Killing Her Softly

by Freda Vasilopoulos

  He was back in a moment. “The breaker's on, so it must be a generalized power failure."

  Leslie stood by the window, looking out toward the street. The stillness of her body seemed unnatural, and he hurried to her side. “Leslie, what is it?"

  Then he saw what held her attention. Street lamps glowed faintly through the trees. He went into the dining room. Yes, lights were still on all over the village.

  "Simon, what did Cecil do before he retired?” Leslie had her arms wrapped protectively around her waist.

  "Cecil?” He frowned. “I think he was an engineer. Yes, that's it, an electrical engineer."

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  Chapter Twelve

  Leslie gasped. “You mean Cecil is the one behind all this?"

  Simon frowned skeptically. “I hate to think that. He's a bit eccentric, but essentially harmless. He's lived here for years without a hint of trouble."

  "Still, Eugenia doesn't like him, and she seems a pretty good judge of character.” Leslie bit her lip. “His eyes are strange, as if they've forgotten how to laugh. Eyes are important in figuring out what goes on in a person's head."

  "That may be.” Simon's frown deepened. “But I think motivation is more important, if we're considering suspects. Harlan Gage, for instance. He wants something from the house, has been snooping around several times that we know of, and who knows how many times that we don't."

  Simon shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. In the dim, intermittent light from lightning flashes, his face looked troubled. A heavy click from the pantry had him spinning his head around. “Is there another flashlight?"

  "Yes, on the pantry shelf, next to the fuse box."

  He strode into the pantry. Leslie heard something fall and roll away, and a muffled curse from Simon. Then the light came on, a long beam causing her shadow to loom over her, dark and distorted. The beam veered away from her, and she saw him concentrating it on the fuse box.

  A moment later, the house lights came on.

  Simon came out, dropping the flashlight on the kitchen table. “That's weird. When I looked before, I'm sure the main breaker was in the On position, yet the lights were off. Just now, though, the breaker was off. I turned it back on, and we've got lights again."

  "Is it possible to rig the lights so someone outside the house could turn them on and off whenever they wanted? Or give me a shock, like the light switch did the first evening?"

  "These days, anything's possible,” Simon said. “But let's not be too hasty to blame Cecil. I think Gage lied about this being his first visit. I wouldn't be surprised if Gage was in and out of this house quite often when Jason was living here."

  "You mean you've seen him before?"

  "No, I haven't. Gage first arrived in the village publicly a few days before you came. However—” He paused significantly. “However, Gage could have been here dozens of times without any of the villagers seeing him, if he came in a car and drove straight here. This house is pretty isolated. You don't have to drive through the village if you come from Kerkira. Even on the bus, you could be let off in any number of places rather than the square. The drivers are quite agreeable about that."

  "But if Gage had a key, why knock on the door when he wanted to come into the house?"

  "To throw off suspicion? To make sure no one could pin anything on him?” He raked his fingers through his hair, clearly uncomfortable.

  "What is it?” Leslie asked, alarmed.

  "Leslie, I don't want you to take this wrong, but I've done some checking on our Mr. Gage. He could have rigged the lights. He's had quite a bit of electronic experience, most notably with house alarms and how to bypass them."

  A cold fist clenched in Leslie's stomach. “What are you, some kind of cop? Not that I would hold it against you, but you might have told me. I don't like the feeling that you've been lying to me."

  He briefly squeezed his eyes shut. “Leslie, I haven't been lying to you, but it's time you knew that I've been looking for Jason ever since he supposedly died in the windsurfing accident. There was something going on here that a division of the national police wanted investigated—suspected smuggling. One of my cousins works in that department, and last winter he asked me to keep an eye on Jason."

  "Does Jimmy know this?” Leslie asked, keeping her voice steady. If she didn't think, she wouldn't have to face the reality that she had fallen for another man who had hidden things from her. And this time she wasn't sure she would recover. This time her heart was fully involved.

  "No. I'm not doing this in an official capacity."

