Killing Her Softly

by Freda Vasilopoulos

  Cecil's eyes sharpened. “Some of the time they did, but they also had a home in Athens. No matter—it was a long time ago.” He leaned forward, his expression becoming as affable as it had been over dinner. “About Jason's house, my dear. If you decide to sell it, would you give me the first chance to bid on it?"

  Leslie gaped at him. In two days she'd had three people offer to buy the house from her. “Why?” she asked in a strangled tone.

  Cecil shrugged. “I've always been fond of the place. I stayed there once, while my own house was being built."

  "Really?” she said. “Seems to me a lot of people suddenly want to buy the house, now that Jason's dead. I understand he tried to sell it two years ago, but there were no buyers then.” She shook her head. “But I can't, not right now."

  "Well, if you change your mind—” Cecil broke off as a knock sounded on the door. He rose with surprising agility for a man of his age.

  "Simon,” Leslie heard him say a moment later. “What are you doing here?"

  Together they came into the living room. “I came to walk Leslie home,” Simon said, glancing curiously at the cheerfully crackling fire. “So many things have happened, I didn't want her walking alone in the dark."

  "I would have seen her safely home,” Cecil said, in a tone that implied he'd been insulted.

  Leslie got to her feet. “I wouldn't want to trouble you, Cecil,” she said sweetly. “It was a lovely dinner. Thank you."

  "You're going so soon?” Cecil said. Then he shrugged. “All right, then. I'll get in touch when I'm ready to paint you."

  * * * *

  "Paint you?” Simon asked incredulously once they were out on the path. “I thought he didn't do portraits."

  Leslie wrinkled her brow. “Yes, that's what he said the day I came, too. But he's got a portrait in his studio, of a fisherman."

  "That was painted a long time ago. He doesn't do portraits now, only impressions, as he calls them. Says reality is too restrictive."

  "I thought you didn't know him well,” Leslie said.

  "I don't, but once in a while we talk, usually when Cecil prowls around my orchards, looking for subjects to sketch."

  At the beginning of Leslie's driveway, Simon paused and groped in the bushes. He turned with a flourish, a bouquet of yellow roses in his hand. “For you, madame. From my garden. Just to prove I can grow something besides olives and kiwi."

  Leslie took them, breathing in the luscious fragrance, her heartbeat lurching. “Thank you. At least I won't have to wonder where these came from."

  They reached Leslie's back door. Simon waited for her to unlock it. Leslie heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the house appeared undisturbed. She glanced back at Simon, uncertain whether she should offer him coffee or tell him she was all right and he could leave.

  He solved the dilemma by stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “I'd better look through the house. Wait here."

  Leslie put the kettle on the stove while he was gone, making a pot of herb tea. Her stomach burned slightly, probably from Cecil's coffee.

  Going to the cupboard, she pulled out the vase that had held the red roses. In the heat, they had wilted rapidly, and that morning she'd thrown them away. And been surprised at the relief she felt when they were gone. She arranged Simon's bouquet, setting it on the kitchen table.

  "All clear,” Simon said. “Where's the cat?"

  "Probably prowling. He's usually out in the evening.” She poured tea into two mugs, handing him one of them.

  "Thanks,” Simon said, his eyes twinkling as she sat opposite him, the scrubbed wooden table between them.

  Leslie scowled into her cup, unsettled about the whole evening. “Do you know what Cecil tried to do?"

  Simon's mouth curved in amusement. “No, but I'm sure you'll tell me. He didn't come on to you, did he?"

  Leslie smiled briefly. “No, nothing like that. He said he'd buy this house. Everyone wants to buy this house now that I'm here. I can understand your offer, for your mother. But what about Harlan Gage? And now Cecil. Why didn't they buy it from Jason? They both knew him.” Leslie moved her mug back and forth in random patterns. “Is it possible that some resort company is again interested in the land?"

  "Could be,” Simon said. “But I haven't heard about it."

  "Would you tell me if you had?” Leslie asked gloomily.

  Smiling gently, Simon put his fingers under her chin and turned her face up to his. “Leslie, don't you trust me?"

