in his hands. They told her their names again and asked if she was able to answer questions.
“Sure,” she said.
She had to tell them about the offer, the time of the unanswered phone call, when she arrived, the open back door. They didn’t ask her anything more about Theresa. That was good. She didn’t want to think about reaching across … Jean blocked out the memory and looked at the birds again. Ed explained why she had mentioned Kevin. She had no idea where he was. There wasn’t much to say, really. It was surprising how calmly she was able to tell her small story. The pressure of Ed’s arm around her was really nice.
They took her fingerprints. That was all right. They needed to know which ones were the killer’s. Why on TV did innocent people make such a fuss about fingerprints?
Vivian came through the front door and, with only a sympathetic look at Jean, silently took a seat on the other side of the room. Her presence seemed reasonable. She was Ed’s wife. But, when the detective said Jean could go, Vivian came over, one hand reaching out, her face crumpled with sadness. Ed turned her over to Vivian.
“I’ll take you home, Jean,” she said in voice that seemed to have some of Jean’s tears in it.
By then, this scene seemed less like a dream and more like reality and Jean realized these two were taking care of her. For some reason, that made her cry. She dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief Ed had given her.
“My briefcase,” she said. “In the kitchen. There’s an offer on the DeLucca’s house in there, Ed.”
“Are your keys in your purse?”
“Keys? Oh. To the car. Yes. In my purse.”
“I’ll take care of everything, Jeannie,” Ed assured her. “Don’t worry about anything. Viv will take you home and stay with you. Or take you wherever you want to go. I’m sorry you had—well, considering your history, it’s a shame it wasn’t someone else who found her.”
“Come on, Jean,” Vivian said softly. “We’ll go home. We’ll have a cup of tea and I’ll stay with you as long as you need me.”
That, Jean thought, would be a very long time. Her father was dead. And now the woman who was supposed to be her new mother was gone, too.
Chapter 12
It was Monday. Rita and Jean, still in pajamas at noon, were in Rita’s living room. Rita sat on the intricately patterned Persian rug, her legs bent back on either side, pale, bare feet with fuchsia toenails projecting from under black silk pajamas, her face obscured by a waterfall of reddish-brown curls that almost touched the laptop computer below them. Jean, barely awake on the tapestry seat of the Chippendale sofa, felt an almost painful gratitude for this strong friend who last night had listened to her disjointed ramblings, comforted her, provided aqua silk pajamas and tucked her into a heavily carved mahogany four-poster bed some time in the early hours of the morning.
“I’m finished! I love computer tables, don’t you?”
Rita gestured toward her laptop with a raw baby carrot.
“Not really. Hand me the sunflower seeds, would you?” Jean dropped a lazy arm toward her friend.
“Here. Sunflower seeds. Have some vegetables. Or grapes. Too many nuts are constipating. Now.” The carrot was in the air, poised for a decision. “We have to fill in the blanks.”
“I think you’re nuts with this chart thing. Just because Theresa’s letter opener was …”
Jean couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I know. You don’t think someone from the office killed her.”
“That other murder on an open house—”
“Might be connected, true.” Rita tilted her head to one side. “Definitely weird. But the letter opener came from our office.”
“Someone from outside could have stolen it. Always on her desk. And a lot of people knew about it. Hua said Theresa used to carry it with her to show it off until Harold made it so sharp it scratched the inside of her briefcase. And those same torn cards!”
“I know. But
“Sure,” she said.
She had to tell them about the offer, the time of the unanswered phone call, when she arrived, the open back door. They didn’t ask her anything more about Theresa. That was good. She didn’t want to think about reaching across … Jean blocked out the memory and looked at the birds again. Ed explained why she had mentioned Kevin. She had no idea where he was. There wasn’t much to say, really. It was surprising how calmly she was able to tell her small story. The pressure of Ed’s arm around her was really nice.
They took her fingerprints. That was all right. They needed to know which ones were the killer’s. Why on TV did innocent people make such a fuss about fingerprints?
Vivian came through the front door and, with only a sympathetic look at Jean, silently took a seat on the other side of the room. Her presence seemed reasonable. She was Ed’s wife. But, when the detective said Jean could go, Vivian came over, one hand reaching out, her face crumpled with sadness. Ed turned her over to Vivian.
“I’ll take you home, Jean,” she said in voice that seemed to have some of Jean’s tears in it.
By then, this scene seemed less like a dream and more like reality and Jean realized these two were taking care of her. For some reason, that made her cry. She dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief Ed had given her.
“My briefcase,” she said. “In the kitchen. There’s an offer on the DeLucca’s house in there, Ed.”
“Are your keys in your purse?”
“Keys? Oh. To the car. Yes. In my purse.”
“I’ll take care of everything, Jeannie,” Ed assured her. “Don’t worry about anything. Viv will take you home and stay with you. Or take you wherever you want to go. I’m sorry you had—well, considering your history, it’s a shame it wasn’t someone else who found her.”
“Come on, Jean,” Vivian said softly. “We’ll go home. We’ll have a cup of tea and I’ll stay with you as long as you need me.”
That, Jean thought, would be a very long time. Her father was dead. And now the woman who was supposed to be her new mother was gone, too.
Chapter 12
It was Monday. Rita and Jean, still in pajamas at noon, were in Rita’s living room. Rita sat on the intricately patterned Persian rug, her legs bent back on either side, pale, bare feet with fuchsia toenails projecting from under black silk pajamas, her face obscured by a waterfall of reddish-brown curls that almost touched the laptop computer below them. Jean, barely awake on the tapestry seat of the Chippendale sofa, felt an almost painful gratitude for this strong friend who last night had listened to her disjointed ramblings, comforted her, provided aqua silk pajamas and tucked her into a heavily carved mahogany four-poster bed some time in the early hours of the morning.
“I’m finished! I love computer tables, don’t you?”
Rita gestured toward her laptop with a raw baby carrot.
“Not really. Hand me the sunflower seeds, would you?” Jean dropped a lazy arm toward her friend.
“Here. Sunflower seeds. Have some vegetables. Or grapes. Too many nuts are constipating. Now.” The carrot was in the air, poised for a decision. “We have to fill in the blanks.”
“I think you’re nuts with this chart thing. Just because Theresa’s letter opener was …”
Jean couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I know. You don’t think someone from the office killed her.”
“That other murder on an open house—”
“Might be connected, true.” Rita tilted her head to one side. “Definitely weird. But the letter opener came from our office.”
“Someone from outside could have stolen it. Always on her desk. And a lot of people knew about it. Hua said Theresa used to carry it with her to show it off until Harold made it so sharp it scratched the inside of her briefcase. And those same torn cards!”
“I know. But
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