  "Why are you doing it at all?"

  "I told you, to help out my cousin. There wasn't enough evidence to appoint a special investigator—like many government agencies, they're chronically shorthanded."

  "So you volunteered."

  "You might say that. I was here, and I also have this conviction that I don't want my town to become a haven for criminals or a place where illegal activity can go on without anyone noticing."

  "Jason wasn't a criminal.” Leslie voice rose in indignation. But at the same time, her shoulders slumped. How did she know? “I suppose you're going to tell me Gage is a known felon,” she said in a resigned tone.

  Simon rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I'm afraid so. That's why I insisted on staying in the house with you. In case he decided to break in one night. I wouldn't have put it past him. After all, you'd been warned to leave."

  "By Gage?” she asked through stiff lips. Her body functions seemed to have gone on hold, and her chest hurt when she breathed. “Was last night part of your job, too?” she blurted out over the pain flooding through her.

  Simon grasped her by the shoulders. “Leslie,” he said tightly, “last night had nothing to do with Jason, my cousin, or any job. Last night was just us, you and me, making love."

  "Why should I believe you?"

  "Because it's true. Leslie—” No, he couldn't tell her. She'd never believe him. In fact, it would seem as if he'd made it up on the spot, to keep her from kicking him out.

  He hauled in a deep breath. “I don't know if Gage is the one who warned you to leave. He's a crack shot, though. He could have killed Jason, but then, I suspect Cecil also owns a rifle. He used to hunt in his younger days. And Eugenia, oddly enough, also knows how to shoot. Her late husband belonged to a rifle club and taught her."

  Leslie's eyes widened in disbelief. “That nice, gentle lady? Come on, Simon, give me a break."

  "It's true."

  "And what about you? Maybe we can add you to our list of suspects?"

  Simon shook his head. “I'm afraid the last time I fired a gun was fifteen years ago, when I did my military duty. And I never got to be a good shot. Besides, I was in the kitchen with you when Jason was killed."

  "You could have an accomplice,” she said, but she knew she was reaching, trying to hurt him as he had wounded her.

  "I don't. And I haven't been telling you to leave, have I?"

  "That first evening, you weren't exactly welcoming."

  "So sue me. Leslie, what's this all about? I promised I wouldn't hurt you."

  She sank down on a chair, her knees suddenly trembling. “You could have been lying. You knew more about Jason than you let on, and you didn't tell me."

  He pulled out the adjacent chair and sat down, clasping his hands between his knees. “Leslie, there was nothing to tell. No proof, no evidence. I did wonder at first if you might have been involved in his business, but I quickly realized you couldn't have been."

  "Thanks,” she said sardonically. “I think."

  Simon exhaled wearily. “Why don't you go to bed, Leslie? I'll be up as soon as I have a word with the officer outside."

  She flung her head up. “You don't have to stay. No one's going to break in here while he's out there."

  "What about the basement?"

  "We don't even know if that's how they're getting in.” “Even so.” Getting to his feet, Simon too
k his chair into the pantry and braced it under the doorknob. Since it opened outward, that would hold it against all but the most determined assault. And as added insurance, he balanced a half-dozen empty jars on the chair's woven cane seat. If anyone broke in, they would make a hell of a racket.

  He came back into the kitchen, dusting off his hands. Leslie regarded him without the least bit of softening in her eyes. His heart plummeted. So he'd really done it.

  But he didn't see any other way he could have handled it, and sooner or later she would have discovered his secret. Tomorrow he would have to see Jimmy, give him the records of his observations of the house since Christmas. One way or another, Leslie would have found out.

  "I'm not like Jason, you know,” he said quietly. “Good night, Leslie."

  * * * *

  She was lying in bed, the sheet primly tucked under her arms, when he came into her room. Her expression was not welcoming. “What do you want, Simon? I'm sure you figured it out. The party's over."

  His jaw hardened. “It's not over, Leslie. It's only beginning."

