Killing Her Softly (8 page)

Leslie shook her head. “Nobody's been here, that I know of. Unless he was the one who brought the roses."

"I doubt that,” said Simon. “He didn't get very far. Several people told him to leave it alone, let the dead rest.” He came to stand in front of her, fixing her with a pointed look. “And I'd suggest you do the same. Asking questions won't give you any answers, and you'll just alienate the people who could become your friends."

"That's hardly likely, when I've already got a strike against me,” she said coolly. “The assumption that I was part of Jason's schemes."

She hardened herself against the wounded look that came over his face, and added, “Well, you were the first one to do it."

He didn't deny it. Nor did he apologize again. “Don't say I didn't warn you, then."

"I won't.” She forced nonchalance into her voice. She should be angry at his presumption to interfere in her life, but instead the intellectual wheels started rolling. What didn't he want her to know? Sooner or later she'd find out.

She rubbed her hands together briskly. “It's late. Good night, Simon. And thanks for your help."

His keen gaze rested on her a moment too long for comfort. But she managed to keep her eyes locked with his, giving nothing away. He shrugged faintly. “Maybe I'll buy the house from you,” he said. “I'd give you a fair price."

Leslie's mouth dropped open. “Buy the house? Why would you want it?"

"Sentiment, perhaps. And it's possible that one of my mother's charities could still use it. If not, with a little promotion I could get rent off it, at least during the summer. And summers are long here."

Leslie snapped her mouth closed, her brow knitting. What was he after now? He couldn't want the house, not after he'd told her what a white elephant it was. Unless that had been the purpose of the story, to bring the price down. Not that she had a clue what a house like this would sell for on Corfu. “The truth is, I'm not sure if the house is mine to sell,” she said carefully. “The will hasn't been settled, and the lawyer in charge of it is away."

His smile turned gentle. He tapped her softly on the cheek with one finger. “Are you sure you'll be okay here? You could rent a room in the village."

"I'll be fine.” In spite of her fatigue, she lifted her chin. She wasn't going to be driven out of the house that easily. There had to be an explanation for the incidents.

"Okay,” he said. “I'll just go through the house and check the windows and doors, and then I'll let you get to bed."

Making a circuit of the house, he found no evidence that anyone had been inside. Leslie followed him through the rooms. “These locks are pretty old,” he said. “But it looks like they do the job. That business of the roses bothers me."

"The door was standing open, remember."

"Yeah, but still ... If I were you, I'd have a locksmith change the locks on the front and back doors."

"I'll see to it in the morning,” Leslie said. “Okay.” He unhooked the kitchen key ring. “Just let me check the basement."

He walked into the pantry next to the kitchen and unlocked the heavy wooden door set into the far wall. The door swung smoothly on oiled hinges, as it had yesterday when Leslie had tried it. The stairwell had looked merely uninviting then. Now it was as if an icy wave of musty air rushed up from a dark abyss.

Leslie's heart slammed against her ribs and she recoiled, cold sweat breaking out on her skin. The cat, who had been supervising their tour of the house, hissed and fell into a defensive crouch, his thick fur bristling.

Leslie stared at him. He felt it, too. That indefinable aura from the basement, almost as if it were warning them to stay away. She edged closer, chiding herself for her runaway imagination. Aura, indeed. It was ridiculous.

"I'll bet no one's been down there since Jason died.” Simon took a step toward the stairs.

A shudder ran up Leslie's spine. Without thinking, she grabbed his arm. “No, don't go down there."

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"What?” Turning his head, Simon stared at her. Leslie looked down at her hand clutching his forearm, and let it slide away, retaining only the impression of soft hairs and hard muscle.

"I'm sorry.” She gave a shaky laugh. “I don't know why I did that. Heebie-jeebies, I guess.” She stared down the dark stairwell, inhaling the odor of lichen and damp stone. The cold apprehension she'd felt before didn't return.

She shook herself, feeling foolish. She'd always been guilty of having an overactive imagination.

"I want to see what made that thud we heard when we came into the house,” Simon said, flipping the switch next to him. Light flooded the stairs, banishing the void below them. “There might be a broken window or something and an animal's gotten in."

