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

…”
    She kept repeating it as the hand holding the phone fell to her side.
     
     

 Chapter 11
    Jean sat very still in the corner of the enveloping couch, legs curled under her, hands grasping her upper arms, waiting, watching through the bay window. I unlocked the door, didn’t I? Yes. I remember turning the knob. Nothing must keep Ed from coming in. And the police. Ed would have called the police. I should have, but Ed would have taken care of that. He was the boss . She remembered the biting loneliness from the time she had called 911 for her father. Then, as now, there seemed to be no one she could call to be with her. Kevin was supposed to be here. Rita would be good, but it didn’t seem right to call friends. Vivian would be more appropriate, motherly and an owner of the company, but Jean didn’t feel free to call her, either. Ellie wasn’t even a consideration. Ed would have to do. At one point, she felt a pang of guilt that her concerns were about herself, not Theresa, but there was nothing to be done for that dark elongated form seeping blood onto the white floor. Jean closed her eyes, as though that would shut out Theresa’s sightless stare. She opened them again quickly. Closed, there was nothing to see but the memory. Both the memories.
    There were birds in the tree by the curb. A maple tree, isn’t it? Yes, a maple . The birds and the tree were much better to think about, the birds, small, dark and not in Jean’s short list of known varieties and the green leaves caressing each other.
    A car stopped in front of the house. People got out. A man and a woman. Uniforms. Police. They came up the walk.
    A loud sound made her flinch. One hard rap on the door. No need to get up. The two darkly clad people came in anyway. There were two more behind them. That seemed a lot. None of them were Ed. They came over to her and showed her things and said names and then two of them went away.
    The small black woman knelt in front of Jean, put a hand on her arm and said to the man, “She’s in shock, Mike.” She turned back to Jean. “Are you hurt, honey?”
    Jean looked at her, wondering why she would ask that.
    “Someone has died here?” the woman persisted.
    Jean nodded. “Where is Kevin?” she asked, surprised at the smallness of her voice.
    “Who is Kevin? Is he the one who is dead?”
    Jean shook her head. “No, it’s … it’s Theresa.” It was still hard to say the name. “Theresa,” she said again more firmly, to make sure they knew. “And Kevin’s not here.”
    “Kevin,” the policewoman echoed.
    Jean nodded. “He’s not here. I looked.”
    One of the men appeared in the kitchen door and said, “in here, Mike.”
    The man standing over them turned and left.
    “The suit,” Jean said. A hiccup of a nervous laugh came out.
    “The suit?”
    “Yeah. On TV, they call them ‘suits’. Detectives. Sometimes. You have a uniform.”
    “Are you cold, honey?”
    “Am I? I have a jacket on. But I am. That’s funny.”
    There was a small red quilt on the back of the sofa. The woman was wrapping it around Jean’s shoulders as Ed came in. He walked quickly to Jean and sat down, putting an arm around her and pulling her to his shoulder.
    “It’s okay, Jeannie. It’s okay.”
    It wasn’t okay, but the words helped anyway and so did Ed’s arm around her. Her father, loving, but never physical, had rarely held her like this. It was nice. Ed’s hand was patting her shoulder as if she were a child as he and the woman talked. After a few minutes, tears began, cold, sympathetic fingers, stroking her cheeks.
    “Good,” Ed said. “That’s good. You just cry.”
    The “suit” came back, bringing one of the dining room chairs with him. He placed it beside the woman and sat down. He and Ed said some things to each other. It didn’t matter what they said. They weren’t talking to her.
    Then the woman left and the other “suit” took her place, squatting in front of the couch, a notebook and pen