Killing Her Softly (4 page)

"Oh, Simon,” the woman trilled. “You've caught him."

Leslie entered the room in time to see her visitor gently pluck a bird that resembled a crow from Simon's grasp. Obviously he'd flown in through the window she'd opened earlier. “Bad Baby,” the woman scolded, shaking her finger next to the creature's yellow beak.

"Pretty Baby,” the bird squawked, tilting its head to one side. It stared straight at Leslie, and let out a piercing wolf whistle.

"He's got good taste, hasn't he?” Simon said conversationally.

The bird whistled again, its bright eyes studying Leslie. “Pretty Baby."

The impudence of the thing. In spite of the shock that remained as an icy knot in her chest, Leslie couldn't help smiling. This had to be the bird Cecil Weatherby said terrorized his dog.

The woman shifted the mynah to a perch on her shoulder, where it promptly tangled its claws in the fringes of her scarf. She extended her hand. “You must be Leslie Adams. I'm Eugenia Turner."

Giving Leslie's hand a firm, businesslike shake, she tilted her head in much the same manner as her bird had done. In fact, at once the bird on her shoulder mimicked the pose. Leslie fought to keep a straight face. “I'm happy to meet you. How did you know my name?"

"Jason mentioned you,” Eugenia said. “Not that he ever talked to me much. Dour sort, wasn't he? He didn't like Baby at all. Used to get all upset if he came over here."

"Aren't you worried that he'll get lost?” Leslie asked as the bird gave another high-pitched laugh.

"Hush.” Eugenia admonished him. To Leslie, she said, “His flight feathers have been trimmed, so he can't get far."

Leslie stretched out a tentative hand. The bird regarded her solemnly for a moment, then hopped onto her finger, claws gripping like cool, brittle twigs. Muttering in his throat, he preened his glossy black feathers. “Pretty Baby. Pretty Baby."

"Come and have tea with me,” Eugenia said. “Tomorrow. At four. We'll talk.” Taking back the mynah, she headed for the door, her high-heeled mules clicking on the marble floor. The scent of her perfume lingered after her departure, like an aura infusing the room.

"And where is it that I'm to join her for tea?” Leslie asked a little breathlessly.

Simon straightened from his appraisal of the empty fireplace. “That's easy. Go around to the far side of the garage and you'll see a break in the hedge. That's the short cut. If you want the more formal entrance, just go down the street toward the village. It's the first driveway on the left. She's your nearest neighbor."

"Has she lived here long?"

"Years. She was born near here, but her husband was British. It was natural for her to retire here, since she had the house."

"Then she'll be able to tell me where I can get a car. I want to do some sightseeing.” Snooping, she reminded herself. There were too many questions about Jason's death. “There seems to be nothing to rent. I asked yesterday in—what do you call it?—Kerkira?"

"I think Jason had a car. You could use that. It should be in the garage."

She cast him a sidelong look, debating the wisdom of letting him stick around longer than necessary. “Awfully helpful, aren't you, all of a sudden?” she said bluntly. “Especially after last night, when you were ready to run me out of town."

A faint flush colored his elegant cheekbones. “I said I was sorry. It was more of a reflex than anything personal."

She studied him for a moment longer. Whatever he was after, she'd figure it out sooner or later. Meantime ... “Okay,” she said briskly. “Let's find the keys."

"They'll be in the kitchen. That's where Jason kept all the keys, next to the door.” He led the way down the hall.

"You know your way around this place, don't you?” Leslie said. “Isn't that kind of odd, considering you and Jason weren't exactly friends?"

"My father was a contractor. When I was a kid, I helped him do repairs around this house. It hasn't changed much."

"Oh. Does your father still do that kind of work?"

She saw his shoulders stiffen. All the earlier tension rushed back. “My father's dead, Mrs. Adams. And your husband was at least partly to blame. Here's the keys,” he added brusquely.

Jason seemed to have a lot to answer for, Leslie thought dismally as they went out into the heavy heat of midmorning. One man's death, another's character assassination, to use Simon's own term. Bodies of relatives strewn all over the seabed.