They started down. Behind them, the cat meowed plaintively, his demeanor more anxious now than defensive. He didn't follow.

The basement was a cavern formed out of solid stone, Leslie saw as they reached the bottom of the stairs. Only the square corners and straight walls showed that it was man-made, not natural, blasted out of the rocky bluff the house stood on. Wooden partitions divided the huge space into storage rooms and closets.

"Well, you don't have to worry about the foundations collapsing,” Simon said wryly. “That stone could withstand any earthquake."

"I see that.” Their voices echoed eerily around the room. A rustling sound drew Leslie's attention to a bank of shelves almost hidden in the shadows. Several boxes lay on the stone floor beneath them. One of the sturdy cardboard cartons had split open, spilling greasy machine parts. “That must have been the thud I heard.” Leslie frowned. “But what made them fall?"

As if to answer her, a small gray creature scurried away. She jumped back, letting out a little squeal.

"Only a mouse.” Simon's mouth curved as he hid a smile. “Nothing to be afraid of."

"A mouse couldn't knock down those boxes."

"Who knows how precariously they were balanced on the shelf? Any little motion could have toppled them."

Moving away from the shelves, he opened a door set into a wooden wall beside them. A light bulb, suspended from a cord in the middle of the ceiling, flared to life. Leslie peered over Simon's shoulder. A great conglomeration of machinery filled the small room, machinery she assumed to be the boiler system that heated bath water and, in winter, the entire house. He disappeared behind the machinery to check the valves.

The light bulb swayed, making Leslie's shadow waver and loom over her. She glanced around apprehensively, remembering the mindless terror that had assailed her when they'd opened the basement door.

Beneath her feet, she heard a whispering sound, a hissing sibilance, like voices in the distance. Her skin crawled. Could she be hearing the souls of Melanie, Jason and his parents, lost at sea and forever crying to be freed from their watery prison?

No one's there, she told herself sternly, trying to shake off the fancy. She swallowed to moisten her dry throat, goose bumps breaking out on her skin. Nervously she backed toward the door.

A moment later, she laughed ruefully. The drain in the floor. Water was running under a grate near her feet. The diameter of the hole told her it was probably a storm sewer, or the access point for a sump pump.

Simon emerged from behind the boiler. “Looks fine.” He led her out, closing the door behind them. Leslie let out the breath she'd been holding. He eyed her closely. “Are you okay?"

She shivered. “I don't like this place."

"It's the cold and the dampness. You might find it has more appeal some August day when we're having a heat wave."

"Not a chance,” she muttered.

Simon grinned. “Let's have a look at the rest of the place while we're here."

They passed what appeared to be more storage rooms. Random drafts ambushed her out of nowhere, making her jumpy. She kept her eyes on Simon's broad back, but even his presence gave her scant comfort. She knew little enough about him. And she'd had enough warnings that she wasn't welcome in the house. What was to stop him from leading her into a secret corner of the cellar and disposing of her?

Get a grip, she rebuked her imagination. But she kept her eyes on the grotesque black shadows that climbed the walls ahead of them. The corners remained secretive, invisible, silent except for the rustling of a few dry leaves that must have drifted in at some point.

Simon paused before a door made of massive oak planks crisscrossed with iron straps. It was closed by an ornate iron handle fitted with a modern dead-bolt cylinder lock. Checking the brand name engraved on the lock, he found the key to open it.

It turned easily, as if it had been oiled yesterday. Simon frowned. “Someone's been taking good care of this."

"Corfu Property Management,” Leslie said. “They told me Jason paid them in January, for the whole year. They have every intention of looking after it unless the lawyer told them otherwise."

Cold air hit them, smelling of old dust and wine, a not-unpleasant yeasty scent. Mixed with it was an indefinable chemical odor. Again Leslie was gripped by a feeling of dread, as if icy fingers were crawling up her spine. She wanted to get out of here, out of the dank blackness and into heat and light.

Ruthlessly, she dismissed the fear, chalking it up to a leftover childhood terror of dark closets where monsters lurked. Chiding herself for being a coward, she stood her ground.