  Leslie spread her hands, all too conscious of his touch. “How do I know who to trust? Eugenia told me earlier that Melanie was staying here before she drowned, that Cecil used to visit her. You said you didn't know if she stayed here until after you found out she was Jason's daughter."

  Simon's eyes narrowed. “Is that why you don't trust me? The truth is, I was very busy that summer. I didn't have time to socialize with Eugenia or Cecil. I'd no idea where Melanie stayed when she was here, until right before she disappeared. I just assumed she drove back to Kerkira in the evening. Why would I lie to you about it?"

  She felt foolish. “No reason, I suppose."

  Simon nodded. “As for Cecil's interest in the house, maybe he's decided he likes it better than his own. And he and Jason weren't on good terms when Jason left to go to Canada. Everybody knew that."

  "Did anyone get along with Jason?"

  "I couldn't say.” He frowned. “Funny thing, though, he and Cecil seemed to get along better last summer, when Jason came back. I saw them together in the coffee shop several times.” He walked around the table and pressed his lips gently against her forehead. “Good night, Leslie. Lock up after me."

  * * * *

  The screeching of the mynah woke Leslie at dawn. Grumbling, she pushed her tangled hair off her forehead and went to the French doors. He sat on the broad stone balustrade, preening his shiny feathers.

  On the balcony floor lay a set of keys. Leslie picked them up, a deep premonition knotting her stomach. Yes, there it was, the wear-softened leather tag with Jason's name on it. “Where did you find this?” she asked.

  "Find this, find this,” the bird echoed, tilting his head. He spread his wings and awkwardly flapped to the fig tree. From there, he hopped along a branch and made it to a cypress at the edge of Leslie's garden. He disappeared in the direction of Eugenia's house.

  Leslie turned the keys slowly over in her hand. They looked identical to the ring that had hung in the kitchen: car keys, house key—which wouldn't fit now—and several miscellaneous keys, a couple of them inscribed with the brand name of a padlock company.

  Walking to the end of the balcony, she gazed at the sea. The rising sun, just clearing the horizon, glazed the water. Not even a ripple disturbed its flat surface. Off shore, a yacht swayed at anchor, its sails furled.

  Drawing several deep breaths, Leslie went back inside. Maybe the padlock key unlocked the attic. There was one on the other ring but she hadn't tried it. She squared her shoulders and stripped off her night dress, replacing it with an old t-shirt and shorts.

  It was time she explored the attic, the only part of the house she hadn't seen. Now, while it was still cool. Maybe Jason's secrets were there.

  * * * *

  Two hours later Leslie brushed back her hair which was sticking to her forehead. She plucked the sweat-damp t-shirt away from her chest, grimacing. The heat had risen with the sun's ascent, and now approached flash point.

  As she had suspected, one of the keys on the ring had opened the substantial padlock on the attic door. The attic held a collection of old furniture, discarded lamps, boxes, trunks, and suitcases. She'd found old letters, and school records for a number of people, indicating that past tenants had left behind some of their belongings. The furniture was old and moth-eaten, giving off clouds of dust when disturbed. Why it had been saved, she couldn't imagine.

  She hadn't found Jason's clothes; they might be in one of the suitcases but she doubted it. The luggage was too dusty, the styl
e old-fashioned. Not likely that it was Jason's.

  Someone had removed Jason's clothes from the house. Jason himself? Or someone else?

  She dragged a box of old papers into the light. The huge room had never been partitioned, which meant that a good many boxes had to be moved to get at those behind. Light bulbs hung at intervals from the ceiling. Even in daylight, they were needed.

  Leslie glanced at the shaft of light slanting through a tiny window. She couldn't even open the windows for ventilation. She'd tried, but either they were warped or the paint on the frames had fused the whole unit together.

  Sweat dribbled down the side of her face, and she wiped it absently away, concentrating on the papers she pulled from the box. The first one was a land deed, a copy of the title to the house in Toronto that Jason had owned, and sold after their divorce. The papers underneath looked like invoices. Jason's business records?

  She lifted the corner of the box, gauging its weight. Could she carry it down the narrow staircase? Her mouth felt as dry as cotton, and her clothes were soaked with perspiration.

