Killing Her Softly

by Freda Vasilopoulos

  "You may have created a monster,” Leslie muttered. “I don't know this person I've become overnight."

  He laughed. “I guarantee you'll see more of that person.” He sliced bread and put it on a tray to toast under the broiler. “How about setting the table?"

  She pretended to sigh. “Oh, what happened to romance?"

  He laughed again. “We'll find out later. First we have to see Jimmy. Oh, and maybe Eugenia. She might know something."

  "Where did you put the note from last night?” Leslie asked, setting plates on the table.

  "Isn't it there, under the salt and pepper shakers?” He opened the oven door and pulled out the bread, turning the slices to toast the other side.

  Leslie pushed aside the items, and a magazine she'd bought yesterday. No note. “It's not here."

  "Has to be.” Simon came over and did his own search. “That's strange.” He frowned. “I know I put it there. Hang on."

  He strode to the door and threw it open. The cat came in, tail waving jauntily. “Damn,” Simon said. “The roses are gone too.” He slammed the door. “That does it. We're going to see Jimmy and have someone watching this place every night. Maybe then we'll catch him."

  Leslie sank down on a chair. “It would do more good if we could find out how he's getting into the house."

  Simon yanked a tray of toast from under the broiler in the nick of time. “Only one piece a little scorched.” He took it to the sink and scraped the black bits off. “There, can't even tell."

  He sat down, pushing the dishes of butter and honey toward her. “Eat. It won't do any good if you starve yourself."

  "Easy for you to say,” she muttered, picking up her fork. “No one's attacking you or your house."

  "What's so frustrating is, we don't know what this person is after. Unless he just gets his jollies from scaring you. Wait a minute.” His knife clattered against the edge of his plate. “That box from the attic. Where did you leave it?"

  "In the dining—oh!"

  "Yes. Oh."

  They nearly collided going through the door. As they'd feared, the box was gone, but the French doors leading to the patio were still locked.

  "This isn't how he got in.” Leslie didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

  "The fact remained, he got in. And took the box. You'd better call Papadopoulos, save him the trip, at least until we find it."

  "If we find it,” Leslie said gloomily. “Good thing we took the will with us."

  "Yeah.” Simon headed back to the kitchen and their cooling breakfast. “You know, I've been thinking. What Papadopoulos said about insurance. I wonder if Jason is alive and set that fire the other morning."

  Leslie's mouth dropped open. “I can't believe Jason would have tried to kill me."

  "Maybe he didn't. Maybe the person who's sending the roses and so forth and shot at you locked you in the attic. Whoever set the fire wouldn't have known. And if the house burned down, Jason has the perfect alibi."

  "But as long as he's supposed to be dead, he can't collect, can he?” Leslie pointed out.

  Simon shrugged, grinning ruefully. “I never said my scenario was perfect."

  * * * *

  They had just put the dishes in the sink when Leslie heard someone call her name outside. She opened the door. Cecil stood on the patio, an enormous bouquet of red roses clasped in his arms. “Good morning, Leslie, Simon. The roses looked so lovely this morning, I thought you'd like to have some."

  Hiding her reluctance, Leslie took the roses, staring at the dew-sprinkled petals. Had last evening's bouquet come from the same garden?

  Behind Simon, the gray cat poked his head around the doorway. Cecil spotted him and scowled. “My Scruffy chased your cat out of my garden last night."

  Chased the cat? Leslie almost laughed. Scruffy was such a coward, the cat was more likely to chase him. “Are you sure it was my cat?"

  "I'm sure. Not that I mind him coming around, you understand. It's just that he disturbs Scruffy.” Cecil extended his hand. “Here, kitty."

  To Leslie's astonishment, the cat let out an angry squall and streaked across the patio toward Eugenia's garden. A moment later they could hear the mynah bird giving his trademark wolf whistle. “It's a zoo,” Leslie muttered. “I hope Baby stays out of the cat's reach."

  "Always has before,” Simon said. “Cecil, you're sure no one's been in your garden, stealing your roses?"

  "Stealing?” Cecil's gaze darted around the patio, as if he were searching for the thief. “No, no one's been in my garden."

