Death Comes to an Open House

By Yvonne Whitney

When real estate agent June Barnes is fatally stabbed at a Washington DC open house, two of her business cards are found torn into shreds at the murder scene. Even though June had many enemies, it is not long before her fellow co-workers are living in fear. It seems that someone bent on revenge is targeting real estate agents.

As the police begin their investigation, Jean Terrence, a shy and unsuccessful real estate agent suddenly becomes a prime suspect. But Jeans friend Rita is determined to save her; together, the two self-appointed detectives launch their own amateur investigation. Soon, the women discover that few had access to the murder weapona treasured silver letter openerand they are more familiar with the personality quirks of their oddly assorted cohorts better than the police. Could Harold, a brooding agent with a fondness for knives, be a suspect? Or is it Marian, the betrayed office beauty? Better yet, could it be Kevin, the repressed hanger-on?

In this classic mystery tale, Jean and Rita are on a mission to reveal the truth and, in the process, unveil unwelcome secrets that eventually pushing them toward a deplorable discovery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450287524

Yvonne Whitney

Yvonne Whitney enjoyed a varied career as a counselor, English teacher, and instructor in real estate law at the University of Maryland in the Washington DC area. Now retired, she is the author of The Haunting of Matty Buhrmann and lives with her husband in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, where she writes full-time.

Book preview

DEATH COMES

TO AN OPEN HOUSE

A Novel by

Yvonne Whitney

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Death Comes to an Open House

Copyright © 2011 by Yvonne Whitney

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4502-8750-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-8752-4 (ebook)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-8751-7 (dj)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011900576

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 2/14/2011

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

The author’s thanks and gratitude to

My husband Jim for his ongoing encouragement and love

and the cover design,

My daughter Diane for her reliable editing,

My family and friends for the praise for my last book

without which this one would not have been written.

Chapter 1

A steady July rain dropped a grey curtain outside the sliding doors, bounced off the cement of the concrete balcony and ran down the lower part of the glass in narrow, parallel streams. On the inside of the efficiency apartment, Jean Terrence moaned and dropped back against the pillows on her narrow bed. Elsewhere in the Washington, D.C. area, gardeners might be delighted, but the rain provided little help to Jean, who nurtured only two potted plants and a struggling fig tree. As the duty agent this morning, she had to be at the reception desk early. It was Tuesday, the day real estate offices held their weekly meetings, usually upbeat social high spots of her week. But today there was a lingering emotional malaise from The Washington Post’s story of June Barnes’ stabbing Sunday and other grim open house tales provided by her fellow agents at the office yesterday. It never before had occurred to Jean that multiple dangers threatened a girl of nineteen alone in houses that on Sunday afternoons welcomed all comers, that those arrows she optimistically pounded into the ground pointed to her as a target for killers and rapists.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. After numerous open houses held at properties listed by her mentor, Theresa Vanderhoff, Jean hoped tonight to snag her own listing for the first time and hold it open Sunday. It didn’t seem fair that fear now polluted that hope. The morning rain seemed symbolic, bashing the petals of her red geraniums.

It took three tries to get the old grey Toyota going and head it into the metallic army of vehicles that infested all roads around D.C. any time of any day. Some commuters who wanted a house rather than living quarters like Jean’s two hundred square feet in Gaithersburg drove an hour or more from as far away as Gettysburg, Pennsylvania or Leesburg, Virginia. On a clear day, it was usually less than half an hour to the office in Bethesda, the community whose expensive feet were planted on either side of the line between Maryland and northwest D.C. Finally the little car groaned into the parking lot behind a small stucco house on Kirkland Drive.

Jean stuck the umbrella out first, banging it on the door as she always did. The driveway slanted down, so, to save her shoes from the running stream, she stepped out on her high heels only, lurched up the long driveway to the door labeled Brumm Realtors in that ornate font Germans are partial to, hung the opened umbrella with its two bent spokes on her head and, juggling her keys, her briefcase and her purse, managed to elbow the door open.

