This room was the master bedroom, with a large bathroom next door. She had removed the dust covers and made up the bed with linens from another closet in the hall yesterday afternoon. Good thing she'd done that in daylight; otherwise she'd have been poking around in the dark last night when the apparent short circuit had made her nervous about the lights.
She closed the French doors, and let the roller shutters cover them against the sunshine that turned rooms into saunas by midday. Downstairs, she locked the front door, walked through the house and did the same at the back, casting one black look at the roses as she went by.
"What's wrong?” Simon said as soon as she emerged from the path onto the graveled apron in front of the garage. He'd shut off the car engine and relocked the garage door.
"What makes you think anything's wrong?” Leslie asked, smoothing out her frown.
"That look you get when you hear bad news. Like about Jason."
Surprised by his perceptiveness, she shrugged lightly. “I don't know if it means anything, but someone left a bouquet of red roses in the kitchen. While we were out here."
Simon ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Probably Cecil. He's got plenty of roses in his garden."
Her unease lifted. “That's probably it, then. But he shouldn't have walked in. He could have left them outside."
"They would have wilted,” Simon said, pulling open the car door and untwisting the seat belt for her when she got inside. “You'll find the sun's a lot hotter here than you're used to.” He tapped one finger on the top of her head. “Wear a hat if you're going to be out."
"I'll get one,” she promised, not sure whether to be annoyed or flattered by his advice. She wasn't a child; she didn't need a keeper.
* * * *
"The car will be ready in an hour,” Simon told her after he'd talked to the mechanic at the small service station. “I trust you know how to drive with a gear shift?"
"Not every car in Canada has an automatic transmission,” Leslie said. “I drive an old Peugeot there. I'm used to a stick shift."
Simon nodded. “Fine. I'll leave you then.” He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket, straightened the corners, and handed it to her. “Call me if you need anything. Any time."
Surprised, she looked at him. His expression told her nothing. “Why?” she asked. “Last night—"
"Last night I made a mistake,” he interrupted. “See you later, Leslie."
He walked away, his long, lithe strides taking him quickly out of her sight around a corner. Leslie chewed on her bottom lip. What kind of man was he, friendly one moment, prickly the next? She looked down at the card in her hand. Simon Korvallis, Premium Agricultural Services. It didn't tell her much, except his phone number and an address in Kerkira. That must be where he spent one day a week, taking care of business, as he'd put it last night.
She tucked the card into her purse, glancing back at the mechanic who had his head buried under the hood of the car. “I'll be back,” she said, not sure if he'd understand.
He grinned impudently, his teeth very white in a strong face darkened by sun and liberal streaks of engine grease. “One hour, miss,” he said in heavily accented English. “Maybe one and a half."
She had shopping to do, but first she wanted to ask Simon something she'd forgotten to ask the police yesterday. If she hurried, she could catch him. He'd been heading for the square.
Out of the shelter of the garage, the sun beat on her head. Sweat trickled down her temples, making stray hairs stick to her skin. She brushed back the strands, lifting the heavy ponytail from her nape. The narrow street between the pastel houses condensed the sun's glare into a white heat. She squinted against the intense light interspersed with deep shadow, glad she'd remembered her sunglasses.
Within moments she emerged on the flagstoned square where lime trees cast meager pools of shade. She saw Simon at the far side. Holding up the edge of her flared skirt, she sprinted across the open space, ignoring the amused stares of villagers sitting at the coffee shops.
"Simon,” she called as he entered an alley between two shops. “Wait."
Stopping, he turned, shaking his head as she ran up to him. “You shouldn't rush in this heat, especially when you're not used to it."
Breathless, she brushed the damp hair from her forehead. “Simon, were there any witnesses to Jason's accident?"
His eyes narrowed, casting his face into forbidding lines. For a moment, she was taken aback. Did the question bother him? “Didn't the police tell you?” he asked slowly.
"No.” She paused. “Or at least I don't think so. I didn't ask specifically."
