Killing Her Softly

by Freda Vasilopoulos

  Reaching the bottom of the ladder, he sniffed the air, frowning. “Do you smell anything?"

  Leslie's nostrils flared as she inhaled. “Only damp earth, and that chemical smell from the crates. Why?"

  "For a moment, I thought I smelled gas, either sewer or propane.” He shrugged. “It's probably nothing."

  "Guns!” Leslie exclaimed as Jimmy pried the lid from one of the crates.

  "That's why Gage was so interested in the wine cellar,” Simon said thoughtfully. “But someone moved the crates."

  "Did he think we were going to let him haul them out of the house, just like that?” Leslie said incredulously.

  "Maybe not at first, but after he brought a letter from Jason, wouldn't that have been authority enough?” Simon walked over and checked the brass lock on the door beyond them. “At least before I told you about his record."

  Jimmy stood up from his examination of the crates. “I'm going to post a guard here around the clock. We'll see if someone comes to pick up the crates. I don't think they could have gotten them down the shaft, so they had to have come through that door. On the black market these weapons are worth a small fortune."

  Leslie gnawed worriedly on her bottom lip. “Do you think Jason was involved with this?” The thought chilled her. How little she had known about the man she'd married.

  Jimmy shrugged. “We may never know now, unless we catch the person who picks these up, and he talks."

  He rattled off a series of instructions to the officer at his side before turning back to Leslie. “He'll be staying here, Leslie. That should ease your mind. You'll be safe in the house."

  He grinned and winked at Simon. “Simon can go back to his work. That is, if he wants to."

  Leslie's face grew hot. “I'm sorry, Simon. I didn't even think, but I've kept you from your work for several days now."

  "Don't worry about it, Leslie.” Simon sounded distracted. “I'd like to get to the bottom of this. Jimmy, I take it there wasn't a key on Jason's body that would have fitted that lock."

  Jimmy shook his head. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring with four or five keys on it. “I almost forgot. Leslie, you can take them. That's all we found in his pockets, other than a wallet, which should be released to you in a couple of days. One of these keys opens the basement door, and another the wine cellar. I tried them when I came in. So far, we haven't found what locks match the others."

  "Some of the storage rooms in the basement, I'd say,” Leslie suggested. “We changed the locks on the outside doors."

  Jimmy nodded. “Maybe Jason got locked out after you changed them, and he was trying to get in when he was shot."

  "That still doesn't give a motive for the shooting,” Simon said.

  "These guns may,” Jimmy said grimly. “If he knew where they were, and someone else wanted them. I think it's time we had a talk with Mr. Gage."

  "Isn't he at the inn?” Simon asked.

  "Not this morning, he wasn't, although he hadn't officially checked out.” He heaved a gusty sigh. “That doesn't mean he didn't walk, though. I would need a reasonable suspicion about lawbreaking before I could check his room.” He spread his hands, grinning wryly. “So we just do what cops get good at. We wait. And if the waiting doesn't produce results, we'll get a warrant and force that door in the tunnel."

  "Why a warrant?” Leslie asked. “Even if I can't give permission, I'm sure Mr. Papadopoulos will."

  "Until I'm sure this is actually on your property, I don't want to tamper with anything that may became evidence,” Jimmy said. “We've come quite a way along this passage. We might have crossed your property line. We could be below Cecil's garden."

  "Speaking of Cecil,” Simon put in, “you don't mind if we have a word with him, do you, Jimmy?"

  "You didn't get hold of him yesterday?” Jimmy said.

  "No, he didn't answer the phone, so I assumed he was out."

  "I need to talk to him, too,” Jimmy said. “But it will have to wait. I'm expecting the forensics expert, who's coming to check out the garden, at any moment. I've got the British police contacting some of the people who were here when Melanie disappeared, but so far there's no reason to suspect any of them. It's a slow business, as usual. By the way, don't mention the guns to Cecil, will you?"

  "Of course not,” Simon assured him. “We just want to know if he saw Jason in the past couple of months. Clear that part up."