  Simon realized it had been a long shot at best. Almost every garden in Platania had roses blooming this time of year, including his own. But Cecil's was the closest.

  "It's all right, Cecil,” Leslie said hastily as the old man's color began to rise. She smiled at him. “Thank you for the roses. They're lovely."

  Cecil's testiness vanished. He smiled. “Not as lovely as you, my dear.” His eyes remained fixed on her, disconcertingly watchful. Leslie felt her smile freeze on her lips. “You should wear your hair loose like that more often. I'll let you know when I'm ready to paint you. Good day.” He lifted his hand in farewell and walked off.

  The mailman came up the driveway and handed Leslie a package.

  "Thank you,” she said in surprise, turning the flat box over in her hands. No return address.

  "What's that?” Simon asked. “Could I look at it?"

  Her first impulse was to hang on to the package, but the hard set of Simon's jaw told her not to argue. “You never know what might be in it,” he said grimly.

  He examined the plain white paper, running sensitive fingertips over the lapped ends. “I think it's safe.” He inserted one finger under the tape and pulled it off.

  Another anonymous gift? The box was covered in burgundy leather, with a thin gold clasp. Heartbeat tripping erratically, Leslie watched as Simon carefully unclipped it. He held out the box to her.

  Inside, on a bed of age-yellowed satin, lay a necklace.

  Leslie lifted it out of the box. On a heavy gold chain hung an ornate cluster of flowers, petals formed of sparkling blue stones, trimmed by leaves of green. Forget-me-nots.

  Simon took the necklace from her. “Sapphires and emeralds.” He laid it back in the box. “This is a valuable piece. Looks like somebody's family heirloom. Is there anything else with it?"

  Her mind numb, Leslie turned over the box. Taped on the bottom was an envelope. She thrust it at Simon, her stomach churning. “You open it."

  He unfolded the flap, drew out a single sheet of heavy paper. He read it silently, then handed it to Leslie. “It's not a threat."

  Leslie took the paper. The words were handwritten in a fancy, stylized script: Dear Allegra: I love you. Please remember what we were to each other.

  There was no signature.

  "Who is Allegra?” She forced the words from a dry throat.

  "As I told you, I don't know,” Simon said. “I'm going to ask around. It's obvious, though, that someone thinks you are Allegra."

  "That means someone is suffering from serious delusions.” Leslie twisted her cold fingers together. “We'd better take this to Jimmy as well."

  * * * *

  "Did you get the impression he thinks I'm nuts?” Leslie asked as they left the police station several hours later.

  "I wouldn't say that,” Simon said sympathetically. “I think he took it seriously, especially when the mechanic came in about the brake failure.” Simon had phoned early in the morning to have the Renault towed in and checked over as quickly as possible by the same mechanic who'd serviced it previously. “And Jimmy agreed there could be a connection between the roses and the brake failure, although the note doesn't refer to it directly. But you have to understand his position. There are no leads at all, no clue to who's doing this."

  "What happened with the brakes? I didn't understand what he said."

  "It looks like deliberate sabotage. One of the lines that carry fluid h
ad been cut with a hacksaw, not all the way through, but just enough that the pressure of braking several times would cause the fluid to leak out."

  Leslie shivered. So it was true. Someone had tried to kill her.

  They reached the garage, where the little car sat waiting. Simon, overriding Leslie's vigorous protests, paid for the repairs. “It's the least I can do. You must be developing a very bad opinion of us by now."

  He held out the key. She shuddered. “You drive,” she said, feeling like a coward. “I'll try it later, on a level road."

  Simon pulled her into his arms. “The brakes are okay now. You know, except for the note with the roses, I would think whoever did it was only trying to scare you. It's too inefficient as a means of murder."

  Murder. The trembling started in Leslie's knees and spread through her body. Only Simon's warmth and solidity felt secure. And perhaps that was an illusion.

  This was insane. She breathed in the sunshine smell of his skin and wanted to immerse herself in him and never surface. The voice of reason nagged her, and she pushed herself away.