  The box was heavy, but she managed to drag it across the floor, leaving a long track in the dust. Sweat dripped into her eyes. She mopped her face with her shirt tail. Wishing she'd brought up a jug of water, she licked her lips, dredging up scant moisture. The skin felt dry and cracked; her sweat had no more flavor than plain water, and her stomach tilted queasily.

  She had to get out of there. Heat exhaustion was nothing to fool around with.

  Never mind the box. She would come back for it another day.

  Halfway to the door, she jumped as she heard a crash below her. She paused, straining her ears. It sounded like glass breaking.

  Setting her jaw, she marched to the door. Wait. Hadn't she left it open, and propped a box in front of it, thinking even that slight ventilation was better than none.

  The box was gone, the door closed.

  Renewed sweat trickled between her breasts as she extended her hand toward the handle. The handle turned under her damp, clammy palm, and she let out her pent breath. She pulled on it.

  It didn't open.

  Her stomach clenched; she couldn't suppress a little, whimpering cry. Wrapping both hands around the brass handle, she jerked at it, praying it was only stuck. It didn't move.

  And then the clunk of the padlock bumping against the sturdy oak panels confirmed her worst fear.

  She let her hands slide off the handle and sank down on the floor, her forehead coming to rest on her knees. Her sweat was drying, her skin turning prickly. How long did it take for a person to die of heat and dehydration?

  * * * *

  Where was the man hiding? He had to be somewhere in the village. Which meant someone was helping him.

  But who? Even two months after the supposed accident, Simon still had no idea. He'd suspected Jason was alive almost from the first day.

  When he'd helped Jimmy store the battered sailboard in the garage, Simon had found Jason's keys in the car's glove compartment. He'd kept quiet about it, knowing Jimmy would take a dim view of what he was doing.

  Using the keys, Simon had let himself into the house. Someone had been living there. He'd found freshly used disposable razors in the bathroom. And the clothes in the closet had given off the scent of sweat and after-shave, not the dry mustiness of disuse.

  He'd kept an eye on the house, but he'd seen no one. A week before Leslie came, he'd gone into the house again and found the clothes gone. All evidence of anyone's presence had been erased.

  Then Leslie had come, and he'd been even more certain. Who but Jason would be harassing her? He couldn't have known Leslie would come. He must have been desperate to get her out of the house.

  Simon scowled blackly, kicking a rock out of his path. Leslie, with her soft gray eyes and long, pale hair. Leslie, who was beginning to haunt his dreams and his days. Leslie, who, despite the warnings and the attempts on her life, refused to leave, tackling each threat with courage and resolution.

  He had to talk to her, tell her what he thought, make sure she understood.

  He stamped up the hill toward Leslie's house. Last night, when he'd hidden the flowers—he must have dropped the keys then. He'd taken a handkerchief from his pocket, wetting it with the garden hose, to wrap around the stems. They had to be near Leslie's house.

  His shadow followed him, black and distinct under the glaring sun. After one day's respite, the heat had returned with a vengeance. He swiped his forearm over his forehead, drying it on the back of his shorts.

  In Leslie's garden, he turned on the water tap. While it ran, he poked around in the mint and chamomile that grew in the damp ground. No keys. No, they wouldn't be here. He'd pulled out the handkerchief earlier, before he'd come this far.

  The water soaked his sandaled feet, not cold but no longer hot, as the residue inside the hose had been. He lifted the end of the hose and drank deeply, letting the water trickle down his shirt. On impulse, he ducked his head under the stream, soaking his hair.

  Turning off the tap, he went back to the spot where he'd left the bouquet last night. He searched the cool green shadows under the shrubbery, finally settling back on his heels in disgust. They simply weren't there.

  * * * *

  Weak. Dizzy. The edges of her vision turned gray, and she shook her head, fighting off nausea. Pain hammered at her temples. She needed water. What did they do in the western movies when they were lost in the desert—suck on a pebble or a bullet? Ten minutes ago she had found a mint in her pocket, and that had helped a little. But now, her tongue felt swollen, and swallowing had become agony.