  Jimmy's eyes softened in sympathy as he looked at Leslie, making her feel rather a fraud. “That's fine. I can understand that you want to put this behind you as quickly as possible, Leslie. You must be anxious to get back to Canada."

  Was she? She glanced at Simon, but he was talking with the other policeman and didn't notice. Would he care when she left? She tried to tell herself it wasn't important, but the thought of leaving created a hollow ache in her chest. “I have time to settle things,” she said to Jimmy.

  * * * *

  "It's not going to work,” Leslie said, her temper rising. Along the winding driveway, birds sang in the dense foliage. Just another gorgeous summer day, if she forced herself to forget about murder, gunrunning, and the body she'd found in the attic. And now Simon was being difficult. “He's not going to give us the guided tour of the studio, no matter what you say."

  "He showed me the studio once before,” Simon said. “No reason why he shouldn't again."

  "Except that the other day he nearly had a heart attack when he saw me in there. I tell you, Simon, he's hiding something."

  "Then why didn't you tell Jimmy?"

  "Tell him what? That I think Cecil's strange and that he's given to irrational rages? He'd laugh at me. You told me yourself that everyone considers Cecil harmless."

  "I don't think he would lock you in the attic and set the house on fire,” Simon said. “You told me he wants to paint you. I presume he means while you're still alive."

  "I should hope so,” Leslie said somberly. “Anyway, why don't we try it my way? You go up to the door. He'll invite you in. You keep him busy until I see if there's a way into the studio from outside. If there is, fine. I'll have a quick look and get out, and knock on the door as if I've just arrived."

  Simon's black brows drew together in a scowl. “I don't like it. It's too risky."

  "Risky?” she burst out, exasperated. “How can it be? I won't get caught. And if I don't find a way in, I'll knock on the door and we'll figure out a way to get invited to look at his paintings.” She brightened as inspiration struck her. “I know, you can offer to buy one of his pictures. What artist doesn't want to sell something?"

  "Cecil may be the first,” Simon said gloomily. “Okay, go ahead. I'll cover for you, but don't make any noise."

  "Okay.” She let out a breath of relief, although her heart was hammering against her ribs. She was surprised that he didn't hear it.

  "Simon, my boy, how nice of you to drop by.” Leslie heard Cecil's effusive greeting over the barking of the little dog. Lucky Scruffy wasn't out. She wouldn't be prowling the perimeter of the house for long if he was.

  At least Cecil sounded in a good mood. And not like a man who had anything to hide, she realized in chagrin. But then, he probably didn't know the police had been at her house again.

  Blackberry brambles had crept almost up to the walls of the house at the studio side. As she had noticed before, several pairs of French doors gave access to what had once been a terrace but now was merely an area of old paving stones with weeds growing lustily in the cracks.

  She pushed through the shrubbery, muttering imprecations as the overgrown blackberry vines tugged at her clothes. Despite the jeans and long sleeved shirt she had worn, the thorns hooked painfully in her skin. To add to her discomfort, with the sun almost straight overhead, the air was still and hot. Sweat rolled down her face and between her breasts.

  She tried the rusted handle of the French door, letting out a silent cry of triumph when it yielded. Good, she wouldn't have to crawl deeper into the nearly i
mpenetrable thicket.

  Wincing as the rubber soles of her sneakers squeaked on the hardwood floor, she slid into the room. The light was dim, the shutters down over the windows opposite her. Little dots of light covered the floor in a geometric pattern.

  Glancing at the closed door leading to the rest of the house, she tiptoed across the room. The hot, close air smothered her, reminding her of the day she'd been locked in the attic. Her footsteps faltered. She forced herself to go on, her movements slow and laborious, as if she were walking under water.

  Renewed sweat broke out on her skin, and she wiped her palms on her denim-covered thighs.

  This was crazy. If Cecil came in, or if Scruffy sensed her presence...

  As if the thought had conjured him up, a sharp bark sliced through the thick heat. Leslie nearly jumped out of her skin. Her hand against her throat, she waited. No clawing of dog nails against the closed door. No angry Cecil bursting in.

  Willing her heart to resume its normal place and pace, she methodically circled the room. She knew which picture she wanted to look at, but it wasn't where she'd seen it the other day.