What kind of a life had he led here? It was beginning to appear that on Corfu Jason had been a vastly different man from the one she'd known, a man up to his ears in controversy.

Their marriage had been uneventful. Jason had been preoccupied with his import-export business, which he had never discussed. When he was home, he'd eat dinner, read the paper, then go to bed precisely at eleven.

Only in the last years of their marriage had things changed. Jason's behavior had become erratic. Mysterious phone calls late at night. Ever more frequent trips away, from which he returned days later, looking as if he'd been in a war.

Once he'd gone out at midnight, in response to a call, and returned in the morning with a black eye. He said he'd had a flat tire on a country road and had stumbled into a ditch in the dark while changing it. When she asked him what kind of people he was mixed up with, his mouth had tightened and he'd said it didn't concern her.

But it did concern her; she'd had phone calls after he'd moved out of their house, the house they later sold. The callers had never spoken but had left the line open just long enough to make her nervous. Not exactly a threat, but somehow a kind of intimidation.

Which was why she was here now. She needed to find out exactly why and how Jason had died. Maybe his death was an accident. But maybe it wasn't.

Jingling the two key rings in her hand, she followed Simon down a path composed of flat, square stones in shades that ranged from tan and gray to the more exotic pink and mauve. He took the keys from her hand, inserted the largest one into an ornately carved lock, and threw open the garage door.

Cautiously she peered inside. The air inside was cool, the dirt floor giving off a musty smell. The building contained the usual clutter, rusting garden utensils, and a work bench with assorted tools hanging above it.

A sailboard stood against a small, dusty white car. The edges were battered, one end gone, leaving a huge gouge like a shark bite.

This must be the craft that had killed Jason. Regret and an unexpected grief tightened Leslie's chest and, for a moment, tears burned in her eyes. Such a flimsy thing to trust your life to on the sea. Why had he done it? Had he indeed been trying to recapture a lost youth?

She let out a little shriek as something small and furry ran over her foot. The cat rushed out of the bushes and streaked after it. “What was that?"

"Only a mouse, city girl,” Simon said, giving her that rare smile she'd seen only in his dealings with Eugenia and her mynah. The smile transformed his face, crinkling his eyes at the corners and softening the habitual austerity. He looked almost friendly, and she wondered if she had been too quick in jumping to uncharitable conclusions about him.

Perhaps it would be wise to cultivate his friendship; he might prove helpful to her. Even if his relationship with Jason had been less than amicable, he must know things she would have difficulty discovering on her own.

She stepped into the garage, gingerly putting one foot ahead of the other. “Do you think the car will start?"

"I'll give it a try.” He handed the door keys to her, reaching for the ring with the car keys. His eyes narrowed, and he took her hand in his. “You're shaking,” he said, not unkindly. “I'm sorry. I should have thought you'd be upset when you saw the sailboard. The police brought it back. I forgot it was here. They never found the sail. It must have blown out to sea."

At his touch, her control shattered. She blinked away fresh tears. Why was she crying? For the good times perhaps, long ago, when she'd been young and thought she loved Jason? Or was it grief at the waste of a life? “He should have known better,” she whispered.

"Yes, he should have,” Simon said.

He gently stroked her hand, his fingers warm, comforting. Touched by his kindness, she regained her composure. And let her opinion of him rise another, less reluctant, notch.

"If you're going to stay here awhile, Leslie, you'll have to put up with mice and such,” he said, a trace of amusement in his voice. “I wouldn't be surprised if there are mice in the basement, as well."

The basement? A shiver of dread stirred within her. She'd looked down the stairs yesterday afternoon but, put off by the damp-smelling darkness below, she'd slammed the door shut and postponed further exploration. But her cowardice nagged her now. Sooner or later she would have to enter the cellar, if only to inspect the water system or look for Jason's missing belongings.

Without thinking, she placed her free hand on Simon's chest and dropped her forehead against his shirt, inhaling the scent of sun-dried cotton, soap and clean male skin. “I'll set a trap. And call you to empty it if I catch something."

His stroking hand stilled. She heard the sharp intake of his breath at the same moment her words re-echoed in her head. I'll call you.