  He deliberately stripped off his clothes, his eyes never leaving hers, until he stood naked before her. He snapped off the light, walked around the bed, and got in under the sheet. Leslie scooted over until she was practically hanging over the edge on her side of the bed. He didn't try to touch her.

  Sleep was going to be a long time coming.

  * * * *

  Leslie stared at the dark ceiling. At intervals, lightning strafed the room with a blue luminance, but it lacked fire, as if the storm had given up. Thunder rumbled in the distance, sounding like a faraway train.

  "Just for the record—” Simon's voice washed over her with a touch that was at once soothing and irritating, like a damp wash cloth on sunburned skin. “I'm sorry."

  "Are you?” she asked, determined not to give in. “A little late, isn't it?"

  He shifted violently, the bed rocking beneath them. “What did you expect me to do? I didn't know if I could trust you. But I know I do now. You should be satisfied."

  Satisfied? She almost laughed. Last night she'd been satisfied, loved into a delicious lassitude such as she'd never experienced. But today, harsh reality and the knowledge that it was all an illusion had slapped her in the face.

  Suddenly she didn't want to argue any more. She didn't want to deal with it. “Go to sleep,” she said tiredly. “Or, better yet, go into the guest room. We'd both be more comfortable."

  He said nothing after that, but she could tell from his breathing, soft but a little too fast, that he was as wide-awake as she.

  What was she angry about? she asked herself, ruthlessly analytical. Wasn't it because she couldn't stomach the thought of another man hiding part of his life from her so soon after finding out the truth about Jason? Part of the truth. The rest they might never find, she reminded herself bleakly.

  I didn't know if I could trust you. Simon's words echoed in her brain. Her anger began to subside, shame taking its place. If she was brutally honest with herself, she knew her anger hadn't been with Simon. It had been with herself, a knee-jerk reaction to what Jason had done to her.

  How else could Simon have handled it? Blabbed all his secrets to her at their first meeting? Including telling her Jason might be a criminal, as well as devious and dishonest? That would have endeared him to her.

  He was right. Better that she'd found out about Jason through her own investigations. It was her own fault, anyway. No one had sent for her. Her own curiosity and impulsiveness in coming to Corfu had gotten her into this.

  And she would have to work her own way out of it.

  "I'm sorry, too,” she said in a small voice. To her surprise, tears clogged her throat and made the words quaver. “You were right and I was wrong. I overreacted."

  By this time, the tears were leaking out from under her tightly closed eyelids, and running down into her ears. She clamped her lips together, stifling a sob.

  The next thing she knew, he had his arms around her, holding her, keeping her safe, as he'd tried to do all along. If only she'd let herself admit it. Her face pressed into the curve of his neck, she cried in earnest, unable to help herself. It was as if all the crying she'd suppressed in the last year burst forth, as if a dam had broken.

  Through it all, Simon held her, sliding his hand up and down her back. His fingers tangled in her hair, and he gently smoothed it, whispering words she didn't understand.

  The sobs diminished to ragged hiccups. Leslie stirred restlessly against him, tasting the salty tears on her lips and on his skin. Embarrassment heated her face. “Simon, I'm sorry. I've made you wet."

  He laughed quietly. “Don't worry, I'll dry."

  He laid his palm on her cheek, cool and faintly rough. With a little murmur, she lifted her hands and locked them around his neck. His muscles clenched, and she could feel his heartbeat speed up until it thudded against her chest. Strong. Solid. His quick-drawn breath and the hardness of his body told her he was aroused, instantly responding to the feel of her against him.

  His mouth came down to cover hers, and she thought of nothing more except the softness of his lips and the wonder of loving him.

  * * * *

  Simon was already out of bed when Leslie woke the next morning. She quickly showered, dressed and went downstairs, where he was making pancakes.

  Any awkwardness she might have felt from last night disappeared as he greeted here with a matter-of-fact, rather absentminded kiss. In fact, she felt a little piqued that he could so easily take her for granted.

