DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE Read Free Page B

had a worried note. The only man left was Harold. Not someone Jean would want to spend an afternoon with, as Ed would know. But two were claiming attention, Harold’s arm propped on the desk, waving languidly, and Rita’s, flailing urgently.
    Rita, Rita , Jean prayed silently. Rewards were supposed to go to the ones who brought in the most business. That would be Rita by a mile.
    “I’ve learned how to take care of myself,” Rita said.
    They had heard enough down home stories to know this was true, but it was not the choice a man would make.
    Harold was delighted.
    “I will be most pleased to take care of Jean,” he said in a voice suitable for marriage vows. “And I do not require a fifty-fifty split. Twenty percent will be quite adequate for me, too.”
    Jean returned his smile, genuinely grateful for that offer.
    “Then that’s settled. Now …” Ed paused for emphasis. “Be careful. Park your cars directly in front of the houses instead of leaving those places for buyers. Makes it clear more than one person is inside. Have your cell phones handy. I’ll tour all three houses, checking on you.”
    He looked around. Even Marian seemed to have nothing to say.
    “That’s it, then. Have your ads ready for me tomorrow. You can change your minds about the opens in the meantime. Safety is more important than money.”
    Jean wasn’t so sure.
     
     

 Chapter 4
    “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the top award of the evening!”
    The nearly four hundred people in the ballroom of the Pook’s Hill Sheraton Hotel were silent, waiting.
    “With thirty-two million, seven hundred thousand dollars worth of properties listed and sold, astonishingly, a newcomer to our ranks, may I give you the top residential sales agent of the year, Jean Terrence of Brumm Realtors!”
    With the faces of her fellow agents beaming at her from around their tables and the roar of the huge crowd that was standing now, she got up and strode to the stage, confident in her ice blue gown from a small Georgetown boutique. Microphone in hand, she spoke.
    “Thank you. Thank you.”
    The crowd became quiet.
    “The recognition of one’s peers is gratifying. But …” she paused and looked steadily at the President of the Board and then at her audience before saying in a subdued voice, “I cannot accept.”
    Murmuring rose and quickly subsided. They wanted to hear what came next.
    “This quantity of sales could not have been achieved without the help of my real estate family. But the main reason that I choose not to accept this award is that it is based solely on the value of the houses sold. The money I earned is reward enough. Those who have provided good service helping a few people buy or sell inexpensive homes are surely as worthy as those who take on more clients than they can adequately service or who sell only high-priced homes. Many of you here have spent many unpaid hours on committees and public presentations to raise the level of professionalism in real estate. We must gauge our value in terms of service. If such an award is ever offered to me, I would be proud to accept. Thank you.”
    Jean looked at her watch. It was five minutes to seven. Time to knock on the DeLucca’s door. Rain had returned and was pouring down the windshield. Jean started the reluctant engine and drove the half block to her destination. Her heart was banging for attention as she stopped in front of the split level home she wanted so much to be hers to sell. Ordering herself to calm down, she determined to get it right, to be in control, impressive.
    Maybe later they would even think back and be sorry they hadn’t given her the listing.
    Making her usual awkward exit with her umbrella, Jean staggered on her heels to the door. It wouldn’t do to make tracks on the living room rug. She noticed that in this wet July, she had gotten rather good at this mode of walking. Leaning into the roof’s scant overhead, she stood the folded umbrella under it, opened the