DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE (12 page)

The enemy saved her.

“I understand.” Harold’s voice was softer than usual. “You’re not over Theresa’s death. I do understand. Not the time to have fun. But I could be your confidant. Console you. Offer you comfort.”

The idea was ludicrous. Jean had her bearings by now.

“Not yet, thank you, Harold. I just don’t know you quite well enough to cry on your shoulder.”
Your enormous shoulder! Oh, that’s cruel! He’s trying to be nice!
It might even be bearable if he weren’t so … so very odd.
“If you could just change the status for me, that would be helpful.”

“Of course. First, I have a phone call to return.”

He left the room, his heavy footfalls fading on the way up the stairs. Even that was odd. The sales room was full of phones. Rather proud of the way she had handled that mini-crisis, she was on her way to the reception room to brag to Rita when the phone rang again.

As Rita picked up the phone, Jean leafed through the message book. It was a way to kill time, but there was also a little curiosity. Telling herself it was none of her business, she found and read the copy of the message Harold needed such unusual privacy to return. It was from a Dr. Carol Chou. It had been very uncomfortable with Harold at the open house. The thought of a date with him was more than unattractive. It was borderline frightening. Dr. Chou? Maybe Harold had a medical problem that would make her a little more tolerant or understanding.

“Call the doctor,” Rita ordered when Jean told her about avoiding the date.

“I can’t do that!”

“Of course you can. He’s after you. You need as much information as possible. Maybe he’s allergic to something you can wear.”

Rita laughed and took the phone slip from Jean’s hand.

Harold was coming down the stairs, dropping heavily from one tread to the next.

“I will take care of that status change for you now, Jean.”

As soon as he was in the sales room, Rita got up and walked quickly into Ed’s office.

“He’ll catch the phone for a few minutes,” she whispered to Jean as she returned.

They both ran up the stairs to the conference room. Rita dialed the number and turned on the speaker phone.

This was useless
, Jean thought.
What would a doctor tell us about one of her patients?

“Dr. Chou’s office,” came through the speaker.

“Yes. Dr. Chou has been recommended to me. Can you tell me, please, something of her qualifications?”

Rita was an admirably creative liar.

The response was largely incomprehensible, a string of letters and the names of schools. It served to make one thing clear. Dr. Chou was a psychiatrist.

“Would it be possible to have just a quick word with the doctor, please?”

Jean expected the receptionist to say the Doctor couldn’t take a call at the moment and then to ask who was calling. Neither happened and Rita was scrambling for words when a softer voice said, “This is Dr. Chou.”

“I … um, this is—my name is Rita Hanson and I work with Harold Akana. I probably shouldn’t be calling you, but some things … I just want to know, can you tell me if Harold is …” Rita hesitated. “He has, uh, sort of approached me in a way that is scary. Is he in any way dangerous?”

“Yes. He is.”

“He is?” Rita’s surprise was evident. “Are you, I mean, I thought all that stuff was confidential.”

“I am legally allowed to warn you, nothing more.”

“Okay. I guess … I guess that’s all.”

“I think that will have to be all.”

The dial tone hummed the end of the call.

It took a minute or two for their thoughts to settle down. Then, Rita said, “Go, girl!”

Jean ran quickly downstairs just ahead of Rita, knocked on the frame of Ed’s open door and, without waiting for a response, they stepped inside and closed the door behind them.

 
Chapter 21

Jean pretended an absorption in conversation with Rita at the duty desk until Harold obeyed Ed’s summons to his office. They came out only a few minutes later.

“We’re going to
Dunkin’ Donuts
,” Ed said.

Harold was smiling hugely. It was probably the first time Ed had ever invited him anywhere.

“Smart,” Rita said when the door closed. “No fuss in the office. Harold won’t be back.”

Jean fell onto the couch. With a little luck, she would never see or hear from Harold again. She could no longer afford a home phone. Only a few close friends, Ed and the DeLuccas had her cell phone number. Even Ellie could phone her only at the office.

“Jean! Hey!” Rita had one hand over the phone. “Can you take my duty? I really need to go. Anxious customer wants to see a house.”

“Sure.”