  But then he turned away from the stove after flipping the pancakes on the griddle, and gave her a wink and a grin full of promise that sent heat surging through her body. Nothing was resolved between them—she had no idea what he might be thinking in terms of the future—but the feeling that they were partners again was enough for now.

  Only partners? said a sly little voice in her mind.

  Okay, lovers, she admitted, in a physical sense. As for her emotions—well, she still shied away from examining those too closely.

  When they'd finished eating, Simon stacked the dishes in the sink. “Now we're going to check out that coal chute.” He picked up the flashlight he'd left on the table.

  Luckily, the bin had been swept clean years ago and contained only the usual dust and spider webs. Simon shone the flashlight around the area, which was about three meters across. The floor consisted of wooden planks, laid in squares. “Could be old pallets,” Simon muttered. “Bricks are delivered on skids like that."

  He bent and pulled at one section after another. They were tight, nailed to each other, or to a frame underneath. Then, in the far corner, the pallet came up in his hand. Not just up, but attached to a hinge, too. He gave a long whistle.

  Leslie leaned over his shoulder to have a look. Underneath the pallet was the outline of a trapdoor. Simon took hold of the ring embedded in the heavy oak. It lifted readily.

  Beneath them gaped a deep hole. “No way down,” Leslie said, disappointed.

  Simon settled back on his heels. “Or up. What we need is a ladder. I saw one in the garage. Do you want to stay here while I get it?"

  The basement lights flickered, as if in warning. Leslie stiffened her spine, taking the flashlight from his hand. “I'll wait here, but hurry."

  He was back in ten minutes that seemed an eternity, but nothing disturbed the quiet of the cellar.

  The hole beneath the coal chute turned out to be only about three meters deep, judging from how much of the ladder protruded above it. “Not a bad climb, then,” Simon remarked.

  He went down first, and Leslie, nervous about spiders and mice or, heaven forbid, rats, waited until he gave her the all clear. She heard him say something else, and then she saw the passage below, lit by electric lights. “You mean there's power down there?” she called, her voice bouncing from the wooden walls.

  "Come on down."

  She climbed down the ladder and looked around. The passage was
narrow, apparently blasted out of solid rock. Mostly solid rock. At intervals the walls were shored up with wooden planks. The light bulbs hanging from the ceiling were dusty, and gave off only a dim light. There was no sign of any ladder other than the one they'd used.

  Prudently keeping the flashlight in his hand, Simon led the way along the passage. Leslie inhaled the pungent scent of earth and dampness. Occasionally the hand she ran along the wall beside her encountered a trickle of water, miniature waterfalls that had given birth to green lichen in the cracks of the rock.

  "It's not a natural cave,” Simon said. “You can see the serrations in the rocks from blasting. My guess is this was probably built before the house, possibly as an entrance to the original wine cellar."

  "Do you think anyone's been using it?” Leslie asked.

  Simon shrugged. “Hard to say. I guess we'll know when we reach the end."

  They reached the end sooner than they expected. The tunnel took a right angle turn and they came into a slightly wider area, blocked by a solid oak door. Its hinges were tarnished brass and its lock an old-fashioned one that would require a much larger key than any they'd seen in the house. And its design was such that it would be impossible to open without a key.

  "Well, that's that,” Leslie said, unable to hide her disappointment. Every route they took seemed to lead to a dead end.

  The light bulb above this area had burned out long ago, leaving the corners in darkness. Simon played the flashlight beam around, and let out a whistle. “Maybe not,” he said. “Take a look at that. Don't they look familiar?"

  Leslie bend down and glanced at the blank labels. “They certainly look like the crates we found in the wine cellar. But how did they get down here?"

  "Either they were lowered down the chute, or they were removed from the house and came in from beyond that door. And with all that's happened, I'm willing to bet that they don't contain bottles of wine.” He took Leslie's arm and led her back along the passage. “If I had a hammer, I could open one, but I think it's wiser to get Jimmy in to take a look at them. My cousin gave me quite a lecture about disturbing evidence."