The office smelled of burned coffee, Hua Chan’s oranges, dampness and old house. The décor was severely out of date, avocado and orange, the carpet worn and the veneer on the furniture beginning to peel at the corners. The walls wore a history of restless children and furniture frequently adjusted to fit the space. This reception area was once a living room. In the back of the house, the agents’ desks nuzzled each other in the former dining room and the tiny kitchen, largely dismantled, was now Ed Brumm’s office. Upstairs, the master bedroom served as a conference room, the bathroom still held a stained tub, shower curtain carefully drawn, and the smaller two bedrooms housed a hodgepodge of for sale and open signs, dented metal filing cabinets and handicapped office chairs.

Setting her umbrella in the corner stand, Jean carried the rest of her burden to the sales room. She stared for a moment at the plaques behind Theresa Vanderhoff’s desk, realizing that, at least for the moment, admiration had deteriorated to resentment.

Standard chores followed: snag The Post in its wet plastic bag, answering machine off, everything else on: computer, all the lights—to look welcoming—and the two coffee pots, one with only water for tea, a concession to Hua.

The messages were for the others, never for her. As the pink squares were put on the various desks, the phone rang.

Thank goodness! Jean said aloud, unaware until that moment how uncomfortable it had been alone in the office since yesterday’s revelations.

It was her broker, Ed Brumm.

I’m so glad you called, she said.

Nice to be needed, Jeannie.

The fine, rich baritone was a great voice for a Realtor. Jean had been trying, under Theresa’s tutelage, to restrain her exuberant soprano flights and become a dignified, more mature alto, especially when on floor duty.

I’ve talked to Theresa, he continued. Don’t want to leave this conference. She’ll hold the office meeting this morning, as planned. Have to decide about our opens this weekend. Did you know June? Good agent. Don’t think her murder affects us, but I’ll leave that up to each of you. Ads aren’t in yet.

No, I didn’t know her. I know she was Theresa’s friend.

Not friend. Competitor.

There it was again. That edge in his voice that let Jean know Ed and Theresa weren’t really friends, either.

The computer offered nothing new from the Board.

WARNING! AT AN OPEN HOUSE SUN JULY 11, AGENT JUNE BARNES WAS MURDERED. ANYONE ATTENDING THIS OPEN SHOULD CONTACT THE POLICE. DO NOT PHONE YOUR BOARD. INFORMATION WILL BE SENT AS IT BECOMES AVAILABLE.

It was the same message as yesterday, now posted on the old bulletin board that was more holes than board. No more satisfactory than the newspaper story. No answer to the biggest question they had discussed yesterday: were they in any danger or was this a personal thing with June Barnes?

Jean punched Kevin Brynowski’s numbers into the phone. He hadn’t been at the office yesterday and was careless about attendance at sales meetings.

Yuh?

He sounded more than half asleep.

Kevin! You shouldn’t answer the phone like that! What if I was a customer? You’re a business person! Jean knew there was considerable doubt as to the accuracy of that last statement. It’s important to come to sales meeting this morning, Kevin.

Silence. Then another Yuh?

Because of the murder.

Murder.

There was no intelligence in his voice. He didn’t know.

An agent was murdered at an open house Sunday.

No shit!

He sounded almost awake now.

No shit.

Jean was immediately sorry she had echoed Kevin. She wasn’t being businesslike, either.

More silence. Kevin’s mind operated only on low speed.

See you. At nine thirty, she prompted. That’s in about forty minutes.

There was a murmur. Jean decided the conversation was over and hung up, realizing she should be more sympathetic to Kevin. He didn’t belong here any more than she did, but in this bad employment market, this was the only available job. Pass the licensing test and some office would take you. No salary or benefits; commission only. Everyone had friends or relatives that would bring business some time.