The emptiness of the small house seemed palpable as Rita closed the front door. Jean was alone for the first time since Theresa’s death. Harold must not return. Not even with Ed. Rita could put up a good front, say a cheery “hello” as if she knew nothing. Jean couldn’t do that.

She sat in the slightly shaky duty chair and distracted herself between phone calls by examining the room, especially the entryway. She felt the pictures should have been closer to the orange couch. They were hung too high. Who had left the umbrella in the stand? She straightened the magazines. Why didn’t they have canned music the way so many businesses did? Why did the phone never ring? The big round black-rimmed clock offered the answer: most agents were having lunch at this time of day.

When the phone did ring, the sound shot through her.

It was Jack Turok.

“Ms. Arendtz is on her way in. She’s expecting me. That upstairs room available?”

“Yes. You’re coming here?”

“About ten minutes.”

She wouldn’t be alone much longer.

Marian arrived first, staggering through the door with her usual baggage.

“Wants to talk to me. Well, I do know—almost six years—know everybody here pretty well.”

“Jack Turok, you mean.”

“Mm. Sexy. Not tall and elegant like my Jeffrey, but—”

The sentence ended there as she dropped a knapsack on the couch and continued into the staff room with her purse, briefcase and a large shopping bag. There must be some Girl Scout event coming up, Jean thought, as Marian returned for the knapsack. Today she was a walking confection in a pink dress, the kind that Ellie would call a “little number.” Her accessories were white except for an airy scarf in a rainbow of pastel colors thrown around her neck in that seemingly artless way that Jean could never achieve. Fabric just seemed to fall right for some people. Or maybe Marian paid more for scarves that behaved themselves.

“Ms. Arendtz?”

Jack Turok was in the doorway, looking good as always. He led the way upstairs. Marian, with that same smile of anticipation Jean had found so appalling during the sales meeting, followed.

The phone began to ring again. Jean fended off the curiosity seekers and took two messages for Hua. At least, she hoped she took them. Sometimes it was hard to understand Hua’s people.

Rita returned and the world brightened.

“Get out your chart,” Jean ordered as she relinquished the duty desk to Rita.

“Oh?”

Rita dumped her briefcase on the desk and opened it.

“You got something new since Harold?”

“I got something! Jack Turok is upstairs interviewing Marian.”

“Marian?”’

Rita made a face.

“She was on our list, but only because she didn’t have an alibi.” Rita shook her head. “I can’t see her killing anyone, can you?”

“No. But she’s up there.”

“Not at the police station. Is his partner with him?”

Jean’s expression answered that.

“So he just found it convenient to meet her here on his way somewhere. Marian is so-o-o not possible. What we need is to fill in blanks. You know which squares are blank.”

“That much I do know. Motives.”

“Motives. That goes for both of them, Marian and Harold. But Harold’s easier to see as a murderer after that phone call this morning.”

“So both of you are playing this game.” Jack Turok was standing in the doorway. He jerked his head toward the stairs. “Better go up to her. She’s in bad shape.”

And he was out the door.

They got up, ready to follow orders.

“Wait!” Rita said. “Light’s on the upstairs phone. Better wait.”

As soon as the light went off, they ran for the stairs.

Marian was sobbing, her head on her arms. She seemed a stranger. Jean had never seen her in serious distress. Girls cried a lot in high school. Jean took the usual approach, taking a seat beside her, putting an arm around the woman who had always seemed so impervious to disaster and asked her what was wrong. Rita sat on the other side of the table. Consolation wasn’t her thing.

“He—all this stuff I do—girl scouts and—
weekends!
”

Weekends sounded important.

“Weekends?” Jean prompted.

“He wanted me gone! Can you believe—that’s why—I thought—supportive, you know. Wanted me to be successful. I thought! Wanted—
gone!
”

Marian looked up at Jean with eyes red from crying and cheeks with running mascara lines.

“You’re talking about your husband, Marian? Jeffrey? He wanted you gone? Why?”

“This nurse! This freaking nurse!”

Sorrow had turned quickly to anger. Jean withdrew her arm.

“He’s having an affair with a nurse?”

Marian took a tissue from her purse and smeared mascara around.

