Jean responded quickly, as she always had to her mentor, repairing the social breach. The introductions were acknowledged by a slight nod of their hostess’ head.
A small, slim girl in a plain black dress had entered and now set a silver tray on the tea table between them and left in silence. There was no “thank you” from her employer.
The decorated, blue-veined hand reached for the teapot.
“Shall we start with some tea? I like the English habit of elevensies.”
“Yes, thank you,” Jean said. “I like tea.”
Lame. Why do I sound so eager to please?
“No, thank you.”
Like all trained salespeople, Eleanor Harding had taken control of the situation and Rita was resisting. Jean felt Rita’s refusal was rude.
“Lemon? Cream or sugar?”
“No thank you,” Jean said without understanding why she was denying herself the sugar she liked. It had something to do with not wanting this woman to go to any trouble for her. She accepted the delicate china cup, handling it carefully so that, if she spilled, it would go on her suit, not on the pale blue brocade of the sofa.
“And the little pastries, girls.”
With Joshua Evanston, they were ladies. Now they were girls.
“Take whatever you like,” their hostess offered as she leaned against the upright back of her chair, probably as relaxed as she ever was in the presence of others. “Now you must tell me about the murder of Theresa Vanderhoff. I presume they haven’t found out who committed this commendable crime?”
Taking a moment to recover from this description, Jean managed to admit they hadn’t.
“How delightful!” Eleanor Harding tipped her silvered head to one side. “I should hate for anyone to be punished for such an admirable deed.” She looked at them in mock severity. “That wasn’t really quite fair, you know. You could have told me that on the phone. I thought you had news of some length or I wouldn’t have done all this.”
Her hand swept the air over the tea table.
“We do have news in a way,” Jean assured her, wondering why Rita was being so quiet. “We can tell you who the major suspects were—are—and we were hoping you might tell us of some other suspects the police might have missed.”
“That handsome young man has put you to work? How very peculiar!”
“No, no. He’s just … kind of stymied. So Rita and I thought we could just …” Why wasn’t Rita helping? “… ask around, sort of.”
“Of course. How very optimistic you are. And, since you are here, I presume you consider me one of the suspects?”
Jean relaxed a little when Rita at last jumped in.
“We really came to ask for your help. The police don’t consider you a suspect, but we thought you might be able to give us the names of some other agents who—”
“Hated her as much as I did. Yes, I see. We might be drawn together in mutual dislike of Theresa. They asked that, too, of course. But some time has passed. I might come up with some new names. Then again …”
Eleanor Harding took a sip of tea as she gave the idea some thought. Then a bite of sponge cake, slowly chewed and swallowed. Jean wanted to try one of the pastries, but didn’t want to be caught with her mouth full if something needed to be said. As the moments went on, it seemed that the point was being made that this was all an accommodation to their needs, not something their hostess wanted to do. Another form of control Jean recognized. My time is more important than your time.
“My dears,” the woman said at last. “Theresa had almost as many enemies as I do! Cory Donovan, for instance, hated her bitterly. She opposed him as president of the board and spread perfectly ingenious rumors about him. Almost as clever as the ones she started about me. Katie Hardwell—but that was over a man. Another thing entirely.” She caught their look. “You don’t think of Theresa with a man, do you? Cold fish, dreadfully cold fish, don’t you think? Even those many years ago.”
“She was awfully nice to me,” Jean felt compelled to say.
“Yes, of course. We all need some friends, don’t we?” Eleanor Harding smiled her miserly smile, a slight lift of the corners of her mouth without warmth in the eyes. Eleanor Harding was taller and older, but more and more Jean was struck by how much this woman reminded her of Theresa.
“Someone told me you had been a nurse,” Rita said, unexpectedly joining the conversation.
Jean thought this an odd thing to say unless Rita was trying to find out if this woman would have been able to commit an up-close and bloody murder. It quickly became clear it had served a different purpose. Their suspect was caught off guard and they had a spontaneous response for the first time.
