Killing Her Softly

by Freda Vasilopoulos

  He looked startled. She saw his throat convulse as he swallowed. “Why didn't you ask Jimmy?"

  "Because I already talked to the police. I want to know what people are saying and what you think."

  She sat down on the bottom stair tread and patted the space beside her. “I haven't shopped yet, or I'd offer you a drink."

  "That's all right.” Picking up the cat, he sat down next to her. She sensed the tension in him, as if he thought it might be better to leave while he could. His tanned knuckles looked pale against the cat's dense coat.

  In the silence, the cat purred like a well-tuned sports car. Simon's scent wrapped itself around her, subtle, pleasant, a mixture of herbal soap and warm man, with an undertone of sun-dried cotton.

  "What happened to Jason?” she said quietly.

  He started, as if he'd been so far away in his thoughts that he'd forgotten her presence. “He drowned. They didn't find the body. But it's a very treacherous coast, with strong currents. It's not the first time something like this has happened."

  "What was he doing windsurfing in April?"

  "Reliving his youth, perhaps?” Simon's tone was just short of sarcastic. “Or maybe because the waves are better in winter and spring."

  "I never knew he windsurfed,” Leslie said. “But then, I've lately discovered I didn't know much about Jason at all."

  "He windsurfed for years, even before the sport became popular here. He liked the sea."

  "And it killed him,” Leslie said.

  "His parents drowned, as well, in a ferry sinking. And maybe his daughter. Some say there's a curse on the family."

  Leslie turned her head to stare at him. “A curse?"

  "Yeah. They say his family will all die on water."

  "Superstition, I suppose."

  Simon shrugged. “Maybe. But superstitions are funny. If you believe them, they sometimes come true."

  "So he had a daughter,” she said in a resigned tone. In the past twelve hours she'd discovered more about Jason's past than she had in ten years of marriage. Nothing could surprise her any more.

  "Yeah. She was twenty-five when she died."

  "What happened to her?"

  For a long moment he said nothing, his body so rigid the cat broke off his purring and meowed inquiringly. When he spoke, the words beat into her brain like blows from a hammer.

  "I killed her."

  * * * *

  That was dumb, Simon told himself. You didn't have to say it like that. But for some reason he'd been driven to ruffle the composure that had lasted even through his revelation that Jason had had a daughter.

  He certainly got a reaction. She paled, and edged away from him, standing up and hugging her arms around her waist. “You killed her,” she said slowly, deliberately, looking at him as if she expected him to pull out an axe and start hacking her into small bloody pieces.

  "You would have found out soon enough anyway. Plenty of people here say I did kill her.” He stroked the cat, his movements gentle and easy. “Just between me and you, I don't think she's dead."

  Some of the color seeped back into her cheeks. “What happened to her?"

  "The official version is that she drowned. I think she left, went back to England or something. It would have given her a perverse satisfaction, knowing I was left to face the questions the police asked. But there wasn't enough evidence to make the charges stick, no matter how much Jason ranted."

  "Jason?” She looked sick and, for an instant, he felt sorry for her.

  "Yes, Jason. He came to me, accusing me of sexually harassing his daughter. When she supposedly drowned, there were those who believed she committed suicide because of me, and others who said I murdered her to keep her from bringing charges in court. In their minds I killed her, either directly or by driving her to it."

  A tense white line formed around Leslie's mouth. The only thing was, he couldn't tell if she was feeling fear and disgust with him, or merely sympathy for the unfortunate young woman.

  "Her body was never found,” he said flatly.

  The tendons on the backs of her hands stood out as she gripped her elbows. “Just like Jason's."

  "And Jason's parents. As they say, the sea took them and didn't give them up."

  Leslie sank down on a wicker chair that stood near the open door. “What about Jason's wife?"

  "I'm not sure. Some kind of accident, I think, but I was in England then, and she hadn't lived here for a long time."

  "Was Jason with her when it happened?” Leslie didn't like what she was hearing. She didn't like it at all. It seemed that everyone around Jason had died in an unnatural manner.

