Killing Her Softly

by Freda Vasilopoulos

  In the kitchen the cat greeted them with plaintive meows, as if to say they'd been gone too long.

  As soon as the door closed behind Gage, Simon burst into laughter. “Did you see the look on his face? I wish I'd had a camera."

  "Yes, what was that bottle you gave him?” Leslie said severely.

  "Not Napoleon brandy, that's for sure.” Another shout of laughter rang through the hall. “I gave him a bottle of Greek brandy that you can buy anywhere for three or four euros."

  Leslie joined in his laughter, but quickly sobered. “I don't trust that man."

  "You, too? Then why didn't you let me drive him off?"

  "Because I wanted to see what he wanted."

  "And we still don't know,” Simon said. “It looks as if we can eliminate him from our list of people who may have keys to the house, though. If he'd had one, he could have checked it out the day before you came, at his leisure."

  Leslie bit her lip. “When did Gage come?"

  "The day before you did. Jason's been dead for two months. If Gage is supposed to be a business associate of his, I wonder why he didn't show up sooner."

  "You might say the same about me,” Leslie reminded him. “But I didn't know until the lawyer wrote me."

  "Could be the same with him. If I were you, I'd check with the lawyer, see if Jason actually had a partner by the name of Harlan Gage, once removed from East-end London, I'd say."

  "Pardon?"

  "His accent. It's too good."

  "Exactly what I thought,” Leslie said, pleased at her own perception. “Do you think we've seen the last of him?"

  "I wouldn't bet on it.” Simon glanced at his watch. “Look, I have to get changed and drive down to Kerkira, but first let's check that crate."

  Downstairs, he pried up the lid. Shredded paper protected the contents. Simon brushed it away, revealing a row of unremarkable wine bottles. He lifted one toward the light.

  "Boutari Red.” Leslie read the label aloud. “Bottled in Patra."

  "Vin ordinaire,” Simon confirmed. “Tres ordinaire. Considering some of the stuff stored in here, it's completely out of its league. Why would anyone order cases of this when there's a cellar full of exceptional wine and brandy here?"

  "Maybe Jason ordered it for a party. He didn't want to waste the good stuff?” Leslie suggested.

  "From what I hear, Jason never had parties."

  They replaced the lid without nailing it down. Using the flashlight to poke into corners that the electric light left in shadow, they circled the room. In the wine racks, hundreds of bottles lay neatly on their sides to keep the corks moist.

  Deep shadows hid the space behind the barrels. Simon played the flashlight beam around the end of the racks. “Furniture. Must be where they stored what they weren't using."

  A couple of overstuffed chairs, a Victorian horsehair settee with some of the stuffing escaping, and a lamp table were stacked next to an armoire. Leslie took the flashlight from his hand to get a closer look at the armoire, a heavy piece trimmed with ornate carving. “I wouldn't mind that upstairs. It would hold a television."

  Simon made a face. “You don't have a television. Didn't Jason do anything for entertainment?"

  "He had his business. And no, he rarely watched TV, even in Canada."

  They left the wine cellar and made a thorough search of the rest of the basement. Nothing suspicious turned up. On the other hand, they found no sign of the crates from the wine cellar. Which might have been suspicious, because there appeared to be no way in or out except up the stairs, through the pantry next to the kitchen. The windows were too small to admit anything bigger than a cat, and covered with sturdy wire mesh, besides. An old coal chute was boarded up.

  Simon frowned when he saw it. “I wonder when that was done. The lumber and nails look new. But, judging from the boiler, coal hasn't been used as fuel in this house for at least twenty years."

  "Maybe it was boarded up before, but the wood rotted and they replaced it.” Leslie shivered. “It's damp enough down here."

  "Maybe.” Simon grasped Leslie's elbow. “Let's get out of here."

  "Just a minute. I should take a bottle of wine to Cecil's, to go with dinner."

  Simon handed her the flashlight and took the keys. “Wait. I'll get it."

  In the kitchen, he paused at the door, the light in his eyes tantalizing her. “Want to come to Kerkira with me?"

  Regretfully she shook her head. “I can't. Dinner with Cecil later, remember?"