"Well, there might have been a witness. No one is too sure. Before the sailboard capsized, there was a powerboat cruising in the area."
"Then why didn't the boat pick him up, if he was in trouble?"
"They might not have realized. Jason was pretty far out to sea. The boat was closer to shore. The wind was very strong and gusty that day. The board was found in a cove south of the house. He probably had a broken universal."
Leslie frowned. “What's a universal?"
"It's the part that holds the sail to the board. The boards don't sink, but if he lost the sail and then somehow got separated from the board, he wouldn't have lasted long in the cold, choppy water."
"Didn't the police find out who was in the boat?"
"I don't think so. The coast south of here is rocky and isolated, especially in the colder seasons. Only a shepherd with a flock on the hills above the cove saw it. He reported it after he heard about the accident."
Leslie clenched her hands into fists and stuck them into the pockets of her skirt. “In other words, Jason took a risk and lost."
"Going by past history,” Simon said, “Jason took a lot of risks."
"Are you sure about that?” Leslie asked skeptically. “In Canada he was conservative to the point of boredom."
"Was that why your marriage failed, Leslie? Out of boredom?"
She scowled at him in annoyance. “It's none of your business,” she retorted. “But I'll tell you anyway. It failed because near the end Jason was never there. That's why all the things you're telling me about him are a surprise. It's as if he was two people, one in Canada and another here. And I didn't even know about here."
"I'm sorry, Leslie.” He laid his hand on her shoulder, then jerked it back as if he feared she'd be offended. Which struck her as odd since he'd held her in his arms at the house. Still, this was a public place.
"There's not much you can do about it.” Her annoyance faded into despondency and self-recrimination. How could she have been so blind? Why had she been so complacent, so unquestioning, that she'd never suspected Jason of having a double life? “I'm going to find out more about this whole thing. Why did Jason die? Who was in the boat? I want some answers."
"If there are any answers,” Simon said darkly. “Boat or no boat, Jason's gone. As far as the people here and the police are concerned, the case is closed. Be careful, Leslie. Remember what happened last night."
She stared at him. Despite the heat, a chill crept up her spine. “What do you mean? Jimmy thinks it was an accident. Kids."
"Jimmy is a good cop, but he hasn't been here very long. He's probably right, but you can't be too careful. And if the person in the boat saw Jason and left him in the sea, what can you do?” He shrugged. “Stay at the house, enjoy your holiday, but let the dead stay buried."
A warning, or just friendly advice? His words haunted her as she bought bread and milk and vegetables. And the worst of it was the thought that Jason wasn't buried, no matter how dead he was.
* * * *
By the time she drove home, Leslie could hardly keep her eyes open. Jet lag? Or the dense heat that wilted the leaves in her garden and pressed down on the parched earth like a massive weight? It suddenly struck her why Mediterranean countries so religiously observed the practice of siesta.
Her movements slow and languid, she carried the groceries i
nto the house and put them away. The roses stood on the counter, filling the oppressive air with a heavy fragrance. She glared at them, then picked up the vase and carried them into the living room.
Sunlight freckled the dim room, a pattern of tiny rectangles coming through the small holes in the roller shutters. Halfway across the worn wooden floor, Leslie stopped. She swept her glance around, abruptly realizing why the room looked different. The sheets were gone from the furniture, and the tables were polished, no longer covered with a layer of gritty dust.
Leslie set the vase down, splashing the water. She clasped her shaking hands together. Who else had a key to the house? She had locked the doors, and they'd been locked when she came back. Unless—
She ran into the hall and checked the front door. Closed and locked, with a modern dead bolt. Opening the door, she stared out at the forecourt.
Heat waves hovered above the flagstones, dazzling her eyes. The garden beyond shimmered with a strange, surreal light, a green jungle. Leslie shook her head, trying to clear the wooliness of fatigue from her brain. She felt as if she were swimming in a dream, that nothing was quite real, not the lush garden, nor the dark house with its mysterious, invisible visitors.
