DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE (16 page)

Reluctantly, Jean did as she was told. She had to hold a hand over her free ear to hear over the traffic noise.

Eleanor Harding’s voice was disinterested and surprisingly strong.

“My dear, what is your purpose in seeing me?”

“We’re delivering gifts, just little tokens, to people Theresa felt she owed an apology to. She had mentioned doing that, although we didn’t think it would be so soon.”

“What is she saying?” Rita whispered urgently.

Jean waved her away.

“What is it, this token?”

The voice was skeptical.

This was a question Jean couldn’t answer yet, so she changed the subject. She took a deep breath and took an approach that sounded more like Rita.

“We’ve also been working with the police and we thought you might be interested in knowing that you are a prime suspect.”

Rita gave her a thumbs up. It didn’t match the way Jean felt.

“Really? Well then, I guess I had better talk to you, hadn’t I? Eleven o’clock tomorrow.”

Whatever her physical condition, this was no frail personality. No offer of address or directions or choice of time. She had given an order.

They would obey it.

 
Chapter 27

The house was an old Victorian, well cared for, appropriately asymmetrical with the usual variety in windows, arches and roof angles. Jean used to be impressed with the style, but now that they were being pre-formed in factories with such ease and were popping up everywhere, the novelty was gone and she had begun to understand why, initially, people accustomed to classical symmetry thought they were horrors. The front door had the usual shining oval of leaded glass. It didn’t help to find their quarry in a home so startlingly different from Joshua Evanston’s trailer. The old man had been easy to approach. Jean wondered why wealth was intimidating. Even Rita sat for a moment in the car, adjusting her attitude.

The woman who answered the melodious call of the doorbell was impressive. The face was pale, spider-webbed with tiny lines and carefully made up. Elderly, yes, but nearly six feet tall and with a proud, almost military bearing. She wore a simple dress of navy silk with a long string of pearls and an abundance of rings reminiscent of Theresa. Her pale blue eyes assessed them quickly and she gave a small wave to indicate they were to enter.

They followed Eleanor Harding into an imposing living room divided into two sections, comfortable chairs with accompanying tables grouped around a massive black grand piano in the rear, an arrangement of more delicate seating of impressive carved woods covered in an assortment of tapestry fabrics in the front, to which the woman led them. Jean was grateful for Theresa’s tutelage as they had examined houses on the market. She recognized many of the styles and decorative pieces.

“You have beautiful things, Ms. Harding,” she said as she sat down next to Rita on a delicate sofa. The older woman chose a stiff, straight-back chair.

“Yes, I do, but we’re not here for a museum tour, are we? You have not introduced yourselves.”

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 last 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?”