  "Stand him up. I'm much younger, have my own teeth—all around a better bet."

  Leslie laughed. “Sorry, I couldn't disappoint him."

  "Okay, then.” He turned toward the door, then spun around. He pulled her against his hard, sun-scented body, and kissed her soundly. “Think of this, when you're dining, oh, so properly with Mr. Weatherby."

  * * * *

  She was unable to get Simon out of her mind as she sat in the garden. The heat had lost its edge, making the temperature pleasant in the afternoon, when most of the patio lay in shade. A loud wolf whistle startled her, and she dropped her book.

  Something fell with a light metallic clink on the flagstones next to her. “Pretty Baby,” the mynah squawked from the silk tree over her head.

  Leslie laughed. “You've escaped again, I see."

  In the fork of the tree where he sat, she saw an assortment of bright objects. Not much of value: several keys, a soda can tab, a brass curtain ring.

  She glanced down, remembering the clink she'd heard. At her feet lay a gold earring. Grasping it between two fingers, she held it up. It was set with what looked like a real diamond, winking as the sun hit it.

  "Pretty Baby,” the mynah said again.

  "Baby, where are you?” Eugenia demanded as she pushed her way through the gap in the hedge.

  "It's a great day for gardening, isn't it?” Eugenia inhaled deeply, her formidable bosom stretching her neon pink T-shirt to the danger point. She scanned the trees. “Now where is that bird?"

  "Up there.” Leslie smiled, watching the bird hop down onto Eugenia's shoulder. She held up the earring. “Is this yours?"

  "Oh, good, you found it,” Eugenia exclaimed, taking it from Leslie's hand. “It's one of my favorites. I thought I'd lost it. What else did he bring you? He's an incorrigible thief."

  Leslie reached up and retrieved the objects from the tree fork. Eugenia looked them over. “The keys aren't mine. Better keep them. They might be for something in your house."

  Eugenia pulled an apple slice from her pocket and offered it to the bird. He pecked at it, tilting his head to one side. “Leslie,” he said hoarsely, and added another wolf whistle.

  Leslie laughed, pushing the keys into her pocket.

  Eugenia upended a large clay flowerpot and lowered herself carefully onto it. “Still going to Weatherby's for dinner?"

  "I plan to,” Leslie said, wondering again why Eugenia seemed so against the idea. “Have you ever eaten at his house?"

  "Not me,” Eugenia said forcefully. She shrugged her plump shoulders. “He's a good cook, I hear. Just don't let him take advantage of you. He used to come over here all the time whenever Melanie stayed. Of course, he and Jason had some business going together at one time, but I thought he made a nuisance of himself with Melanie. Old enough to be her father, too."

  "I thought Melanie was after Simon,” Leslie said rashly.

  Eugenia lifted one delicate brow. “You've heard about that, have you?"

  "Yes. Simon told me.” Behind her back, Leslie crossed her fingers, hoping she wasn't betraying Simon's confidence. Although, come to think of it, he'd been questioned about Melanie's disappearance and everyone knew it. No great secret.

  "I don't think he had anything to do with her drowning,” Eugenia declared. “Simon isn't a violent person. He took it all very well, and the accusations were completely unjust. Do you know they questioned him again after Jason's accident?"

  Shocked, Leslie couldn't speak for
a moment. Eugenia rattled on, seeming not to notice.

  "Oh, yes. Good thing he was in Kerkira that day, and plenty of people saw him there."

  "On what grounds did they question him, then?” Leslie asked in a strained voice. Her stomach knotted into a chilly lump.

  "Motive. Everyone knew about the bad blood between them since Simon's father died."

  "What do you think?” Leslie clenched her hands together to still their trembling. After all he'd done for her, was it possible Simon—? No, she couldn't even consider it.

  "I don't think Simon had anything to do with either accident. In fact, I'm not convinced either of them are dead. I saw lights on in the house at night a number of times before you came, and it couldn't have been anyone from the management company at that hour. I think the stupid story about all of Jason's family dying at sea made people willing to jump to conclusions.

