DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE (15 page)

Rita headed for the sales room, obviously not concerned about asking permission.

Surprisingly, the bottom drawer of Theresa’s desk offered more than one possibility: an elegant, boxed pen and pencil set, a silver picture frame without a picture and a paperweight, a small marble statue of the White House, still in its box. The attached note said “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 from the tops of her eyes.

“Save the pen set or the frame for Eleanor. 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.

 
Chapter 25

The trailer park was north out Route 270 almost all the way to Frederick. Jean and Rita found themselves in front of the smallest mobile home in view. It showed wear, with bits of its blue and white paint missing, windows clouded by wind erosion, but the small patch of yard was well tended. The name Joshua Evanston had elicited a vision of a powerful man with a large beard, but the approaching figure dressed in blue jeans and an orange tee shirt was of medium height, slim and angular, with bowed shoulders. As he came nearer, they could see his eyes sparkled with intelligence and interest.

“I am honored,” he said with a little bow. “It’s not often I get a visit from two beautiful ladies. Like being back in college again. Miss the young people.”

A shadow dimmed his eyes for a moment, then the smile returned as he shook their hands and repeated their names after them.

“It’s not really cool inside,” he said, gesturing toward an air conditioner not much bigger than a shoe box hanging from a tiny window. “But a little better than here, I think.”

There were indications at the plastic table and chairs under the canopy by the door that the professor ate his meals outside: a green and white checkered plastic tablecloth, salt and pepper shakers, a full napkin holder, a small pile of books.

Inside were the usual narrow couch that made into a bed, a built-in arrangement of two seats on each side of a small table, a miniature kitchen. Even with all the furnishings attached to the walls, there was barely room to walk between them.

Jean’s first thought was that the last thing he needed was this silly gift she held in her hand. There wasn’t enough room now for the home’s contents, which, except for the built in furniture, seemed to be primarily books.

Joshua Evanston gestured for them to sit on the couch and he sat sideways at the table, facing them. Two piles of books were stacked behind him against the wall.

“Now, what may I do for you ladies?” he asked.

“Well, first—”

Jean let Rita take the lead. Her head was full.
A former college professor living like this! Was his salary so low? A spendthrift like her mother? A punishing divorce settlement? Or was it entirely that irresponsible loan that Theresa talked him into? Good! That’s motive!

“You know Ms. Vanderhoff died recently?”

The professor nodded in response to Rita, his face without expression.

“It seems there were several people she felt she had not given the best advice.”

Rita had rehearsed this sentence.

“Indeed.”

“Yes. Indeed.” The affirmation was appropriately accompanied by a somber expression. “It seems she left each of them a little token. Just a little apology.”

“A few thousand dollars would be nice.”

Jean and Rita looked at each other. Of course a few thousand would have been nice. And easily done. The missing husband apparently deserved nothing at all.

“It’s all right, my dears.” The professor’s eyes were bright again and he was smiling. “I don’t expect money. I am surprised she left me anything. It doesn’t seem quite like her.”

They hadn’t wrapped the gift, deciding that, as Theresa died unexpectedly, it wouldn’t have been wrapped and it wasn’t their gift. The box was nice enough. Jean handed it to him.

He lifted the lid. The contents brought a smile to his face, pulling up the wrinkles, making him look younger.

“How appropriate. I do always have a lot of papers and, she wouldn’t have known, but when you live in one of these tin boxes, it’s often pleasanter to work outside. Wind can be a problem. I shall make use of this.”

He set it carefully on the table, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked from one to the other.

“Now tell me the real reason you’re here.”

He waited for an answer. They didn’t have one ready. He waved a finger in the air as if to get the attention of his class.

“I’ve been teaching for many years. I know a pretense when I hear one. I’ve heard all the stories, the alibis, the excuses. Two beautiful women, neither of them, I know, the owner of the real estate company or old enough to be the executor of the estate, came all the way out here to bring me this token? No.” The professor raised his eyebrows and shook his head slowly back and forth. “I think not. Now you just sit back and decide on another story. The truth might be nice.”

Jean was embarrassed. Her worn gray suit and Rita’s tight, flowered dress announced their lowly positions. Rita laughed.

“You got us, professor!”

That seemed inappropriate, but Jean relaxed as she realized he was a man accustomed to the conversation of the young.

“So what’s the story?”

“No story this time,” Rita admitted. “We thought you might have killed Theresa.”

That caught both Jean and the professor by surprise.

“I? I think you do me too much credit, my dear. I fear I haven’t the temperament or, alas, the courage. Why would you think such a thing?”

Jean felt it was time she said something.

“Because she talked you into buying a house and using financing that was a disaster for you.”

He leaned back against the stack of books on the bench.

“Oh, my dear, I take credit for making my own decisions. You are Jean. Yes. Jean Terrence. A professor must be good at remembering names with new classes every semester, new faces, all young, so many alike. Now. To return to our subject. The fault is mine. I am an educated man, after all.” He smiled at what he perceived as a joke. “No, no. The fault is mine. In any case …”

Joshua Evanston’s eyes went to the ceiling, his elbows propped now, one on the table, one on the back of the bench, as his head began to go up and down, approving his conclusions.

“If I had wanted to kill her, it wouldn’t have been at an open house, although I see it would appear to be connected to the earlier murder, wouldn’t it? But how would I know she was holding an open house? Read the paper every Sunday? Call the office week after week to ask if she was holding a house open? That would have been remembered by whomever at your office took the calls. I could have changed voices …”

He stopped. Evidently, the last sentence had provoked a new thought. His eyes drifted away.

