There was a moment’s silence before she added, softly, “I hope you find something like that with Wayne.”
Jean knew she wouldn’t.
Chapter 41
It was almost noon. On Route 66 West, Jean was on the way to inspect three houses in Chantilly, Virginia, a long distance from D.C., already an area being settled by a few commuters who could drive part way and then take the Metro into D.C.. The radio was tuned to WRC talk radio. Jean was only half listening when she heard the words “power people.” Rita had always said Theresa was one of these, so Jean turned up the volume. It took very little time for her to become excited. Everything that was said by the guest author and the callers fit. Rita hadn’t known all the aspects of this personality type. This author did. The title of his book escaped her, but it had the word “nasty” in it. These people controlled others as a way of assuring themselves of their own value. Theresa was one of those who, by helping, admiring, approving, then stinging with criticism, created a need to regain approval, a dependence that Jean recognized. Kevin and Marian came to mind, too.
Calls began coming in to the station, some from victims of this treatment who might never recover from parents like this. Jean had only Theresa and only for a short time. The anger in the voices resonated with Jean.
They sounded angry enough to …
Jean needed to think. A huge black limo was on her tail. Drug dealer, she thought, and decided to pull off. Cars, trucks and vans streamed past her as she processed what the radio was telling her. Finally, she turned it off. Never had she and Rita thought of this constant destruction of self-worth as a motive for murder. She had blossomed with Theresa gone, even before she had inherited money or been chosen by Wayne.
Did Theresa contribute to the destruction of Marian’s marriage by forcing her to work at too many things to prove her worth? Little jabs, not always subtle criticisms had been aimed at Marian quite a lot, hadn’t they? We thought Marian was too—what? Stupid? Confidant?—to be affected by them. Theresa was saying what everybody thought, but the rest of us—we didn’t want to hurt Marian. The more obvious possibility is Kevin. Harold doesn’t fit. Had Theresa sensed the danger in him? We eliminated Kevin. Yet Kevin was the almost daily victim of Theresa’s sarcastic put-downs. Could the tears have been guilt as well as grief? Then how to explain his not knowing what Theresa was wearing? Overwhelmed by what he was doing so it didn’t register? Dad never remembered what anybody was wearing. Did we excuse Kevin on flimsy evidence? I have to talk to Rita! Not on this overcrowded highway.
Jean pulled her cell from her pocket and covered one ear.
“Rita! Thank goodness you’re in! I have to talk to you! Can you meet me, maybe at the office? I can get there in about half an hour, maybe forty minutes.”
“Was going out soon anyway. Meetcha.”
The next off exit offered an opportunity to turn around and head back to town. Everybody else was going eighty miles an hour, so Jean did, too.
They arrived at the office at almost the same time. It was not unusual that the sales room was empty.
“You look positively grim,” Rita said.
It didn’t take long to explain. Rita got it right away.
“Then Kevin’s back in, isn’t he? Funny. Remember I said I never did see any tells? He was so damned upset, it didn’t work? Harold? We didn’t have much chance to talk to Harold. Theresa did make a lot of snotty remarks about being fat. Remember when she asked Harold to get out of her chair because he might break it?”
“And then that’s where he sat the meeting after she was killed. But he doesn’t seem to fit this reason. He’s not insecure. He’s on the list because he’s nuts.”
“Nuts is good. But this gets us nowhere.”
“Nowhere?”
“Just a couple more suspects, although I still think Marian isn’t likely, but there’s not a damn thing we can do that we haven’t done.” Rita grinned. “Just don’t make Kevin angry.”
“Sorry I brought you here for nothing. It doesn’t get us anywhere, does it?”
Jean felt deflated. It had seemed such a discovery.
“No apology necessary. This whole thing, it’s a dead issue. Too much time has passed. Can’t find Frank, obviously. And I’ll bail you out if you need it. Maybe this theory brings Kevin back in, but Harold is still our best bet. Frank comes second. Now.” Rita was looking at her watch. “Gotta run. Meeting George for lunch.”
Jean walked very slowly up the stairs to Wayne’s office, knowing he would be there waiting for her report on the Chantilly properties. What slowed her steps was that same talk show. It tied in with Wayne’s growing irritation with her inaccessibility, his always ordering restaurant meals for her, his expectation that she would adapt to his preferences. She had never picked a show or a restaurant and she never initiated sex. He had said that one of the things he liked about her was her flexibility. Does that mean always doing what he wants to do? He’s the boss. That makes sense upstairs where he pays me for my work. But our personal relationship? That thought led to another that had always bothered her. He always insisted he was rich, she was just getting started and he paid for everything. It reinforced his controlling position. Maybe it was time to have a talk. Maybe that talk is long overdue.
Jean walked into the office and her first thought was how beautiful the man sitting at the huge walnut desk was. Her second thought was that she was a fool to think that he would be hers forever. Maybe it was Rita’s influence that made Jean get right to the point.
“You don’t ever want to marry me, do you?”
Wayne looked up, his face breaking into lines of concern.