“I thought—supportive! That’s what I thought! I thought, how many husbands would not mind no dinner and … and he kept praising me, telling me I was so great! He—”

Whatever Marian was going to say, she changed her mind. The tears were stopping, but she made the little hiccupping noises of a young child.

“He’ll be back, Marian.”

“Or not.” Rita was a realist. “What’s this got to do with the police?”

“
Theresa! That damned Theresa!
”

Jean was offended, but now wasn’t the time to object.

“Why damned?” she asked.

“She—” hiccup “—told Jeff about Mike!”

There were too many disconnected names.

“Mike,” Jean said encouragingly.

“Just once. Maybe—maybe twice. I mean, he sort of seduced me! I didn’t mean to!”

Marian’s head went down on her arms and the sobs began again. Jean and Rita looked at each other. As much as Marian craved admiration, seducing her seemed doable. But how did Theresa get in there?

“Theresa told Jeff?” Rita asked.

Another wail. “At the Christmas party! And Jeff told the detective!”

“But
why?
”

This time, Jean felt like wailing.

“What part don’t you get?” Rita asked Jean. “Marian had everything Theresa didn’t. Nice little revenge there.”

Jean wasn’t surprised that Rita had translated all this before she had.

“But why did you tell Theresa?”

“I didn’t. Mike kept calling. She heard me.”

“She eavesdropped,” Rita corrected. “She heard you both. Does—did it all the time.”

Marian’s head came up. “The bitch!”

“The bitch,” Rita agreed.

“I called. Thought maybe—misunderstanding—but no—Jeff says he wants—he loves this nurse and he wants to leave me!”

At this, Marian lost the little control anger had bestowed and started sobbing again.

Rita looked at the wilted flower across from her and said, loudly, “Marian!”

It was a command. Marian’s head lifted. One always obeyed Rita’s commands.

“Pull yourself together. You want to keep this letch?”

“He’s not a letch! He’s never had an affair before!” Marian’s usually smooth face was broken by deep furrows. “I think. And I—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Since Marian was apparently about to mention her own affair, Jean didn’t think this was quite accurate.

“What matters is getting him back if you want him.”

For the first time, Marian’s features went back into place.

“How?”

“Don’t do what you’re doing. Men like to feel stronger than women, but they don’t like pathetic and they hate crying. Especially if they’re the cause. So stop! Men also want what they can’t have, so accept this as if you had no problem with his leaving. Any other men interested in you?”

Marian nodded, a hint of a smile pulling up the corners of her mouth.

“Sort of.”

“You could mention that. Don’t throw it in his face. Just say something like maybe if you’re separating, you’ll go talk to what’s-his-name—not Mike!—for support. If he asks why him, just say he’s always been a good friend. I don’t have to tell you to always look your best. You know that. You look good naked?

Marian lifted her head. “I do!”

“Better than this nurse?”

“Damn right!”

Jean wondered how she could be sure, but it was not the time to question Marian’s confidence.

“Then let him see you naked or almost naked. Accidentally. As often as reasonable. You have a pool. Go topless if you can. Don’t be too obvious. And finally—this is important—are you listening?”

“Of course. I’m looking right at you!”

“Yeah, but your problem is your head is always in ten places. That’s probably what drove him away.”

“Drove him away? That’s not fair! This other woman—”

“Forget the other woman. You’re the woman who’s got to win him back and you drive us all nuts with your broken pieces of sentences. You need a translator.”

Silence. Then Marian looked at Jean.

Jean had to nod agreement.

“Well, why didn’t somebody tell me?”

“Fair question,” Rita admitted. “If we’d really been friends, we’d have told you. You need to listen to yourself. Focus on what you’re saying and if it’s not interesting, shut up.”

Marian cringed. “I’m not interesting?”

“Do you realize you recite grocery lists and Girl Scout plans? Who cares?”

Marian took it. She thought about it.

“I do, don’t I?”

It had all been said. Jean and Rita waited to be sure it was okay to leave.

After a few minutes, Marian said, slowly and with studied deliberation, “I’d better go fix myself up. I have things to do. I thank you for your honesty and your help, Rita. And Jean.”