  For the tenth time she circled the attic, searching for something to pry open the door. She spotted a rusty metal chair. Crawling to the nearest window, under the sloping ceiling, she swung it and smashed the glass. Hot air drifted in, offering no relief.

  Pushing her face against the opening, she yelled as loudly as she could, “Help! Somebody help me."

  She could see the roof of Eugenia's house but the singer must be out. Leslie yelled again, praying that mailman or someone else might be passing by. Her throat ached, and she knew that without water she would soon lose her voice.

  She broke another window, but again could see no one. Even the crickets were silent in the oppressive heat. She hauled in a deep, painful breath. If only she could just lie down and let the black oblivion take her.

  No! She clenched her fist. She couldn't let him win. She had to find a way out.

  The bulb over her head winked off.

  Now what? She was about to check the switch when a needle of light caught her eye. It slanted from the wall across a pile of boxes. A window, boarded up in the low eaves, perhaps bigger than the others?

  The boards were old, the nail holes dried out. She jerked at them, bending a fingernail. Sucking on it briefly to stop the pain, she gave the board another pull. With a groan of tortured metal, it came free of the nail, setting her abruptly back on her bottom.

  She licked her dry lips, uttering a quick prayer. The next board was easier, and the one after that. Leslie crawled inside the space she's uncovered. It was long and narrow, little more than a passage beneath the edges of the sloping roof.

  She gave a cry of disappointment, the sound catching painfully in her parched throat. The glazed opening was more of a skylight than a window, too small to crawl through, even if she could find a way off the roof outside.

  Her head felt woolly, and a pungent, dusty smell drifted around her. The confined space was crowded with more trunks and boxes. She sat for a moment, raking her fingers through her sticky hair, her head swimming.

  On her knees, she backed toward the hole she'd made in the wall. Her ankle smacked against the metal corner of a large trunk. On impulse, she lifted the lid.

  A scream welled up in her throat.

  * * * *

  Simon strode across the patio, through shimmering heat waves, to the back door of the house. The sun-baked stones burned his feet through
the soles of his sandals. In the narrow bar of shade cast by the roof overhang, the gray cat paced to and fro. Simon spoke to him, but he didn't come over to have his ears scratched, as was his habit. He gave plaintive meows and prowled restlessly, coming back to butt his head against the locked door.

  Simon rapped his fist on the panels and waited. If Leslie was upstairs, it would take her a few minutes to come down.

  No one came. Come to think of it, he would have expected her to be outside in the garden by now. He didn't hear a sound from the house. Had she gone out? He walked around the house. No, Jason's little car stood there.

  "Could she have gone to the beach?” he asked the cat.

  The car yowled and batted at his ankles before going back to the door. He crouched, lifting his front paws. He dragged them down, leaving long scratches in the paint.

  "What's wrong, cat?” Simon asked him. “I've a good mind—"

  He broke off, the hair rising on his skin. Somewhere in the house, a woman was screaming.

  * * * *

  Her scream echoed around the attic. Leslie felt as if her eyes were bulging from her head as she stared at the open trunk in front of her. The sweet musty odor she'd noticed before stole her breath.

  They say she drowned, but they never found a body. The words echoed through her head as nausea swam in her stomach. She swallowed the bile in her throat.

  The body was found.

  Definitely a woman. She wore a flowered dress, and her long blonde hair mercifully covered her face. She lay on her side, her knees drawn up slightly to accommodate the short length of the trunk. The hand that rested on her thigh was wrinkled and dry; the fingers looked like leafless twigs.

  With a shudder of revulsion, Leslie scrambled back. She stood up, scarcely feeling the pain when she cracked her head on the low ceiling. She ran to the door and pounded her fists on it, yelling, “Help! Please help me."

  Not that anyone was likely to hear.

  She coughed and swallowed, her mouth parched. She shivered, cold and hot at the same time. She was no longer sweating, and goose bumps feathered her skin.

  Her hands began to ache from beating on the door, and her throat felt as if she'd swallowed ground glass. She sank down on the floor, her cheek against the door. Red and black dots floated behind her closed eyelids.