  "I must get home.” Eugenia patted Leslie on the shoulder. “Thanks for finding the earring. And don't worry about Simon."

  * * * *

  Cecil's house was a low whitewashed cottage that conformed to her image of Mediterranean architecture. It stood high enough that it had a magnificent view of the sun setting into the sea, the same view Leslie had from her house. Not that she was given much time to admire it. Cecil opened the door immediately after her knock, as if he'd been watching for her.

  "Dear Leslie, I'm so glad you could come.” He clasped her hands in his and kissed her on both cheeks.

  "Thank you for inviting me,” Leslie said politely, handing him the bottle of wine.

  He stood looking at her a moment longer, long enough for Leslie to recall Eugenia's warning. Her misgivings subsided when Cecil nodded, smiling. “Yes, I would like to paint you. I thought I might have been mistaken the other night, but you do have a look about you."

  "Thank you,” Leslie murmured, not knowing what else to say.

  The house was larger than it appeared from outside, a collection of rooms all on different levels. They were sparsely furnished in natural pine and blue and white cotton, what Leslie thought of as Greek island decor. Wide windows made the rooms pleasantly light.

  They dined in front of one of them, enjoying the last pink glow of sunset. The table was set with gleaming china and silverware on a lace tablecloth. The meal was a traditional English one—roast beef, roasted potatoes, and Yorkshire pudding which Cecil brought in with a flourish.

  "That was delicious,” Leslie said an hour later. “Where did you learn to cook like that?"

  Cecil's blue eyes twinkled. “I never married. Cooking became a hobby of mine. Can I get you another serving of trifle?"

  "I couldn't eat another bite."

  Cecil wouldn't hear of Leslie helping with the dishes although he allowed her to carry the leftover food to the kitchen. He stacked the plates in the sink. “Why don't you go into the living room while I get us some coffee?” he said.

  She did so, wandering about the room and scanning the bookshelves. Cecil was a voracious reader, judging by the variety of books he had, everything from engineering and business to mysteries and science fiction.

  A door at the side of the room stood ajar. Curious, Leslie pushed it open. She smelled the pungent fragrance of paint and turpentine, and reached for the light switch at her side.

  It was Cecil's studio, a room that appeared to have been added to the end of the house. The two walls opposite each other consisted entirely of windows.

  Leslie strolled around the room, examining the framed and unframed paintings. While not abstract, they had a surreal quality, giving her the impression that what she saw was not the only image the artist had painted.

  On one wall she saw the picture Eugenia had mentioned, a craggy old man, possibly one of the local fishermen. The eyes, half shadowed by the bill of his cap, were uncanny, possessed of a disturbing intelligence, as if the subject's soul had been transferred to the canvas by the medium of paint.

  She turned away from it, her scalp prickling. At the end of the room, near a massive stone chimney, she saw the painting Cecil must be working on. From a distance it appeared to show a column of dark-clad monks winding down a mountain path. Up close she could see that the hoods hid skeleton faces, and that the sticks they held were scythes. Forty images of death walking.

  Leslie shivered, her gaze moving to the painting hanging above the mantel.

  This one was markedly different. A garden, probably Cecil's own. She had noticed that his garden, an riot of flowers in the English manner, rivaled the profusion of Eugenia's. The picture portrayed gay colors and a pleasing composition, showing a section of stone wall and a calm, blue sea in the background.

  Then she noticed the figure half hidden in the painted foliage. A young woman, a slender wraith in a white dress, stood between two cypresses that definitely didn't belong in an English garden. The features were not visible, hidden by a wide-brimmed hat.

  But the hair was.

  It hung down in a straight swath, at odds with the period flavor of her clothing, the color so pale a blonde it barely contrasted with the dress. The woman's hands extended in front of her, palms up, as if she were pleading with someone.

  "What are you doing in here?"

  Leslie started violently, spinning around to face Cecil's furious gaze. “No one enters my studio unless I invite them."

  Beside him, the little dog, noticeably absent during dinner, began a high-pitched yapping.

  With an effort, Leslie met the blazing anger in his eyes. “The door was open."