“We enjoyed reading plays when I was teaching. Shakespeare, mostly. I was quite good at voices. Did you know our American accents are closer to Shakespeare’s than the current Queen’s English? But I digress.” He shook his head in disapproval. “No doubt you have noted the few who had access to the letter opener.” He noted their surprise and added, “Oh, yes. I’ve spoken to your Mr. Brumm. I confess to as much curiosity as most people. Perhaps a good deal more. It was on her desk as usual when I was there, I presume, and that is why you are here. I am surely intelligent enough not to use a weapon that would point to me and only a few others. No. An unnecessary risk and it contradicted the connection between the two killings. Very mysterious altogether, isn’t it? Mmm.” His eyes looked up at the stained white ceiling. “I knew she lived alone.”

He leaned toward his small audience, caught up in the story he was creating. “I would go ‘under cover of night’, as they say, and, knowing me, she would let me in, and—” the finger was waving in the air again, demanding attention “—when I had done the dire deed I would mess up the house and take all the portable valuables and cash so that a burglar would be blamed. If I killed, why would I hesitate to steal? And goodness knows I could use some additional income. Her jewelry would have been worth a good deal.” He shook his head, denying the thought. “Risk there, though, in getting rid of it. Always showing off her jewels, wasn’t she? Most inappropriate in business. Yes.” He nodded as he once more leaned back against the stack of books. “I can see the major stumbling block is the use of this letter opener. I also see that perhaps you would rather not suspect someone on your small staff. Friends, aren’t you?”

“We’re thinking Harold Akana. Did you ever hear anything that would indicate a motive? That’s what we need. A motive.”

“Ah, yes. He would not be your friend. Strange man. I’m accustomed to assessing people, as no doubt are you.” He shook his head. “Something not quite right about him. I take it neither of you ever heard him express a negative attitude of any kind toward Ms. Vanderhoff?”

“Not me,” Jean said.

“Not
I
, dear. You are the subject of the sentence. Sorry. Can’t stop being the English professor. No one uses this correct form any more, anyway. I am outdated. Correctness is outdated. Prepositions—no. I won’t bore you with my usual lecture on the deterioration of the English language. To continue: except for me, only the woman you are yet to visit seems a possibility to you, then.”

He stopped for thought. It seemed almost cruel to deny the professor further musings. It was obvious that, lacking classrooms full of students, he was enjoying the opportunity to edify two young women. It also seemed clear he would be pleased to spend the day going over information they had already processed.

Rita took the initiative and stood up.

The professor immediately followed her lead.

“Do you need to take this back?” he asked, holding out the marble capital.

“No, no. You deserve that much at least,” Jean said. “If you really want it.”

He turned it over in his hand, an amused smile directed first at the statue, then at them.

“I do believe I
would
like to keep it. A memento of a bad time, but a reminder of a most entertaining afternoon with two lovely young ladies. May I have your business cards? I’m saving as carefully as I can for a better place, a small apartment nearer my old friends. I do believe I could trust either of you.”

Dutifully, they handed over the bits of cardboard.

A customer was always welcome, but not what they had hoped to find.

 
Chapter 26

“So. You believe him?” Rita said as she turned the key in the ignition.

The smiles of their goodbyes had vanished as they walked down the gravel path to the car.

“Believe him?” It had not occurred to Jean not to believe Joshua Evanston. “Oh. Of course. He’s a smart man. And he’s done some acting. Maybe Theresa did convince him to take that loan. And look at the way he’s living! The poor man!”

“I’ll reserve my sympathy for when I’m convinced he isn’t the guy we’re after.”

Rita put the Corolla into drive and made her way carefully down the rutted road of the trailer park. “Even so,” she added. “I might be sympathetic.”

“Rita!”

“You’re not geared to skepticism. And you liked Theresa. Look at what we have,” Rita said as she pulled onto the paved street and headed for Route 270. “Possible motive. Opportunity.”

“Everybody in the county had opportunity!”

“I mean opportunity to get the letter opener.”

Jean slumped against the door.

“You’re right. He had it all. I’m hopelessly naïve.”

“Totally. But I don’t think he’s guilty, either.”

Jean sat up.

“Now what? Now you’re saying you’re wrong?”

“No. I’m saying—wait a minute. Got to merge here.”

Dense traffic was flying down 270. Rita picked her spot and dove in.

“Did you forget the tells? Nothing there. But he said he was an actor. Maybe that changes things. Can’t be absolutely sure. Now we go see Eleanor Harding. What have you got to do tomorrow?”

Jean slid down in her seat. How could she have a best friend who was so different from herself?

“Wayne—” she said. But Wayne’s presence was a mere hope, not a fact. “Got to move back to my apartment. Nothing else, really. You don’t have any business, either?”

“Who’s got business these days except apologizing to sellers? Anyway, she’s handy. Garrett Park. No trailer park there!”

“Garrett Park? Prime territory.”

“Grab your cell and see if she’s home. Number’s in my purse. Yellow piece of paper.”

“You looked it up already?”

“If Wayne’s going to put you to work, your time is limited. Or you might get arrested.” At Jean’s groan, she added, “sorry. Got to be realistic here. Listed under Eleanor, too. No first initial for her. Who doesn’t know that’s a woman, anyway?”

“So what do we take for her? The pen and pencil set”

“Don’t think so. Doesn’t seem right, does it, to give her a business gift if Theresa put her out of business? We’ll take the pen set and the frame. Decide there.”

“But there isn’t even a box for the frame!” Jean protested.

“I know. It’s lame. And the finish on the frame isn’t perfect. But I think I have a box we can use. Add a little tissue paper. Not perfect, but it’ll do if she doesn’t examine it too closely. She’s older than Theresa, I think. Her eyesight probably isn’t great. Anyway, it seems like a good gift for an old woman, doesn’t it? Probably children and grandchildren. Now phone! I’m really into this!”