  After ten minutes, she was ready to give up, but then she saw a cloth covering a frame that lay under a pile of turpentine-soaked paint rags. Leslie dropped the pungent rags on the floor, covering her nose barely in time to stifle an explosive sneeze. She paused a moment, light headed. If suppressing a sneeze didn't kill her, Cecil surely would, if he caught her in here.

  She pulled the paint-stained drape to one side, revealing a stretcher with a canvas tacked to it. Elation filled her. It was the right size.

  Carefully turning it over, she looked at the painting. Yes, there she was, a blonde woman in a colorful garden filled with make-believe flowers and convoluted shrubs. She shivered. The other day she hadn't had time to look closely, but now the hands extended in entreaty seemed sinister, as if the woman pleaded for deliverance from a prison.

  Frowning in concentration, Leslie examined every centimeter of the painting. It wasn't signed, which was odd. She'd noticed that Cecil signed all his works in the bottom left-hand corner with flourishing initials, and dated them as well.

  Clenching her teeth in frustration, she was about to put the picture down when she saw what looked like scratches in a contrasting color at the top right hand corner, almost off the edge of the canvas, where it was nailed to the stretcher.

  A date? No, it was a word. Squinting, she held it up so that light from the window fell on it.

  Ice condensed in her veins, and she had to clutch the table with one hand to keep from falling down.

  The word she read was Allegra.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Thirteen

  What was keeping Leslie? Simon sat listening to Cecil's cheerful chatter and drinking iced tea until he was ready to spit nails. How long could it take to find out she couldn't get into the studio? Or, alternately, to look at one painting and beat it out of there?

  He'd seen Scruffy sniff at the bottom of the closed door a couple of times. In fact, Cecil had noticed, too, but he'd laughed and said he sometimes hid dog biscuits in the studio. He'd snapped his fingers and the dog had jumped up into his lap, where it sat now, tongue lolling, dark eyes fixed on Simon as if he were sizing him up for dinner.

  A knock sounded on the door. Scruffy yapped shrilly. Simon jumped to his feet as if a spring had poked him. “What's wrong, my boy?” Cecil asked, shushing the dog. “You seem a wee bit tense."

  Simon swallowed to calm himself. “I'm expecting Leslie. Mind if I get the door? That must be her now."

  Cecil got to his feet, tucking Scruffy under his arm. “Let's see, shall we?” He opened the door. “Leslie, how kind of you to drop by. I was just saying to Simon, you don't visit often enough."

  "Sorry I'm late.” Leslie sounded breathless. Despite the light tan she'd acquired, her face was as pale as cream. Something had disturbed her, Simon thought, which meant that she must have gotten into the studio. He took her hand; it shook in his, trembling like a frightened bird.

  "Come in, Leslie,” Cecil said. “It's very warm today. No use baking in the hot sun. I've got iced tea made."

  Simon held her back, whispering, “What did you find?"

  She shook her head as Cecil looked at them with a knowing smile. “Come along,” the old man said.

  In the living room, Simon and Leslie sat down on the sofa. Balancing Scruffy on one arm, Cecil poured Leslie a glass of iced tea from the pitcher on the tray. He leaned close to hand it to her.

  Leslie jerked her head back as he touched her hair. “A tiny spider,” Cecil said slyly. He held up the creature, crushed between his thumb and forefinger. “Did you come through the garden path?"

  "No, I must have brushed against a shrub at the corner of the house. There's a policeman in my garden."

  "Oh, yes, I'd forgotten. Please allow me to offer my condolences. Such a terrible thing. Even in Platania we're not safe any more."

  Leslie shifted in her seat, sipping her tea as Cecil crossed over to his chair and sat down. Simon was gratified to note that her color had returned. Her hands appeared steadier, although the ice cubes clinked when she lifted the glass. She set it down, tugging at her sleeve, but not before Simon saw the livid scratches that marred the smooth skin of her forearm.

  "Did you see Jason during the last two months, Cecil?"

  Simon almost groaned. Did she have to blurt it out like that?

  Cecil stared at her, his mouth working. Then he blinked and averted his gaze. “No, of course not."

