Killing Her Softly (13 page)

"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,” Leslie 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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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."

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."