  "Somebody murdered Melanie. That means the killer may be someone we know.” Leslie wrapped her arms around her waist, shivering, horrified at the question that hammered in her brain. Was she safe with Simon?

  With her wide eyes on him, Simon couldn't help but know what she was thinking. He reacted with more exasperation than anger. “Come on, Leslie. You can't still suspect me. Not after all this. Not after what we've been to each other. What we are to each other."

  Her features seemed paralyzed. She had to open her mouth several times before the toneless words emerged, and then her voice cracked as she said them. “What have we been to each other? Two people drawn together by harrowing circumstances?"

  "Lovers, you twit,” he said, his hands balling into fists, as if he were thinking of shaking her. “Or do you jump into bed with every man you meet?” He hauled in a deep breath. “Look, Leslie, we've been through this before. I know you have a bit of a problem trusting men, but it's time you got over it."

  He broke off, raising his eyes to the ceiling as if begging for patience. “Leslie, you might as well know. Melanie's killer is more likely to be someone we don't know. There were plenty of people around that summer, people Melanie had invited, who came on a yacht. You know how it is when you live on a resort island. Hordes of people you don't even know descend on you and expect hospitality."

  He frowned. “You know, I've just remembered something. I saw Cecil that night, at the end of the garden, when I left. He didn't say anything to me—he was calling Scruffy. But he must have seen me. Yet he never said anything to the police. And Melanie was standing in the doorway, screaming at me to come back, so he had to have heard her, and seen that she was alive and well after I left.” He shrugged. “It hardly matters now."

  "They suspected you of drowning her then. Aren't you scared someone will decide you shut her up in the attic instead?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded strained.

  "I told you everything. I didn't drown her, and I didn't kill her and stuff her body in the attic."

  Who had? Leslie turned on the stairs and looked at Simon. “Do you realize we still have an unsolved mystery on our hands?"

  "Jimmy's working on it.” Simon's voice was cold and distant, a stranger's. “By the way, he says she died of suffocation and dehydration. It was murder. Look, if I'm guilty, why did I rescue you from the attic? If I knew the body was there, I would have let the house burn."

  Her back to him, she leaned against the car, her hands shaking, tears burning in her eyes. No, Simon was the last person she should be afraid of.

  She heard him utter a shaky, incredulous laugh. “As for the gifts—I don't know any Allegra. To call you Allegra would be crazy."

  Leslie closed her eyes, clawing her fingers through her hair. “I'm crazy. This is making me crazy.” She whirled and stared at him. “I'm sorry, Simon. I didn't mean what I said. You're the last person I should distrust. You've helped me so much."

  He shrugged. “It's all right, Leslie. I don't blame you.” He held open the car door. “Let's get going, okay? Jimmy's on the case, tracing people who were here that summer and questioning them. But that might take some time."

  "Yes,” Leslie said firmly. “I think it's time we stepped up our own investigation."

  "Exactly.” Simon nodded in satisfaction. “And we'll start with the basement. There has to be something we're missing."

  * * * *

  The cat was noticeably absent when they got out of the car, which was odd since he usually liked to spend the hot afternoons in the house. Leslie called to him, but there was no answering meow.

  "He'll show up,” Simon said, using her keys to unlock the door. Leslie walked past him into the kitchen, slipping off her sandals and wriggling her toes against the deliciously cool tile floor.

  "Shall I close it?” Simon asked. “Or wait for the cat?"

  "Close it. It's cooler, and he'll let us know if he wants in."

  Simon rummaged in a kitchen drawer for a flashlight, testing it first. “We're not going to take any chances of being stranded in the dark if the lights go out again."

  Suddenly, inexplicably, the back of Leslie's neck prickled. She whirled around, expecting to see someone behind her. Nothing.

  "What is it?"

  Leslie shook her head. “I don't know. Just a weird feeling.” She followed him into the pantry.

  A sharp crack made her jump. “What was that?” “Outside.” Simon grasped her by the shoulders, setting her to one side. “It came from outside."

  A heavy thud shook the outside door. Leslie felt her jangled nerves settle. The cat. He must have knocked over a flower pot and now he wanted in.

