DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE by Yvonne Whitney Read Free Book Online Page A

past the sturdy shoes, the pale tan hose and navy blue suit and knelt down, holding her breath at the end to avoid the stench. Theresa’s nearest arm was under her body and the other, holding a piece of paper, was out of reach above her head. That was good. There was no obligation to touch the undoubtedly dead wrists. Even less possible to search for a pulse where the terrible silver shaft stood upright in the red neck. Perhaps a finger under Theresa’s nose to see if she was still breathing? Maybe that was possible. Jean reached across the back of the jacket, past the red, the awful red, and put her index finger in front of Theresa’s upper lip.
    No breath came to meet it. Jean forced herself to wait, eyes closed, frozen in position, to make sure.
    There was no moving air, no warmth.
    Jean dropped back against the cabinet behind her, her eyes glued to what she now recognized as the handle of Theresa’s elegant silver letter opener. Its silhouette began to blur. She could go to the car now. But getting up seemed much more difficult than getting down had been.
    Kevin should have protected her. But maybe Kevin … How much courage have I? Can I look for Kevin? The front door was locked, the back door open. Surely the killer has gone. I have to look for Kevin. Maybe it’s Kevin who is wounded, needing help.
    There was very little hope in that thought.
    Her legs weren’t working properly. Pulling herself up by the handle of the stove was unreasonably difficult. Then her eyes needed to focus. Blinking helped. One foot in front of the other in measured pace, Jean retraced her steps past the inert form, holding on to the counter, then lowered her head briefly, took another deep breath, swallowed hard, and made her way slowly into the living room and on and on through both floors, her breathing fast and shallow, her eyes taking in each room in minutes that stretched unreasonably in time.
    Furniture. Just furniture, pictures, decorations.
    It was a small house without attic or basement. Two bedrooms. Back in the living room, she stared at the oversized TV and forced herself to breathe properly .
    Why isn’t Kevin here? Or is Kevin hiding?
    She nodded. This was good. She was thinking logically. It was necessary to go back, calling his name to let him know it was safe to come out, and check closets, the bathtub, unlikely places, under the beds and behind the couch. All the places she had hidden when she was a child. Children learn how to hide.
    At the end, she nodded again, approving. She hadn’t called his name. Somehow, speech was impossible. But she had looked. Kevin was not in this house. It didn’t matter why. There was no other body, no need to see or touch death again.
    There was no rush now. Back in the neat living room with its two vases of welcoming flowers, Jean stood motionless for some time before dropping onto the black leather couch. It was time to call someone.
    Her cell phone was in her jacket pocket. That was good. Nodding approval of its presence, she took it out and pressed the number for Ed. Surely he would answer now.
    He did.
    She couldn’t.
    “Hello?” Ed repeated.
    Everyone tried again with cell phones.
    Jean managed some sort of sound.
    “Yes? Who is this?”
    She tried to form the “T” of “Theresa.” Somehow, it was a very difficult letter to articulate.
    “Me,” she managed. “M” was easier.
    “Jeannie? This is Jeannie, right? You need me at the DeLucca’s, darlin’?”
    No. That’s wrong. Where is this?
    Another slow breath.
    “College.”
    That was much better.
    “College? College Park? Theresa’s listing? Is that where you are? Why—what’s wrong? Why isn’t Theresa—”
    Ed’s voice changed.
    “Oh, my God! I’m coming. But I have to know. Do we need an ambulance? Is anyone hurt?”
    Jean shook her head “no.” There was no need for an ambulance now.
    “Jeannie?”
    “Dead.” For some reason, this word fell out easily, as if it had been waiting. “Dead, dead, dead