  "I don't know,” Simon said. “Why?"

  She hesitated, her stomach cold and hollow. “Curiosity, I guess,” she finally said, knowing her reply sounded lame. Her mind went back to the shot last night. Was Jason dead, or had he brought her here to kill her, for whatever insane reason? Except that he hadn't brought her. She'd done that all by herself, driven by memories and curiosity.

  "How did you get mixed up with a man like Jason in the first place?” Simon's words were a welcome interruption to her disturbing train of thought.

  What she would have replied died on her lips as a scream made the hair at her nape stand on end. It was followed by a cackling that echoed through the house. The cat launched himself from Simon's lap, skidded across the polished marble floor, and vanished out the open door.

  "What was that?” Leslie gasped.

  The maniacal laughter came again. To her astonishment, Simon laughed and stood up. He walked past her into the living room. “Here, Pretty Baby,” he called softly. “Come here.” She heard an indistinct crooning sound, followed by, “How did you get out? Don't you know a cat will get you?"

  Leslie frowned, Cecil Weatherby's words jumping into her mind. A bird? The neighbor's, perhaps? She was about to join Simon when an odd figure came through the open doorway. A stout woman of indeterminate age brushed past her as if she were invisible, trailing a fringed scarf and clouds of Je Reviens.

  "Oh, Simon,” the woman trilled. “You've caught him."

  Leslie entered the room in time to see her visitor gently pluck a bird that resembled a crow from Simon's grasp. Obviously he'd flown in through the window she'd opened earlier. “Bad Baby,” the woman scolded, shaking her finger next to the creature's yellow beak.

  "Pretty Baby,” the bird squawked, tilting its head to one side. It stared straight at Leslie, and let out a piercing wolf whistle.

  "He's got good taste, hasn't he?” Simon said conversationally.

  The bird whistled again, its bright eyes studying Leslie. “Pretty Baby."

  The impudence of the thing. In spite of the shock that remained as an icy knot in her chest, Leslie couldn't help smiling. This had to be the bird Cecil Weatherby said terrorized his dog.

  The woman shifted the mynah to a perch on her shoulder, where it promptly tangled its claws in the fringes of her scarf. She extended her hand. “You must be Leslie Adams. I'm Eugenia Turner."

  Giving Leslie's hand a firm, businesslike shake, she tilted her head in much the same manner as her bird had done. In fact, at once the bird on her shoulder mimicked the pose. Leslie fought to keep a straight face. “I'm happy to meet you. How did you know my name?"

  "Jason mentioned you,” Eugenia said. “Not that he ever talked to me much. Dour sort, wasn't he? He didn't like Baby at all. Used to get all upset if he came over here."

  "Aren't you worried that he'll get lost?” Leslie asked as the bird gave another high-pitched laugh.

  "Hush.” Eugenia admonished him. To Leslie, she said, “His flight feathers have been trimmed, so he can't get far."

  Leslie stretched out a tentative hand. The bird regarded her solemnly for a moment, then hopped onto her finger, claws gripping like cool, brittle twigs. Muttering in his throat, he preened his glossy black feathers. “Pretty Baby. Pretty Baby."

  "Come and have tea with me,” Eugenia said. “Tomorrow. At four
. We'll talk.” Taking back the mynah, she headed for the door, her high-heeled mules clicking on the marble floor. The scent of her perfume lingered after her departure, like an aura infusing the room.

  "And where is it that I'm to join her for tea?” Leslie asked a little breathlessly.

  Simon straightened from his appraisal of the empty fireplace. “That's easy. Go around to the far side of the garage and you'll see a break in the hedge. That's the short cut. If you want the more formal entrance, just go down the street toward the village. It's the first driveway on the left. She's your nearest neighbor."

  "Has she lived here long?"

  "Years. She was born near here, but her husband was British. It was natural for her to retire here, since she had the house."

  "Then she'll be able to tell me where I can get a car. I want to do some sightseeing.” Snooping, she reminded herself. There were too many questions about Jason's death. “There seems to be nothing to rent. I asked yesterday in—what do you call it?—Kerkira?"

