Carol,” Jean explained. “Funny woman, our Theresa,” Rita commented. Funny didn’t cover it.