“I’m sorry, Jean, if anything I said or did led you to expect that.”
“You said I was exactly what you wanted.”
“That was true. You were perfect.”
“Were.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again and his distress was real. “I haven’t dated anyone so young for—well, since I was almost that young myself, I guess. It was my responsibility to make myself clear. I’ll probably never marry, Jean.” He was standing now, looking directly at her, his expression asking for understanding. “I like coming home to an empty apartment, my apartment, free to do what I want. I have no interest in children. I see no other reason to marry and …” He looked down, embarrassed. “I’m afraid I’m not much good for the long haul.”
Jean was not surprised. She could almost feel his relief that she had been the one to initiate the end of their relationship. She couldn’t move. Even her face was frozen.
He came around to stand in front of her, put one hand on her shoulder, brushed back her long hair with the other, kissed her gently on her forehead and said, “Thank you. I will always care about you. You know that. And you are perfect for this job and I know you need it. Please stay. I know you might not want to be with me right now, but please, take a few days off. Come back when you’re ready.”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
Walking down the stairs, she marveled at the way emotional pain could be felt down her arms, in her head and neck. It seemed that all her body mourned. Adding to it was the fact that she knew Wayne didn’t share any of her pain.
That evening, Jean did something she hadn’t done since her father died. Even as a child, strong emotion had often compelled her to write poetry. Unable to find words to respond to Wayne as he kissed her goodbye, it took two glasses of wine, a lot of tears but surprisingly little editing before she came up with:
Elegy
Genesis intense, swift,
Too soon abandoned.
Last moments a tangle of blood and nerves,
Of unhealing compassion,
Of mourning for the never born,
For love aborted,
For gifts ungiven,
Words to words reply,
Diminishing, confining.
They cannot say.
He had felt compassion. It was in the way he brushed back her hair to kiss h
er. It was in his eyes. He would probably never understand the pain his dismissal caused. It wasn’t his nature. In time, knowing that would help her heal. Every love was not permanent, every couple not right for marriage. She must learn to be grateful for periods of love, this one and hopefully ones to come. Meanwhile, there would be a kind of mourning for what she had thought would be their future.
Chapter 42
Brookside Gardens was one of the gems of Montgomery County, a quiet, walkable bouquet in a heavily populated suburb of the nation’s capitol. Chantilly would have to wait still another day. After her afternoon class, Jean sent an SOS to Rita.
Brookside was Rita’s idea. She was driving the new car George had bought her, a black BMW. She would have preferred red, but that somehow symbolized the woman she used to be.
The black asphalt of the parking lot was still hot in this second week of September. It would take another few weeks for the temperature to fall below eighty degrees. Walking slowly in shorts and tees, a nice change from the working clothes they used to wear together, they passed the hothouse and walked up the path into the nearly roseless rose garden.
“How old is Wayne?” Rita asked.
“Thirty-nine. Almost forty.”
“That’s a long time to run your life without adapting to someone else. Would you have had this problem last year?”
Jean stopped to stare at her friend, surprised at the truth the question revealed.
“You see,” Rita said. “You’re totally miserable, but you’re also right about him not being right for you. Marriage with him would be a ninety-five to five compromise.”
“A what?”
“You would be doing all the compromising. You could have done that a year ago quite happily. Couldn’t now. Will be able to even less in the future. You’re growing up. Growing stronger. Just think about it.”
Rita was silent, letting Jean think as they wandered into the steamy hothouse, over the small bridge across the water, past the vines and exotic flowers and came back out again.
“It was already bothering me,” Jean said with resignation.
“Of course it did. A Wayne is not what you want. You deserve a partner who will let you be an equal.”
They walked up the asphalt path past bushes needing pruning.
“Time to cut off the dead flowers and find some new blooms,” Jean said.
“Very dramatic. You ought to write poetry.”
Jean would have laughed if she hadn’t been so unhappy.
“This stuff about Theresa, winning your affection through approval and then withdrawing it, keeping you off guard and needing reassurance. Interesting. Not like my family. Not as honest, in a way,” Rita said. “Now that’s a surprise! I said something positive about my family.”
“It seemed like mothering at the time. I’d never had a mother who could help me. But she did keep me kinda down.”
“And Kevin. You’re right. Maybe a little bit with Marian.”
They walked slowly through zinnias and ageratum.
“Remember how Theresa was always late?” Jean asked.
“I know! Another kind of manipulating.”
“And Wayne did that, too. Made all the decisions. He was just—I don’t know—he didn’t make me feel inferior. It was just frustrating after a while.”
“You know, Jean, what you need to look for is someone like me. Someone who makes you laugh instead of worry.”
Straight-faced, Jean said, “I don’t think the sex would be as good.”
“No, idiot!” Rita said. “I mean, besides the laughing, someone you can talk to the way you talk to me. I’m kind of masculine in some ways. You notice I’m not swearing any more, though. George doesn’t like it.”
At a gazebo overlooking a pond, they sat down on one of the benches. It felt good to get out of the sun.