College had been erased from her future the day she found her father in his black pinstripe, dead of a heart attack, on their white bathroom floor. The image still haunted her and the time that followed had been a nightmare. Her mother had been worse than useless, mourning the loss of her income; Jean’s friends were away at college, sending awkward little emails; Grandmother was in no shape to travel and her father’s few friends, all male, were uncomfortable when they spoke to her, which was always briefly. Jean shut her eyes tightly against the familiar stinging. Not a time for tears. The others would arrive any time. They were her friends, her family, now.

The first to walk through the door was her best friend, Rita Hanson, another of Jean’s idols and a counter to Theresa. Rita, by her own account, was poor white trash from Georgia. Perhaps because of a miserable start, she shrugged her shoulders at life’s problems, dismissing them. Jean wanted to be like that. She wanted to be as pretty as the statuesque redhead, too, and look as enticing in the inappropriate, tight dresses Rita wore in defiance of the office dress code, but that was clearly asking too much. Close behind her was Marian Arendtz, looking as always as though she had just floated from the pages of a fashion magazine.

Honestly! That door is just—all I have to carry! And the rain!

Marian always needed additional gear for days littered with Girl Scout activities, meetings, luncheons, cosmetic and therapeutic treatments and the occasional bit of real estate business. Jean admired this wealthy woman’s determination to achieve something by herself and the way she quickly recovered from being angry or frustrated. When Jean dropped into depression, she lived there for a while.

Lost another—damn! Third time this month!

Listing? Rita asked.

Yes. I’m going to tell Dad! Merrill Lynch! Why should I—I am his daughter—why should I—It’s unfair competition! His broker?

Marian always spoke in sentence fragments that flew like puzzle pieces around the ears of her audience.

His broker is Merrill Lynch and you lost the listing to one of their real estate offices, Jean said. Jean liked puzzles.

Yes! Yes! If everyone did that, maybe these conglomerates—abandon them, I mean—wouldn’t do that!

You look lovely, Marian, Rita said.

A compliment was a dependable cure for Marian’s snits.

Oh! Marian’s smile featured frequently whitened teeth. Thank you. She turned around. It’s new. I think maybe … puckers a little too much? You know. Shoulders. In the back. You think?

You need the flexibility. All the stuff we have to carry. We’re all pack mules, Rita said.

As much of a frown as Marian permitted briefly passed over her face. Frowns made wrinkles.

Business people! she countered. "Managers. Running our own little businesses. And my business is having no open houses! I’m not letting myself get murdered!"

Marian picked up her briefcase and laptop and marched toward the sales room, beauty wrapped in designer clothes and confidence.

In the presence of these two, it was difficult for Jean not to be aware of her small stature, straight brown hair, unremarkable features and vastly different financial situation. She smoothed the front of her cheap gray suit and wished she could be as self-protective. An open house was an opportunity she couldn’t afford to cancel.

Chapter 2

At nine forty-five, Theresa Vanderhoff’s desk and luxurious leather chair were still untenanted. Rita said it was about control. Even customers and clients waited for Theresa. She had been in real estate for thirty-three of her sixty-four years but, more than that, her demeanor, her name, her appearance, inspired confidence. Theresa would find the right house; she would negotiate ably; she would protect her people; she knew more real estate law than anybody.

Even the arrangement of the office desks indicated Theresa’s importance. Hers stood alone facing the door, where she could to keep watch over the reception area. Her visitors seated on the other side faced Theresa and the wall with her many awards. At the opposite end of the room was the computer table. On each of the longer walls, two desks were butted face to face, two assigned to the other top producers, Rita and Hua. The remaining agents shared. Much of the work was done at home or in the field and here they were often at the computer, the duty desk or in the conference room. Today, Harold Akana, a massively overweight, dark and brooding presence, had appropriated the desk facing Rita’s for the meeting. Marian took the one she and Jean shared, leaving Jean and Stan Warren, their newest agent, a handsome black college student just released from the Marine Corps, with the visitors’ chairs at the ends of the desks. Missing from the usual cast were Kevin and Hua, a tentative driver fearful of any weather less than perfect. Everyone was punching keys on their laptops except Jean. The one her father had bought her for high school had died and there was no money for a new one.