  "I think Jason had a car. You could use that. It should be in the garage."

  She cast him a sidelong look, debating the wisdom of letting him stick around longer than necessary. “Awfully helpful, aren't you, all of a sudden?” she said bluntly. “Especially after last night, when you were ready to run me out of town."

  A faint flush colored his elegant cheekbones. “I said I was sorry. It was more of a reflex than anything personal."

  She studied him for a moment longer. Whatever he was after, she'd figure it out sooner or later. Meantime ... “Okay,” she said briskly. “Let's find the keys."

  "They'll be in the kitchen. That's where Jason kept all the keys, next to the door.” He led the way down the hall.

  "You know your way around this place, don't you?” Leslie said. “Isn't that kind of odd, considering you and Jason weren't exactly friends?"

  "My father was a contractor. When I was a kid, I helped him do repairs around this house. It hasn't changed much."

  "Oh. Does your father still do that kind of work?"

  She saw his shoulders stiffen. All the earlier tension rushed back. “My father's dead, Mrs. Adams. And your husband was at least partly to blame. Here's the keys,” he added brusquely.

  Jason seemed to have a lot to answer for, Leslie thought dismally as they went out into the heavy heat of midmorning. One man's death, another's character assassination, to use Simon's own term. Bodies of relatives strewn all over the seabed.

  What kind of a life had he led here? It was beginning to appear that on Corfu Jason had been a vastly different man from the one she'd known, a man up to his ears in controversy.

  Their marriage had been uneventful. Jason had been preoccupied with his import-export business, which he had never discussed. When he was home, he'd eat dinner, read the paper, then go to bed precisely at eleven.

  Only in the last years of their marriage had things changed. Jason's behavior had become erratic. Mysterious phone calls late at night. Ever more frequent trips away, from which he returned days later, looking as if he'd been in a war.

  Once he'd gone out at midnight, in response to a call, and returned in the morning with a black eye. He said he'd had a flat tire on a country road and had stumbled into a ditch in the dark while changing it. When she asked him what kind of people he was mixed up with, his mouth had tightened and he'd said it didn't concern her.

  But it did concern her; she'd had phone calls after he'd moved out of their house, the house they later sold. The callers had never spoken but had left the line open just long enough to make her nervous. Not exactly a threat, but somehow a kind of intimidation.

  Which was why she was here now. She needed to find out exactly why and how Jason had died. Maybe his death was an accident. But maybe it wasn't.

  Jingling the two key rings in her hand, she followed Simon down a path composed of flat, square stones in shades that ranged from tan and gray to the more exotic pink and mauve. He took the keys from her hand, inserted the largest one into an ornately carved lock, and threw open the garage door.

  Cautiously she peered inside. The air inside was cool, the dirt floor giving off a musty smell. The building contained the usual clutter, rusting garden utensils, and a work bench with assorted tools hanging above it.

  A sailboard stood against a small, dusty white car. The edges were battered, one end gone, leaving a huge gouge like a shark bite.

  This must be the craft that had killed Jason. Regret and an unexpected grief tightened Leslie's chest and, for a moment, tears burned in her eyes. Such a flimsy thing to trust your life to on the sea. Why had he done it? Had he indeed been trying to recapture a lost youth?

  She let out a little shriek as something small and furry ran over her foot. The cat rushed out of the bushes and streaked after it. “What was that?"

  "Only a mouse, city girl,” Simon said, giving her that rare smile she'd seen only in his dealings with Eugenia and her mynah. The smile transformed his face, crinkling his eyes at the corners and softening the habitual austerity. He looked almost friendly, and she wondered if she had been too quick in jumping to uncharitable conclusions about him.

  Perhaps it would be wise to cultivate his friendship; he might prove helpful to her. Even if his relationship with Jason had been less than amicable, he must know things she would have difficulty discovering on her own.

  She stepped into the garage, gingerly putting one foot ahead of the other. “Do you think the car will start?"