“A nurse? Dear, no! Dreadful profession! No dignity! Bedpans and washing! Not to be thought of! I was married to quite a wealthy man when I was young. Quite young. And beautiful.” She tilted her head toward a nearby table which held, among many ornaments, a photograph of a lovely young girl in a white dress. “He died while I was still young and could live without a man’s … needs and demands. I studied investments, not the done thing for women then. I wanted to use my intelligence.” The blue eyes snapped. “Few professions were open to women then. Nursing and teaching were dreary and being a secretary to someone inferior to myself was not to be considered. So I became an agent and then a broker. Theresa worked for me. I presume you know that.”
Both girls shook their heads.
“Oh, yes. She was apt, bright, but unwilling to accept guidance. I tried to lead her. If you knew her, you know how impossible that was. To her, whatever she thought was right was not to be questioned. Set herself up as the model of ethics. I had to dismiss her of course. Please, won’t you have a pastry?”
The sudden shift caught them both by surprise. As if following an order, they reached over and took one of the tempting miniatures.
“And more tea?”
This time, Rita took some, too.
“Pastry is the one thing my housekeeper does really well. I believe I shall have another myself. You’re both nice and slender. I approve. Fat shows a lack of resolve, a certain lazy self-indulgence far too common these days.”
Swallowing quickly, Jean prompted, “She went to Brumm Realtors then?”
“No … Let me see.” Small blue eyes stared beyond the couch. “Yes, one of the Long and Foster offices. Delightful rumors, quite true, I’m sure. Conflicts. Positive war with the manager there. Always a problem because, of course, she was a producer not to be tossed out lightly. But toss her out they did. Then Garson and Sons. They went out of business soon after, like most small independents. Well, producer or not, word had gotten around and she ended up with Brumm when he was with those people who went over to Prince Georges. Not a good exchange. Never understood why they didn’t get rid of Theresa and keep the others. Ed’s a good businessman. Grubby little office, though, I notice. Puts people off. Something very odd there. He was making good money when everyone was. Won’t do for Wayne. A most elegant man.”
Her slight smile indicated that she was not too old to respond to male attraction.
Rita was on it.
“Do you know anything else? Did Theresa really force the others out? Is that why he had to let the office go to pot?”
The thin, penciled eyebrows raised.
“Go to pot? Young people these days speak an entirely different language.”
“He’s redecorating now. I guess it’s because Wayne—Mr. Schumacher—will be paying rent and creating some business. Anyway, he won’t come otherwise,” Jean explained, unwilling to mention Wayne’s other reservation.
Clearly, none of this interested Eleanor Harding. She waved a hand toward them, dismissing the turn the conversation had taken.
“Now you have the history of Theresa and me. For whatever good that will do you. If you are here because you suspect me, I can tell you that I will miss her. One needs a few worthy enemies to keep on one’s toes. Of course, we weren’t on the same playing field these l
ast few years, so it hardly matters.” She stared out a lace-covered window. “Passing of an era, though. Don’t like to see it. My mother always told me not to get old. Stupid thing to say. What’s the alternative? Good bit older than Theresa was, but I’m not ready to die yet.”
“I don’t understand,” Rita said. “How could you miss her after what she did to you? You lost your office, had a breakdown—”
Eleanor Harding threw back her head and laughed, a quick, single bark.
“My dear, can you imagine me having a breakdown? I did lose my license and my business.” Her eyes narrowed. “I guess in return for a somewhat entertaining hour, I will explain. I could have kept my office, hired someone to be the broker. I’ve never been anything but rich. My problem was cancer. In a particularly indelicate location. Not to be mentioned. I retired, stayed home. Not surprising that rumors started. Almost didn’t have the surgery. Don’t believe in it much. But it worked and here I am. I still have my small real estate empire, rentals, investment properties. And, of course, the investments I inherited.” She smiled. “Nice excuse to visit that lovely man, your Wayne. It’s a good idea, too. Definitely the time to buy if you have the money. I’m letting other people do the work these days.”