Now. Shall we get down to business? Theresa said when at last she came through the door and carefully set her calfskin briefcase on her desk.

The implication was that she was the only one of the assembled group who had been working. Jean even felt guilty for a moment before registering Rita’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling. Study Theresa, Jean told herself, not for the first time. Control was a seriously weak spot in her business tool kit. Nor had she the height, the elegantly coifed silver hair that spoke of years of experience, the expensively tailored clothes, or the rings that flashed success.

We have a lot to cover, Theresa continued, arranging her possessions with unnecessary small movements before swiveling her chair to face them. Some business details, some decisions to make and two new listings to preview. She smiled benignly. Both listings were hers. Has Hua called in? No? Well, I’m sure she’ll get here as soon as she can.

There was no implied criticism. Hua was second to Theresa in office sales and each appreciated the fact that the other brought in listings. Selling one of the office’s own listings meant the fee did not have to be split with another agency. These two were the queens of the office with Rita a mere trailing princess.

Kevin.

Theresa’s survey of the room was purely symbolic. It was obvious he was not present.

I did— Jean broke in quickly. I called him.

We won’t wait for Kevin. Now… Theresa tapped her silver letter opener on the desk as if it were a gavel. The murder. That is what is on everyone’s mind and we might as well dispense with that first. There is no further news and obviously there is no reason it should affect our open houses on Sunday other than employing certain precautions.

"Then we are holding opens," Stan said.

No reason not to. Of course we’ll hold them. We need to pick up buyers. They’re where the money is right now. There was rarely any hesitation in Theresa’s deep alto pronouncements and she added emphasis by speaking slowly. June Barnes had many enemies. I see no reason why her death should affect us in any way.

Jean felt a great deal better. Theresa always knew.

Now, the older woman continued with another light tap of the flashing blade. I understand—

But at this point, she was interrupted by a small flurry that was Hua Chan, her stocky form adorned with a gold and maroon silk suit that had been her mother’s. The Chinese, she had once explained to Jean, did not bow to current fashions. Tradition and quality were more important. And color, mixed any way one liked. Although television and movie scenes seemed to indicate that things had changed, no one argued with this seventy-year-old dynamo.

Sorry, sorry, Hua said. It came out Soddy, soddy. Late. Rain no good for me.

Assurances came from all desks. Everyone liked Hua. Theresa displayed an atypical patience waiting for her to get settled before beginning again.

We have good news, always the best way to start a meeting. Hua will have a new listing soon and both Marian and Jean … Theresa paused to nod to her protégé. … have listing appointments tonight, I believe? Will we have two more listings soon?

Marian nodded vigorously. Oh, I think—Yes! I—

Congratulations, Theresa said, cutting her off. Marian had many appointments, few listings. Jean?

Jean wished she could be as positive as Marian. It’s just a lead. I … you know… The thought crossed her mind that she sounded like Marian and she finished firmly. I’m in competition with at least one experienced agent from ERA. I’m seeing them at seven.

I will be glad to come with you if you like.

Thank you, Theresa. For a moment, Jean’s mind was filled with happily dancing dollar signs. Theresa would nail the listing. But I need to learn to do this.

Jean couldn’t afford to split the listing commission. Anyway, she had decided, it was time to find out if she could make it in this business or not. Seven months of earning only what she had made from assisting Theresa didn’t foretell a bright future in this job.

The line of Theresa’s mouth became a little thinner. Her gift had been refused. The slightest of nods acknowledged Jean’s decision.

If you get those listings, you ought to hold them open Sunday. You want contact with buyers and even perhaps a chance to sell them yourselves while the listings are fresh. Theresa leaned her head over and looked at the two younger