"Would you really?” he asked softly. “Would you really call me, Leslie?"

Her face burning, she stared at the ground, at the battered canvas sneakers he wore. The top of one had the frayed beginning of a hole over the big toe. She didn't know what was worse, to stand there feeling his heartbeat strong against her palm, or to move away and let him see how easily he could destroy her equilibrium.

Pulling herself together, she took a step back. To her relief, he let her go at once. “I'll check the basement later.” Her voice only wobbled a little. “When the electrician comes. Which reminds me, could you recommend someone?"

"I'll call him for you when we get back in the house.” He lifted one black brow. “The car keys?"

"Oh.” She gave them to him, standing aside as he got into the little car and cranked the engine. It came to life with a cough and a wheeze, then ran more smoothly. Blue exhaust, reeking of stale gasoline, enveloped her in a choking cloud, driving her out of the cool building and into the blazing sunlight. She stood there, gasping for breath and holding her nose.

Simon backed the car out, adjusting the choke to a slow idle. Opening the door, he got out, moving around to the passenger side to check the insurance document mounted in the corner of the windshield. “You're in luck,” he said. “It seems to be valid. Would you like me to drive it down to the village for you to have the gas station mechanic drain out the old gasoline and do a service on it?"

"I'll come with you,” Leslie said quickly. After all, how long had she known this man? A gut feeling told her he could be trusted with her property. Whether she could trust the stability of her emotions around him, or believe his version of Jason's life, was another story. “I need to go to the grocery store anyway. I'll get my purse."

"Sure,” he said easily. Whistling something that sounded like Mozart, he leaned back against the car, crossing his legs at the ankles.

Leslie walked back to the house through the green-filtered sunlight on the path. The kitchen door stood open, just as they'd left it.

On the counter, next to the sink, stood a vase of blood-red roses that hadn't been there twenty minutes earlier.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Spooky. That's what it was. Who would bring her roses? Not to mention sneaking into the house to leave them. A florist would have left them on the back step.

No, maybe not. She pulled at her earlobe. The open door could have seemed like an invitation. Who knew what people did here? Maybe they were so at home with each other, they just walked into people's houses without knocking.

After all, Eugenia had, earlier. But she had been chasing her bird.

Frowning deeply, Leslie ran upstairs to get her purse. The house seemed undisturbed, although her nose twitched when she reached her room. Was that roses she smelled up here? She wasn't sure, and the scent could be drifting through the open French doors from the overgrown garden.

This room was the master bedroom, with a large bathroom next door. She had removed the dust covers and made up the bed with linens from another closet in the hall yesterday afternoon. Good thing she'd done that in daylight; otherwise she'd have been poking around in the dark last night when the apparent short circuit had made her nervous about the lights.

She closed the French doors, and let the roller shutters cover them against the sunshine that turned rooms into saunas by midday. Downstairs, she locked the front door, walked through the house and did the same at the back, casting one black look at the roses as she went by.

"What's wrong?” Simon said as soon as she emerged from the path onto the graveled apron in front of the garage. He'd shut off the car engine and relocked the garage door.

"What makes you think anything's wrong?” Leslie asked, smoothing out her frown.

"That look you get when you hear bad news. Like about Jason."

Surprised by his perceptiveness, she shrugged lightly. “I don't know if it means anything, but someone left a bouquet of red roses in the kitchen. While we were out here."

Simon ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Probably Cecil. He's got plenty of roses in his garden."

Her unease lifted. “That's probably it, then. But he shouldn't have walked in. He could have left them outside."

"They would have wilted,” Simon said, pulling open the car door and untwisting the seat belt for her when she got inside. “You'll find the sun's a lot hotter here than you're used to.” He tapped one finger on the top of her head. “Wear a hat if you're going to be out."

"I'll get one,” she promised, not sure whether to be annoyed or flattered by his advice. She wasn't a child; she didn't need a keeper.

"The car will be ready in an hour,” Simon told her after he'd talked to the mechanic at the small service station. “I trust you know how to drive with a gear shift?"