Back in the kitchen, she drank a couple of glasses of the faintly brackish water. Reminding herself to buy bottled water next time she went down to the shops, she ate a slice of bread and one of the succulent peaches she'd bought.
Then she staggered up to her room, fell on the bed, and slept.
* * * *
When she woke, the angle of the light told her it was late in the afternoon. For a long moment, she lay on the bed, her mind groggy, buzzing in counterpoint to the sawing of cicadas outside.
The discomfort of lying on her twisted skirt drove her up. She set her feet on the floor, pulling her sweat-damp T-shirt over her head. A movement by the window brought her head spinning around. She laughed ruefully when she saw it was only the long, lace curtain stirring in the breeze.
She'd opened the French doors but left the shutters closed. Walking across the room, she rolled them up. The sun had moved around the house, its eye no longer baleful although the heat still bore down, unabated even late in the day.
She went downstairs after a shower, and drank more water from the jug she'd set in the ancient, wheezing refrigerator. Cold, it tasted fine, if a bit rough.
Looking out the window, she saw that the little Renault still stood where she'd left it, its windows rolled down. She walked outside. Shade dappled the patio outside the kitchen door, making the temperature bearable.
The gray cat, which she hadn't seen since morning, slept on the driver's seat. Leslie rattled her keys. “Come on, cat, move. I want to turn the car so I can wash it."
The sun sank lower. Leslie splashed her bare feet in the puddles forming around the car as she washed, momentarily forgetting her problems. The cat stayed out of range of the hose, his expression telling her he couldn't understand her pleasure in playing with water. After a while he grow bored and wandered off.
She turned off the hose and wiped down the car with old towels she'd found in the linen closet. Frowning, she paused as she polished the windshield. That was another odd thing: the cupboard was full of towels, sheets, pillow cases, even several age-yellowed tablecloths. Some were new, and others were worn almost threadbare. Hadn't Jason ever thrown anything away?
Yet where were his clothes? If Simon hadn't told her Jason had stayed here, she would have thought he'd never come near the place. There was no trace of him at all.
Of course, she'd only glanced briefly into the other bedrooms upstairs, but the old-fashioned wardrobes contained nothing but cobwebs, and the beds were stripped, the bare mattresses protected with muslin dust covers.
At the end of the upstairs hall, she'd discovered a steep flight of stairs leading to the attic. Glancing up at the heat waves still shimmering over the russet-tiled roof, she figured it must be like an oven up there. Tomorrow morning, when it was cooler, she'd have a look.
She finished the car and hung the towels over the clothesline that stretched from the back step to a tree. The sun's rays tangled in the treetops, sending fragments of light dancing around her. She rolled up the hose, hanging it on its rack.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Adams."
She snapped her head up. “Oh, hello, Mr. Weatherby."
He stood diffidently behind her, a small brown dog of dubious breeding tugging at the leash he held. “Please,” he said, “call me Cecil. If I may call you Leslie?"
"Of course.” She straightened, groaning as her thigh muscles cramped. Blowing back a strand of hair that had worked loose from her ponytail, she tugged down the legs of her shorts. “I see you found your dog."
He glanced down with a fond smile. “Yes, he was waiting on the step when I got back to my house. Simon isn't here?"
"No, he's not. Any reason why he should be?"
Cecil shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes downcast. The little dog strained at the leash. “No, I suppose not. I just noticed him here this morning."
"Oh?” Leslie said coolly. “I didn't know your house was that close."
"We share a common boundary.” He gestured toward the sea. “Along the side over there. There's a path, although it's hard to find unless you know where to look."
Leslie nodded. The secretary at the property management office where she'd picked up the key had shown her a plot plan and pointed out the dimensions of the lot. The property Jason's house stood on was L-shaped. At the short end of the L, the shrubbery was most overgrown and dense. Reluctant to brave the jungle, Leslie hadn't explored that corner of the garden.
"By the way, thank you for the roses,” she said. “They were lovely."
A strange look crossed Cecil's face. “Roses? I didn't bring you any roses."