  She kept her voice calm, controlled, telling herself she'd done nothing wrong. If he didn't want people looking at his work, he should keep the door closed. She would never have opened it. Even now, she couldn't understand the almost irrational rage that carved his face into ugly lines. His breath rasped harshly above the dog's barking, his face dead white except for twin red spots over his cheekbones.

  "I'm sorry,” she said, hoping he wasn't about to have a stroke or a heart attack. For the first time she understood the meaning of the term apoplexy.

  "You saw her, didn't you?” His voice shook.

  "Saw who? Oh, you mean the painting. Is that Melanie? Simon told me—"

  "No, of course it's not Melanie,” he cut in. “Why would you think that?"

  "The hair. Simon said she was blonde."

  "Well, so are you, and you're not Melanie, are you?” He sounded a little calmer. He picked up the dog and spoke to it. Scruffy settled into merciful silence. Cecil swallowed, his Adam's apple sharply defined in his stringy neck.

  "Please.” He held out his hand in a placating gesture. Leslie blinked at the sudden change in him. “Come and have coffee with me."

  She preceded him out the door, and he closed it firmly behind them. He put down the dog, which gave Leslie a reproachful stare before scuttling off toward the kitchen.

  Cecil lifted the silver pot from the table, and poured coffee into two delicate china cups. He handed Leslie one. “Cream? Sugar?” he asked politely, as if the previous scene hadn't happened.

  "Just cream, please,” she said, knowing how Alice must have felt at the Mad Hatter's tea party.

  He brought the silver tray, allowing her to help herself. She declined his offer of cookies, and thoughtfully stirred her coffee. Eugenia had some reason for her remarks about Cecil. He was unpredictable. Not that Leslie worried about her safety with the old man, in spite of the frisson of fear she'd felt in the studio, when his eyes had blazed at her like twin lasers.

  The remaining chill within her rapidly dissipated in the hot room. For some inexplicable reason, Cecil had lit the fire laid in the fireplace. The wood crackled merrily even though they hardly needed the extra warmth.

  They sipped their coffee in silence. The little dog poked his head around the corner, as if gauging his master's disposition. Cecil snapped his fingers, and Scruffy leaped across the room onto the sofa beside him.

  "More coffee, Leslie?” Cecil asked.

  "No, thank you,” Le
slie said. “That was lovely.” Actually, it hadn't been; Cecil's coffee was strong enough to strip paint. Leslie had no intention of abusing her stomach with more.

  Cecil poured himself a second cup, liberally adding sugar and cream. Beside him, the dog began to snore.

  Cecil extended his hands toward the fireplace. “I like a fire in the evenings, don't you? The air becomes cool after sunset."

  Not that cool, Leslie thought, feeling sweat trickle down her sides as she groped for a tactful response. Cecil must have a different internal thermostat from hers.

  The old man seemed not to notice her silence. “Did Jason tell you about Melanie's mother?” he asked pleasantly.

  It shouldn't have hurt, but it did, a sharp stab reminding her that Jason had been even less honest than she'd thought. “No, he didn't,” she said, hiding the brief pain under impenetrable composure. “Simon mentioned her, that she'd died years ago."

  Cecil nodded, although she couldn't tell what he was thinking.

  "Did you know her?” Leslie asked. “Or was that before you came?"

  "I've been here a long time, my dear. Yes, I knew her.” Some indefinable emotion flicked through his flat, mud-colored eyes. “But, as you say, she died. An unfortunate accident. She drowned in the bathtub."

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  Chapter Eight

  Leslie went still, a new chill running up her spine. Her mind flashed back to last night, the black hand pulling her under the water.

  Who was it? Some madman determined to make everyone connected with Jason share the same death, drowning? Or was the so-called curse real? She'd never been superstitious, but even she knew events happened in the world that had no easy natural explanation.

  "Where did this happen?” she asked, forcing the words past stiff lips.

  "Where?” Cecil glanced vaguely around the room. “Oh, in Athens. They lived there so Melanie could attend what Jason termed a good school. Jason tended to be a bit of a snob."

  Hearing the reality of Jason restored some of Leslie's equilibrium. Tell me something I don't know, she mused. “I thought Melanie and her mother lived in London."