  She pulled open the door, and screamed.

  Jason lay on the step, blood pooling in an obscene, crimson lake around him.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Eleven

  "Quick, Simon, bring me some clean tea towels from the drawer by the sink. Then call Jimmy and an ambulance, if there's such a thing here.” Leslie never knew how she managed to get out the words, but after that one panicked scream, her mind inexplicably cleared and she knew exactly what to do.

  Simon didn't waste time with questions. He tossed her the towels and ran back inside. Leslie wadded up the linen and pressed the makeshift pad to Jason's chest. Miraculously, considering the quantity of blood pooling around him, he was still alive. His chest rose and fell, and his breath emerged raggedly from his mouth.

  He wasn't going to make it, she realized with a strangely dispassionate fatalism. Pink bubbles burst on his lips, and she could hear a rattle in his throat.

  "Leslie.” She had to lean down to hear him.

  "Yes, Jason, what is it?"

  He coughed, and more bubbles, a brighter pink, appeared from his mouth and nose. Lung damage. “Leslie, I'm sorry."

  "It's all right,” she said gently. “Don't tire yourself. A doctor will be here soon."

  He closed his eyes, seeming to rally his strength. She pushed down on the pad, but blood had already soaked through it.

  He muttered something else, the words unintelligible to her. She became aware of Simon crouching down beside her, bringing more towels and a blanket, which he used to cover Jason. He replaced the pad on his chest, but as his eyes met hers, he shook his head.

  The hot sun blazed down on them, but Jason's skin felt cold, and a violent spasm shook his body. He spoke again, the words garbled. By placing her ear against his mouth, Leslie could make out some of them. “That crow ... Keys ... cellar. Tell Gage..."

  "Gage?” Simon lifted Jason slightly, which seemed to ease his breathing. “What about Gage?"

  "Tell him—Please, Leslie, forgive me."

  His eyes rolled back, glazed over, and his breath stopped.

  "Leslie, I'm sorry."

  She lifted her stunned gaze to Simon's, saw the genuine sympathy on his face.

  She gulped, and tea
rs welled up in her eyes. Dashing them away with the back of her hand, she looked down at the man lying on the ground, his face strangely peaceful. “Poor Jason. He didn't deserve this."

  A muscle jerked in Simon's jaw. “No, and I wonder who was responsible. I just realized we've been sitting out here, a perfect target for whoever shot him."

  "Shot him?"

  "Yes, that was the first sound we heard, a gun shot. My guess is he was shot in the back. That hole in his chest is the exit hole. It's always bigger. And since there were no more shots, I guess they've decided to let you live after all."

  "Unless the person after me is someone else,” Leslie said somberly.

  "Yeah, that's possible. What did he say about Gage?"

  "I'm not sure. ‘Tell Gage.’ Tell Gage what?"

  A car ground up the hill, and a moment later Jimmy braked at the edge of the patio. Behind him, another vehicle pulled up, something that looked like a large army jeep on a high frame.

  Jimmy gestured toward the vehicle. “This is the nearest thing we have to an ambulance. Most of our accidents happen in the mountains."

  A man carrying a medical bag emerged from the jeep and hurried over to Jason, impatiently gesturing them away. Leslie found she couldn't watch as he cut away the blood-soaked shirt and examined his chest. A moment later he spoke. Simon translated, pulling Leslie into his arms. “Just as we thought, he's gone. He wants your permission to remove the body."

  Fresh tears threatened. Jason wasn't Jason any more; he was just a body. But no matter how cold and worn out their relationship had been at the end, she felt a deep remorse, much more acute than any grief she'd felt upon receiving the letter telling of his windsurfing “death".

  She shook herself. There was no time for tears. She could indulge herself later. Now she had to deal with Jimmy and his questions. And what to do about Jason. She supposed she would have to arrange a funeral. Good thing Papadopoulos was still on Corfu; he would be able to advise her.

  "Thank you, Simon,” she said, pulling away. “I'm fine now. Jimmy will want to talk to us."

  Simon studied her pale face for a moment. “Yes,” he finally said. “I expect he will."