DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE (26 page)

Vivian looked at her, surprised.

“Oh, Ed knows nothing of what I did.”

Vivian shook her head vigorously. A comb holding the knot of hair fell from the back of her head. She picked it up from her lap but made no attempt to brush the falling strands from her face.

“He knows nothing at all. So when you consider what you’re going to do, consider who you would help and who you would hurt. I think no one would be helped. I would go to jail. It would probably kill Ed. And it would hurt everyone in the office to some degree, the company reputation, your Wayne. And, my dear,” Vivian looked directly at Jean. “I think losing us would hurt you.”

Vivian spread her hands, palms up, as though releasing whatever hold she had on this decision.

“Don’t do as we did, fail to act until it’s too late. Whatever you decide, I will accept and I, not you, will go to the police. There is no need for them to know you even know about this. I hope you would stay with Ed. He would like that. Need that. With Wayne instead of Theresa, the business is safe and so are you. If it survived the scandal. At your age you probably can’t understand how willingly I would take my punishment if I know the ones I love are all right.”

Vivian wiped the strands of graying hair from her face and stood up slowly, pushing off the arm of the bench as if her weight was too much for her legs to bear.

“It’s getting cold, isn’t it? Perhaps I should have poured a red.”

 
Chapter 48

With the sun set, the air was becoming cold. Vivian was no doubt cleaning up, getting ready to prepare dinner. It had always been pleasant fixing dinner together, a modest chore for two, easy banter, a glass of wine at hand.
Was that over?
Jean’s feelings for Vivian were still warm, but what she had done was appalling. Yet no more appalling than what Theresa had done.

The patio doors to her living room were across from her. Those, at least, could be entered without encountering either Ed or Vivian. Jean got up and went in. She showered, towel dried and combed out her hair, put on clean shorts and a tee, a little lipstick and went upstairs, thinking only about what she was doing, avoiding the enormous barrier of facts and emotions that must inevitably lead to a decision she wasn’t yet ready to make.

Dinner was quiet. Ed needed no explanation. Dinner was often quiet. Realtors had to talk a great deal and the three of them often found silent companionship a pleasant change. That was one of the reasons Jean found this house comfortable. Ed mentioned the possibility of taking on a new agent, muttered some doubts and soon became absorbed in his thoughts and the chili Jean and Vivian had made in the morning, giving Jean a chance to study his face. The change had been gradual, but he was a different man from the one who had hired her. Lines had eased, his color was better, even allowing for the natural improvement of a summer tan. Catching her looking at him, Ed smiled in response. Only a happy man could smile like that, quickly, spontaneously. It took effort to return the smile. Vivian was calm, waiting. There was no indication of the anxiety she must be feeling. Jean helped with the dishes, saying only the words necessary for completing this chore and went downstairs “to study.”

The next morning, she made breakfast in her own quarters, oatmeal in the microwave, juice from her mini-refrigerator and coffee and went out the back door before there were any sounds from upstairs.

Days passed. Jean ate breakfast in her limited kitchen, lunch at the University cafeteria and put in her hours at the office at times designed to avoid Vivian as much as possible, although that wasn’t a serious problem. She spent most of her office time at Wayne’s desk or in the conference room. To focus on the issue, pull the facts into an acceptable conclusion and then make a phone call would take only minutes, hours at most. Jean began to understand the Brumms’ delay in making their decision about Theresa as her life became a matter of avoiding those hours. There was always an excuse for postponement, even if it was only that she was tired or busy or wasn’t thinking clearly. It was a problem seeing Vivian at the office laughing with Hua, fetching coffee or tea for the agents when they were busy, resting her hand on Ed’s shoulder, helping everyone in small ways. Jean gradually realized that Vivian had always made life a little better for everyone.

Murder was not a small way.

It didn’t take long for indecision to turn to resentment. Jean resented Theresa for causing the problem in the first place with her two-faced character, pulling Jean into her circle of power. She blamed Ed for not dealing with Theresa’s blackmail in some other way, although she had no clear idea how he could reasonably have done that. She was furious with Vivian for doing such a dangerous and cruel thing, for telling the story that gave Jean this enormous responsibility. There was anger for herself and Rita, too. Without their amateur investigation, she would never have known the fear of the last months or be required to make this appalling decision.

The next phase was feeling sorry for herself, seeing herself as one of Theresa’s victims, then one of Vivian’s.
Informer. A good thing to be or a bad one? Why did investigation seem admirable, informing somehow sleazy? Would Wayne’s reputation be hurt? Would he go somewhere else? Would he take me along? It’s such a perfect job. I can work whenever I want, adjust to my classes. Is it
wrong to think about myself?
Her grades didn’t suffer. Studying was an escape, her best excuse for avoiding the Brumms.

Everyone in the office wondered about her. She said she wasn’t feeling well.

It was no lie.

Jean often went to sleep with her drapes left open, as she had done in her apartment. There, she liked watching moonlight on her fig tree. That would never happen again. Ellie had lost the apartment and was living once more with a man Jean had never met, probably avoiding her daughter because of the forfeited rental deposit. Her scant possessions had fit easily into the Brumm’s attic. Now the moon outside the window turned the red leaves silver and she dreamt one night of the apple tree in the Garden of Eden. In her dream, Theresa was Eve, picking the apple and offering it to her. There was no Adam.

There was Rita. The urge to tell her everything, to dump this awful load on someone else, polluted their every phone call, every encounter. It was awkward to keep finding excuses to avoid her best friend.

“You’re not yourself, girlfriend,” Rita chided. “You’re no fun any more!”

“Exams. Worried.”

Jean had never worried about exams. She was good at them.

“We’ll do lunch after exams,” Jean promised.

“I totally miss you!”

“I miss you more.”

It was true, although Jean couldn’t tell Rita why. Her friend would have been certain of the right thing to do. That advice would be something like, “What? Rat on Vivian? What good would that do?”

One sparkling November morning, Jean woke to a bare maple tree outside her bedroom window. The warning of the red leaves was gone. The verdict of the bare branches was that it was too late. She was now an accomplice, just as the Brumms had been when they failed to report Frank’s murder. Vivian would lie for her, say she hadn’t revealed the truth until just now. She didn’t want Vivian to have to lie.

Time had made the decision for her. Or, more honestly, reluctance had pushed time to make the decision. Jean was not sorry. With a lightening of spirits too long burdened, she got out of bed, the cold air hitting her immediately through her thin cotton pajamas. She liked to sleep in the cold. There was heat quickly available in the room she called her living room and she knew what she was going to do with it. Making a stop at her second dresser drawer, she shivered her way to the fireplace and pushed the button that lit up the carefully arranged gas logs. She smiled as the flames burst from the jets, moved closer to feel the warmth and to eliminate what would have provided proof of Theresa’s blackmail. It was a symbolic gesture. The decision was made; the notes were irrelevant. But there was considerable satisfaction in symbolic gestures.

The flames burned blue initially, gradually turning to orange and yellow.

It wasn’t a fire meant to be fed by paper, but it seemed to welcome the two small pieces, one blue, one white, that slowly drifted to destruction.