“Maybe that guy at the office.”
“Maybe. I’ll have to ask him out this time since I turned him down. He seems so young, though, after Wayne.”
“You can train him the way Wayne was training you. No.” Rita shook her head, rejecting her suggestion. “Forget that. Find someone right for you.”
They both leaned back and took some time to enjoy being with each other in this setting, carefully planned beauty in every direction. Below them, carp swam amid floating green algae. The birds sang appropriately. Jean felt Rita sneaking an investigative look at her from time to time, knowing it had been a good decision to come here. Nature offered perspective.
“So I guess we’re both off the hook. I think the police are stuck,” Rita offered by way of additional solace.
“Seems so,” Jean said. “But doesn’t it drive you nuts that we’ll never know who the murderer is? Motives, opportunity, but no prosecutable package.”
“Prosecutable package?” Rita mocked. “Where did you come up with that? You’re spoiling the mood here. If the police aren’t making a move, why should we worry?”
“I don’t like uncertainty. Your motive sounds pretty weak, you know, now that you’re married to George and not even working in real estate.”
A group of children arrived and began yelling to each other, pointing at the fish. It was time to move on.
A large tree offered haven. Sitting on the ground, leaning against its trunk, Jean dropped her head back, then thought of bugs in her hair and lifted it again.
“My shorts are too tight to sit like this,” Rita said stretching out her long legs.
“Mine are loose.”
“Not in style.”
“Comfortable is not in style.”
“You got it.”
Jean was glad to have her friend next to her, an event becoming rare. Wayne’s work and classes left her little free time during the day and George was claiming Rita’s evenings.
“Wish they’d find Wayne,” Jean said half to herself. “Not knowing if he has an alibi or not is … is …”
“Is something I can’t get you to forget about. Shit!” Rita said, throwing a stone at an innocent chrysanthemum. “Thought I had you over that.”
Chapter 43
“We have to talk! We’ve been stupid!”
Jean held her cell phone away from her ear. Rita was almost yelling.
“Where are you? I’ll meet you there! Unless it’s someplace like Chantilly!”
“At home,” Jean said softly in an attempt to lower Rita’s decibel level. “No class today. Have to go to the office soon to cover Wayne’s phone.”
“The office, then. Conference room if he’s there.”
Jean snapped her phone shut and set it on the end table. Why was Rita so … what, exactly? Angry? Just excited? Putting aside her father’s picture, which she was finally going to put into the much nicer silver frame they hadn’t used at Eleanor Harding’s, she turned off Chopin’s Etude in A flat, threw another report for Wayne into the briefcase he had bought her, gathered her things and locked the patio doors as she left.
Stupid? What did Rita mean by that?
Jean started her car, curiosity growing. Rita was a dynamic personality. Loud didn’t always mean important.
In the conference room, Jean dropped her briefcase and purse on the table as Rita flew in the door and started talking before she could sit down.
“We screwed up!” Rita whispered, closing the door behind her.
Jean opened her mouth to ask how, but wasn’t given time to speak.
“We didn’t think! The neighbors!”
“Enough,” Jean said emphatically. “Sit down and tell me what you’re talking about.”
Rita sat. Jean thought it was nice to be giving the orders. She turned the chair next to Rita’s and sat down facing her. For no particular reason, they leaned toward each other as if sharing secrets.
Rita waited a few seconds for drama and then said, emphasizing each word, “It … wasn’t … Harold!”
She leaned back and waited.
Jean rebelled.
“Of course it was—I mean, or maybe Kevin. We
—”
“You remember the day? July?”
“Do I remember the day? Be real!”
“I mean, do you remember the weather? Beautiful day. Small townhouses. Must have been some neighbors, back yard and front, right?”
Jean nodded.
“Doing yard work, kids running around? Does that tell you something?”
“You mean, who else came?” Jean asked. “It didn’t matter. They couldn’t have gotten the letter opener from the office.”
Rita didn’t say anything. She gave Jean more time, but not much more. Impatiently, she added, “Picture it! The open house! Harold!”
Jean saw it.
“Harold,” she said.
It was almost a whisper.
“Exactly!”
Rita’s green eyes were shining.
“Could any neighbor have missed that tank? He moves like a slug, would have taken two forevers to get in and out. Police showed everyone our pictures. Two people remember Kevin putting up the sign. Two remember Ed, but neither remembers when. Could have been two different times. Some teenage boy washing his car saw you and said it was around four. This is good. At least it proves you called the police shortly after you got there.” Rita paused and stared at Jean for a second before adding, “no one saw Harold!”
She gave Jean time to absorb the implications. They weren’t good. A familiar wave of nausea moved from Jean’s stomach to her throat. Rita made no attempt to ease the fear. Rita didn’t do that.
“It seems the only thing saving you is that it was too unbelievably stupid to use the letter opener and go to her open house. And if you’re in, girlfriend, so am I! And we can’t both be guilty. So stop looking like a scared rabbit.”
DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE Page 18