"You didn't? Simon said they probably came from you.” A little frisson of unease shifted within her. “I wonder who did bring them."
The old man shrugged. “I wouldn't know. But plenty of people have roses in their gardens. June is the season for them. Anyone could have brought them to welcome you."
Leslie felt skeptical, although she kept her thoughts to herself. The villagers hadn't given her much of a welcome, although yesterday she'd been treated with guarded cordiality. Still, it was unlikely anyone would have hiked up here to bring her a housewarming gift.
Cecil was silent, his eyes wandering about the garden, as if he were searching for something. Or someone. The little dog sniffed at Leslie's ankles, his nose cold and wet.
"What do you know about Jason's death?” Leslie asked, following him across the patio. She had to start somewhere, if she wanted answers.
Cecil stopped abruptly, the dog coming up short on the leash and letting out a startled yelp. “The police questioned me,” he said slowly. “As they did everyone who'd had any contact with Jason.
He paused, but before she could say anything, he added, all in a rush, “Would you have supper with me one evening? If you're not too busy, of course."
Why, he was lonely, Leslie realized in surprise. She would have expected that a man who had lived so much of his life in one place would have many friends. But perhaps he didn't.
"I would love to have supper with you,” she said. She couldn't deny that he made her a little uneasy, not to mention that she suspected he knew more than he was letting on. The way he'd neatly sidestepped her question about Jason's death. He knew something. Of that she was certain.
She would go to his house and wait for an opening to ask more questions. “Would tomorrow evening be all right? No, tomorrow I'm having tea with Eugenia. You know Eugenia, don't you?"
He scowled and muttered something she could have sworn was a nasty word. “What's wrong?” she asked.
He set his mouth in a prim line. “Nothing. Watch out for that bird of hers."
"I've met her bird. How about if I come the next night?"
The old man beamed. “Perfect. Shall we say at eight?"
>
At her nod, he inclined his head politely. “Good evening, then, Leslie. I'll look forward to it.” He began to walk away.
Scruffy yelped a high-pitched bark. The gray cat glided out of the bushes. The dog pulled at the leash, growling. To Leslie's surprise, the cat, until now the most benign of creatures, sank into a defensive crouch. His tail lashed the ground. He hissed at the little dog, who barked hysterically.
"Scruffy, that's enough.” Cecil gathered the leash around his hand and picked up the dog. The cat, having won the skirmish, rose and stalked to the step, where he began to wash his paws, tail still twitching.
"Goodbye, Leslie,” Cecil said again.
"Goodbye,” Leslie said.
Her frown remained as he slowly walked down the driveway and disappeared around its curve.
Like a genie from a bottle, Eugenia popped around the side of the house. She wore a ragged sweat suit and her hair was in disarray. “Was old Cecil here? I thought I heard that beastly little dog yapping."
"Yes, he was here,” Leslie said calmly. “He invited me for supper."
Eugenia looked faintly horrified. “You're not going, are you? He'll probably poison you."
Unsure whether to take this remark seriously, Leslie decided to ignore it. “I think he's lonely. I've accepted his invitation."
"Well, mark my words, he'll start thinking of you as a relative—his have all died, or he's alienated them—and you'll never get rid of him. Don't say I didn't warn you."
Leslie couldn't help but smile, and no longer cared if Eugenia noticed. With her secure ego, Eugenia could take it. “I won't. I want to talk to him. He must have known Jason. And I'd like to see his paintings."
Eugenia's voice dropped to a whisper. “They're weird. That's what they are. Weird. I don't know where he gets his ideas, but they're frightening."
"In what way?"
"Oh, all dark colors and strange shapes. You can see things in them.” Eugenia shuddered. “One of them has eyes that watch everything you do."
"Does he sell these paintings?"
"Oh, yes. They fetch good prices, too. I can't imagine why, but then, tastes aren't what they used to be.” Eugenia put her hand on Leslie's arm. “Be careful. I can see you have a kind heart, but don't let him take advantage of you."
Killing Her Softly Page 4