  "I'll give it a try.” He handed the door keys to her, reaching for the ring with the car keys. His eyes narrowed, and he took her hand in his. “You're shaking,” he said, not unkindly. “I'm sorry. I should have thought you'd be upset when you saw the sailboard. The police brought it back. I forgot it was here. They never found the sail. It must have blown out to sea."

  At his touch, her control shattered. She blinked away fresh tears. Why was she crying? For the good times perhaps, long ago, when she'd been young and thought she loved Jason? Or was it grief at the waste of a life? “He should have known better,” she whispered.

  "Yes, he should have,” Simon said.

  He gently stroked her hand, his fingers warm, comforting. Touched by his kindness, she regained her composure. And let her opinion of him rise another, less reluctant, notch.

  "If you're going to stay here awhile, Leslie, you'll have to put up with mice and such,” he said, a trace of amusement in his voice. “I wouldn't be surprised if there are mice in the basement, as well."

  The basement? A shiver of dread stirred within her. She'd looked down the stairs yesterday afternoon but, put off by the damp-smelling darkness below, she'd slammed the door shut and postponed further exploration. But her cowardice nagged her now. Sooner or later she would have to enter the cellar, if only to inspect the water system or look for Jason's missing belongings.

  Without thinking, she placed her free hand on Simon's chest and dropped her forehead against his shirt, inhaling the scent of sun-dried cotton, soap and clean male skin. “I'll set a trap. And call you to empty it if I catch something."

  His stroking hand stilled. She heard the sharp intake of his breath at the same moment her words re-echoed in her head. I'll call you.

  "Would you really?” he asked softly. “Would you really call me, Leslie?"

  Her face burning, she stared at the ground, at the battered canvas sneakers he wore. The top of one had the frayed beginning of a hole over the big toe. She didn't know what was worse, to stand there feeling his heartbeat strong against her palm, or to move away and let him see how easily he could destroy her equilibrium.

  Pulling herself together, she took a step back. To her relief, he let her go at once. “I'll check the basement later.” Her voice only wobbled a little. “When the electrician comes. Which reminds me, could you recommend someone?"

  "I'll call him for you when we get back in the house.” He lifted one black brow. “The car keys?"

  "Oh.” She gave them to him, stan
ding aside as he got into the little car and cranked the engine. It came to life with a cough and a wheeze, then ran more smoothly. Blue exhaust, reeking of stale gasoline, enveloped her in a choking cloud, driving her out of the cool building and into the blazing sunlight. She stood there, gasping for breath and holding her nose.

  Simon backed the car out, adjusting the choke to a slow idle. Opening the door, he got out, moving around to the passenger side to check the insurance document mounted in the corner of the windshield. “You're in luck,” he said. “It seems to be valid. Would you like me to drive it down to the village for you to have the gas station mechanic drain out the old gasoline and do a service on it?"

  "I'll come with you,” Leslie said quickly. After all, how long had she known this man? A gut feeling told her he could be trusted with her property. Whether she could trust the stability of her emotions around him, or believe his version of Jason's life, was another story. “I need to go to the grocery store anyway. I'll get my purse."

  "Sure,” he said easily. Whistling something that sounded like Mozart, he leaned back against the car, crossing his legs at the ankles.

  Leslie walked back to the house through the green-filtered sunlight on the path. The kitchen door stood open, just as they'd left it.

  On the counter, next to the sink, stood a vase of blood-red roses that hadn't been there twenty minutes earlier.

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  Chapter Three

  Spooky. That's what it was. Who would bring her roses? Not to mention sneaking into the house to leave them. A florist would have left them on the back step.

  No, maybe not. She pulled at her earlobe. The open door could have seemed like an invitation. Who knew what people did here? Maybe they were so at home with each other, they just walked into people's houses without knocking.

  After all, Eugenia had, earlier. But she had been chasing her bird.

  Frowning deeply, Leslie ran upstairs to get her purse. The house seemed undisturbed, although her nose twitched when she reached her room. Was that roses she smelled up here? She wasn't sure, and the scent could be drifting through the open French doors from the overgrown garden.