  He was lying. Simon knew it as well as he knew his own name. Which brought up an interesting possibility. Someone had to have been helping Jason during the time he was hiding, providing food, doing laundry, whatever. Could that someone have been Cecil?

  But first, the business they'd come for.

  "I'm thinking of redecorating part of my house,” Simon said casually. “You wouldn't have any paintings ready for sale, would you, Cecil?"

  Cecil looked at him, his small eyes narrowed. “I might,” he said slowly. “Do you want to have a look? Come along. You, too, Leslie.” He walked briskly to the studio door and unlocked it, throwing it wide.

  Behind his back, Simon took Leslie's arm, slipping up her sleeve to look at the scratches. “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  "Fine.” Her voice was brittle.

  Putting Scruffy on the floor, Cecil raised the shutters that had been down, flooding the room with sunlight. Cecil walked over to his cloth-draped easel, which in her rush Leslie hadn't examined earlier. Pulling off the cloth, he turned it into the light from the window he'd just uncovered. “You see, I've started your portrait."

  Leslie closed her eyes, afraid to look. She felt Simon's hand on her shoulders, and she drew strength from his touch. Looking at the painting, she almost laughed. What had she expected, some bizarre caricature? Instead, she found patches of color, a nebulous, undefined blob where her face would be.

  Cecil touched her hair again. “I'd like you to pose for me. Your hair, it's giving me trouble. I can't picture it when you're not here. It changes color, depending on the light. It's so pretty, like a waterfall in moonlight."

  "Like Allegra's?” she asked, stepping away from the two men and hugging her arms around her waist.

  Anger—or was it fear?—leaped into Cecil's eyes. Leslie held his gaze, although inside she quaked at her own daring. “That painting that was in here the other day—it was Allegra, wasn't it? Was that what you didn't want me to see?"

  Cecil's lips were white. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. “What do you know about Allegra?” he asked in a strangled tone.

  "I know that someone seems to think I'm her,” Leslie said. “And he or she is sending me flowers and gifts. The latest is an antique necklace. Was it you, Cecil?"

  "Antique necklace? No, I wouldn't know anything about an antique necklace. Why would I? I've never been married. I've no use for women's jewelry."

  "P
erhaps not.” Leslie didn't dare look at Simon, sure he must be gesturing for her to stop. “So who was Allegra? No one has heard of her, but she must have been here sometime. She's the woman in the picture, isn't she?"

  Cecil drew his shoulders back and tipped up his chin. “And what if she is?” he said icily. “In fact, I painted Allegra many years ago, as a gift for her fiancé. She stayed here one summer, but she left suddenly and forgot to take it. When I wrote to her, my letter came back, unopened."

  "Did she stay at the house?"

  "Yes. It was used as a bed-and-breakfast inn at the time."

  Simon spoke for the first time. “Why doesn't anyone remember her?"

  "She kept to herself. She called herself Allie, saying Allegra was too old-fashioned, but I found it charming."

  "Did Jason know Allegra?” Leslie asked.

  Cecil shook his head. “No, I don't think so. His parents were dead, and he hadn't come to the house for years. I believe he was living in Athens then. It must have been about the time he married Eva."

  "Were you there when Eva died?” Simon asked.

  "Where?” Cecil blinked at them. His gaze darted around the room, landing on Scruffy, who was rooting in the pile of rags which Leslie had forgotten to pick up. With startling agility, he bent and scooped the dog into his arms. “Bad dog. Mustn't do that."

  "In Athens, when Jason's wife had her accident,” Simon persisted. “Were you there?"

  Cecil eyed him suspiciously. “I was out with Jason that evening. We found her when we returned to the house. Actually, Jason found her."

  Cecil's gaze swung to Leslie. “He killed her, you know."

  Leslie gaped at him. “If you were with him, how could he have? Unless you helped?"

  "Of course I didn't help,” Cecil said scornfully. “Eva was a lovely girl. We were all fond of her. No, I figured it out later. We stopped at a taverna two blocks from the house, for a late dinner. Jason said he was going to the kiosk on the corner, to make a phone call. He went to the house, killed her, and came back."