They waited, but Eleanor Harding sipped her tea and selected a cookie, inspecting it carefully before taking a small bite. Evidently she had finished her story. Jean could think of nothing to say. Apparently neither could Rita. It was their hostess who broke the silence.
“I believe I have given you what you wanted. Am I now entitled to my gift? I must admit to a degree of curiosity.”
With a quick look at Jean that told her to forget the obviously used frame, Rita took their other choice from her purse and passed it to their hostess.
“Yes. Appropriate. Any gift would be extraordinary.” The silver pen and then the pencil were turned slowly between her ringed fingers. “Yes,” she approved. “No note, I see. Well, I can think of nothing she could have to say to me. It’s a bit of sarcasm, anyway, isn’t it, this gift? As if I needed anything from her. Rubbing it in that I was no longer licensed, able to write contracts?”
“She didn’t expect to die so soon,” Rita said. “We were surprised she had already bought a few gifts. Ed—Mr. Brumm—told us who they were meant for.”
“Found them at a good sale, no doubt. Perhaps when Strubbs went out of business. And now are we quite finished?”
“Ms. Harding, I wonder if you …” Rita opened her purse and took out a blue and white box with Reed and Barton printed on it.
The woman’s eyes brightened. “And yet another? I can’t believe …” She set down the pen and pencil quickly, took the new box, opened it and removed the slender piece of silver. “And so much nicer, really!”
“Oh, no, I’m sorry,” Rita said hastily. “This is the murder weapon.”
She watched carefully as Theresa’s enemy turned the letter opener sideways to read what was inscribed.”
“This is the weapon?” she asked.
“Well, no,” Rita admitted. “It’s one just like it. It belongs to the father of one of our agents. It’s identical to the one that killed her. Do you know if everyone knew about it? Or why anyone would choose this for a weapon?”
Reluctantly, the opener was placed back in the box and returned to Rita.
“I have no idea.” The voice was cold. “I haven’t been in the business for years, as you know. How amusing. This was for shock value, wasn’t it? Hoping to catch me off guard. I have—had—no motivation for killing my old enemy. Quite the contrary. If you ask around, you’ll find I prevented her from becoming president of the board. I can circulate rumors, too. My friends will also tell you I don’t believe in Hell. If I did, I might very well have wanted to kill Theresa. My final gift to the real estate world. However, I don’t. Hell is here on earth and I would just as soon have Theresa endure as much of it as possible. And now …”
She stood, taller than either of them, smiled her limited smile and indicated with a nod the way to the door. She did not accompany them.
Chapter 28
“Why didn’t you tell me you had that letter opener?” Jean demanded as they walked sedately down the wide sidewalk, sure that pale eyes followed them.
“Sorry. Got it from Stan couple of days ago. You were kind of sensitive on the subject of the opener. No need to bring it up. Told Stan I was sure Eleanor Harding had done it, wanted her reaction. Probably should have told you before I hauled it out. She never batted an eye, did she? You know, she actually wanted it! I’d have some explaining to do to Stan’s father if she hadn’t given it back.”
“You know what the worst of it was for me?”
Jean felt a little shaky as they got back into Rita’s car.
“What?”
“She had the same smile Theresa did. Small. Limited,” Jean said sadly.
“And she manipulated just like Theresa. But I think she’s a few shades of evil darker.”
“It wasn’t a bad thing for Theresa to do, driving this awful woman out of business, was it?’
“Noble, I’d say!”
“Her age makes it—think she could do it?”
“Mm. Got to be at least eighty. Doesn’t look weak. Don’t know, really. Never been eighty. Don’t see how she could have gotten that close—physically, I mean—to Theresa. I mean, they didn’t like each other. It wouldn’t have been natural. Guess she could have snuck up from behind okay. And she was stabbed from behind, you said.”