Simon groped for a switch, clicking on the inadequate light bulb. Leslie's mouth fell open. Sturdy wooden racks of bottles reached almost to the low ceiling. “Did Jason own all this?"

Stepping forward, Simon took a dusty bottle from the nearest shelf, wiping off the cobwebs with the tail of his T-shirt. He whistled as he read the label. “I'd say it's been in the house for years, probably ever since the winery was operative,” he said, carefully returning the bottle to its place in the rack.

A sudden thought struck Leslie. “If Jason's business wasn't going well, why didn't he sell them? He could have set himself up as a wine merchant. I don't know much about wine but some of these bottles should be pretty valuable by now, after sitting down here for seventy-five years."

"Some of it's been sitting longer than that,” Simon said. “If I remember the old story, the wine cellar existed here before the house was built."

They turned back to the door. “What are those crates?” Leslie asked, pointing to the heavy wooden boxes stacked to the right of the door.

Simon bent close to the nearest box, squinting to read a label in the dim light. “It's blank,” he said. “Unless it's been in here so long the printing's faded. In any case, it's probably more wine. They ship it in crates like these."

A dark stain on the floor caught Leslie's attention. She squatted on her heels, running her fingertips over it. Holding them to her nose, she sniffed. The chemical odor she'd noticed before, sharper now. She rubbed her fingers together. “This isn't wine. It looks more like oil."

Simon shrugged. “You're shivering. We'll look again tomorrow. Let's get out of here."

Her feelings exactly. Leslie wiped her hands on a tissue she drew from her pocket and followed him out, waiting while he locked the door.

They were halfway across the cellar when the lights went out.

Leslie let out an involuntary shriek and froze. Was that a new and more sinister rustling she heard from the corners? Nightmare visions rushed through her head, and she swallowed to stifle a scream.

Beside her, she heard a sharp intake of breath. “Damn, why didn't I bring a flashlight?"

"You told me the electricity was fine."

"It was,” he said acerbically. “Wait. Listen."

Over their heads, the floorboards creaked, as if feet walked across them. “There can't be anyone up there,” Simon whispered, as if he feared they'd be overheard. “Everything was locked."

"Unless someone was in the house all along,” Leslie suggested, surprised at her own calm now that her heartbeat had slowed. Or maybe it was the warm strength of his arm around her waist that kept the demons temporarily at bay. “We didn't check the attic."

"No. Have you been up there yet?"

"No. But no one could live up there in the daytime. They'd suffocate. We had an attic like that in Toronto and it was unbearable in summer. Here, it's even hotter."

Simon's arm tightened. “If we go ahead slowly, we should—"

He broke off as the lights flared on, as suddenly as they'd gone off. After a moment of blinking to accustom their eyes to the relative brilliance, they both sprinted for the stairs, pounding up the wooden treads three at a time, and emerging breathlessly into the pantry.

There was no one there. And no sign that anyone had been. As if to mock them, the floorboards Simon trod on groaned in complaint.

"Get that electrician to check all the wiring and the fuse box tomorrow,” Simon said. He scribbled on the back of an envelope. “That's the locksmith's number. Good night, Leslie."

He unlocked the back door and left. The cat, purring rhythmically, rubbed his flanks against Leslie's ankles before he sauntered down the steps.

Making a mental note to call the locksmith in the morning, Leslie closed the door and locked it securely.

The room lay dark around her, the night hushed. The crickets had fallen silent. Leslie sat up in bed, her heart pounding. What had awakened her?

She groped in the recesses of memory. A dream. No, not a dream. Some subconscious thought surfacing in her sleep.

The cat lay at her feet. She could feel the warmth of his body. Undisturbed by her restlessness, he slept, giving an occasional snore.

She settled back on the pillows, and pulled the single sheet over her shoulders, shivering as if a wintry breeze had blown through the room.

The cat.

How had he gotten inside again?

Dawn faintly tinted the sky when she got up. She'd barely slept a wink since she'd awakened in the dead of night. She waited until six before she dialed the number Simon had left with her. Not that she entirely trusted him, but she didn't know anyone else.