“Being tall would have helped.”
“We haven’t said what really convinced us she didn’t do it. Not the tell thing. I think she could have lied about anything without giving it away.”
“It’s too awful.”
“That business about hell being on earth.”
They drove in silence until they reached Wisconsin Avenue. That was one of the things Jean most liked about her friend, the lack of constant chatter many girls considered socially appropriate. Living with her quiet father, she had become accustomed to the mental space required to think her own thoughts.
It wasn’t until they had come to a stop in the office driveway that Rita said what they had both been thinking.
“Police were right, weren’t they? I argued about Joshua Evanston, but really, I agreed with you. Don’t really think he did it. And Eleanor Harding?” Rita shook her head. “It’s one of us.”
“Got to be,” Jean agreed reluctantly. “If you consider Harold one of us.”
Each stared out the front window for some time, trying to come to terms with the unacceptable.
“So Kevin’s in there,” Rita said finally. “That’s his car. Ed must have ordered him to make up some floor time.”
“And if he is?”
“Harold’s a problem. I guess we could ask him out to lunch. Sort of sympathize and grill him. Easiest thing is to eliminate everybody but Harold. Then we don’t need to talk to him. He’ll be it. The psychiatrist said he was dangerous, so probably not a good idea to see him anyway. Would have to be in public. So I’m not going home. I’m going to talk to Kevin.”
“Well, one thing’s sure.”
“What’s that?”
Jean unstrapped her seat belt and reached for the door handle.
“You’re wasting gas and I’m not sitting here without air conditioning. We go in or we go home.”
“You don’t think I can do it, do you?”
“What? Find out if Kevin did it? How would you do that?”
“I just had an idea,” Rita said.
“Like?”
Rita leaned toward Jean.
“Kevin’s on duty. Does he know what Theresa looked like?”
“What?”
“I mean when she was stabbed.”
Jean frowned. “Probably not. How could he?”
“Then we can do it! Come on!”
Rita jumped out of the car, leaving Jean to wonder what was so exciting that Rita left her briefcase and didn’t wait to lock
her car.
Kevin was at the duty desk, idly flipping the pages of the message pad. It was impossible not to feel sorry for him. Somewhere there was a job Kevin could do well. He was strong, healthy and designed for the blue collar work force running a front loader or putting out fires, but he was determined to be a businessman with a suit and tie, something he had neither the confidence nor the personality to be.
“Kevin, how’re you doing?” Rita asked brightly.
He smiled, not returning the brightness.
“Fine.”
“We’re beat,” Rita said, pulling Jean down with her as she sat on the couch. “Trying to scare up business is a waste of time. And we’re still depressed about Theresa.”
Rita adjusted her facial expression to one of concern and Jean followed suit.
“How’s business?”
Kevin looked down at the pages he was flipping.
“Not so good. Market’s dead, isn’t it?”
“Totally. You probably expected to get Theresa’s listings. At least, the ones you helped her with. And you were like Jean. Really close to her. Her death hit you hard, too, didn’t it?”
The only response to this question was a tightening around his mouth. He didn’t look at them.
Jean felt Rita grab her arm. She was supposed to be paying close attention.
“Jean says she keeps seeing her laying there, that awful letter opener in her back.”
Jean started, opened her mouth to protest. Rita’s hand closed more tightly.
“I shouldn’t have left her,” Kevin said, barely audible.
“Sorry. I should have been more thoughtful. You’re probably feeling guilty.”
He nodded.
“Jean was completely out of it for a while. Shock. All that blood on the back of Theresa’s white blouse. Not easy to forget.”
Kevin looked up, frowning, and after a few seconds, said “Theresa took off her jacket? She never does—did—that. Always professional.” He looked down again. “Always very professional. I learned …”
That was as far as he could go. He was fighting tears. Jean and Rita looked at each other. This was completely unexpected. It hit Jean that Kevin had worked with Theresa far longer than she had.
DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE Page 13