Killing Her Softly Page 2

  It was all very odd—practically a summons from the grave.

  It hadn't taken her long to make up her mind what to do. Summers were traditionally slow in the investment business. She'd decided to take a long-overdue holiday, her first in the five years she'd worked as a loan officer for an investment bank. She would attend to Jason's business in person. If it took longer, she would ask for an extension of her holiday time, an unpaid leave of absence if necessary.

  Despite the distance that had grown between her and Jason in recent years, there was the sweet memory of the early years when they had been happy together. She figured she owed it to Jason to see to his affairs.

  Leslie got up from the low wall, turning abruptly as a disembodied voice floated up from the shrubbery next to the path. “Lovely evening, isn't it? Have you seen a small brown dog?"

  Before she could summon words to her suddenly dry mouth, a man stepped out into the open. “I'm sorry,” he said with a courtly bow. “I didn't mean to startle you. My dog seems to have run off."

  He came forward, a small, slight man with a scholarly face topped by a thatch of white hair. He pulled a small plastic bag of dog biscuits from the pocket of a threadbare Harris tweed jacket, tossing a handful on the path and calling, “Come, Scruffy. Where are you hiding?"

  Glancing up the slope, he frowned worriedly. “I hope that woman hasn't got him. No telling what she would do."

  "What woman?” Leslie asked, confused.

  "That woman next door to you. She's always harassing my poor Scruffy. No, I didn't name him. His previous owners, who horribly mistreated him, did. And that dreadful mynah bird of hers is always terrorizing him with its screams."

  Leslie hadn't heard any screams, nor had she met her neighbor, although she'd glimpsed the house through an overgrown hedge.

  Stuffing the bag back into his pocket, he extended his hand. “Forgive my bad manners. I'm Cecil Weatherby. And you are—?"

  "Leslie Adams.” She hastily gathered her wits and shook his hand.

  He frowned. “You were Jason's wife. How interesting.” He examined her face, his deep-set eyes intent, his expression unreadable. Just when she was feeling uncomfortable enough to step back, he nodded. “If I were a portrait painter, I'd paint you. In a Victorian dress.” His fingers drew patterns in the air. “With a cameo at the throat and your hair swept up. Such a virginal neck."

  Leslie wavered between amusement and indignation. Virginal? She'd been married for ten years.

  "My condolences on your husband's death,” he said. His tone was curiously flat and emotionless, at odds with the words, leaving her more puzzled than before.

  "Thank you,” she replied, not knowing what else to say. The orange light from the street lamp cast his face in shadow, but she guessed that the man was in his seventies. Older than Jason, then.

  "Did you know Jason?” she asked.

  "Yes.” He did not elaborate, adding after a brief pause, “I'm sure we'll see each other again. Perhaps you could come for dinner. You might be interested in seeing my paintings."

  At her startled look, he smiled faintly. “Yes, my dear, I am an artist. I'm surprised Jason never mentioned me, since he sometimes helped me market my work."

  He lifted his hand in farewell. “Have a good evening.” Like a wraith, he seemed to dematerialize as the dense shrubs closed around him. She heard his voice drifting on the night air. “Here, Scruffy. Where are you? Come and get your treat."

  * * * *

  A low-wattage bulb over the front door welcomed her with a pale yellow light that barely made a dent in the darkness. She stopped in her tracks, the heady fragrance of jasmine closing around her.

  Who had turned the light on? She was sure it hadn't been on earlier. She shrugged. Perhaps it was fitted with an electric eye that turned it on automatically at dusk.

  Her initial reaction to the house this afternoon had been disappointment. In her mind, she'd imagined a cube-shaped, whitewashed Greek island house.

  Reality was a rectangular two story building with dark green shutters and ugly ochre walls. The house had a closed, deserted look about it, as if it held secrets. Only the tangled, subtropical garden in which it sat softened the harsh lines.

  Suppressing her uneasiness, she'd opened the front door with the key she'd picked up in Corfu town. And instantly forgot the exterior shortcomings.

  The spacious rooms had shimmered with noon light, ornate ceilings hinting of gentility long past. Sunbeams caught dust motes and turned them into sparkling fairy dust. She'd been enchanted.

  Now she wasn't so sure. It was too dark, too quiet, as if the night held its breath. The scent of jasmine was strong and cloying, and carried an undertone of sweet, rotting vegetation. A funeral smell.

  She paused before opening the door. Included with the letter from the law firm had been a note from Jason, in a separate envelope. It had been short and not very enlightening. “If you're reading this, I'm no longer alive. I wasn't much of a husband to you, and that is my only regret. My attorney will be in touch, when the estate is settled."

  That was all. No explanation. And only the most perfunctory apology for his deceptions and omissions.

  The message had accomplished one thing; it had brought her to Platania. Two days ago, after landing in Athens, she'd gone to the law office. That she was not expected had immediately become evident.

  "Jason's affairs are very complicated,” she'd been told. “His will is incomplete. Our Mr. Papadopoulos is looking after it. Meanwhile, you may as well go to Platania. There's no problem with you staying at the house, since you seem to have power of attorney over all of this."

  The lawyer's look implied he meant “this mess” but was too polite to say so. Leslie had thanked him, baffled by the whole situation. The answers must be in Platania, she had decided late that night. And the next morning she'd caught a plane to Corfu.

  Now, instead of answers, she had even more questions. A rustle in the shrubbery brought her head snapping around. The old man again? Or someone else? Key ring in hand, she tensed, acutely conscious of her isolation.

  She gave a shaky laugh as an enormous cat strolled across the flagstones. He sat down, gazing at her with clear amber eyes that seemed to hold both curiosity and wisdom. Leslie smiled. “Well, hello. Do you live here?"

  The cat regarded her silently, then licked a paw and began to wash his face. He was a far cry from the lanky stray cats she'd seen slinking around the village square earlier. His coat was thick and sleek, a dark steel gray, with the dense texture of velour. Dropping his paw, he pricked his ears. As dignified as a grand duke, he rose, turned, and melted into the shadows.

  Leslie blinked, half expecting to see some echo of his presence, like the smile of the Cheshire cat. Laughing ruefully, she shook herself. She had no time for fancies.

  Putting the key in the lock, she turned it, again surprised to note its well-oiled condition. All in all, the house was in good shape. But then, Jason must have lived here on occasion, even during their marriage, which would explain some of his long absences. Business trips, he'd called them. The furnishings, draped in dust covers, were ghostly white shapes in the gloom. On the wall opposite the door, Leslie could see the amber porch light dimly reflected in a baroque mirror.

  She groped along the wall for the light switch, wishing she'd noted its location earlier, in daylight. Moving forward a step, to the left of the open door, she felt the raised edge of the brass switch plate.

  A blue flash blinded her, and pain sizzled up her arm. “Ouch!” She jerked back her hand, the keys dropping from her nerveless fingers.

  Muttering under her breath, she rubbed her tingling arm. She hadn't had a shock like that in years. Too strong to be static electricity. She would have to have an electrician out in the morning. The voltage here was twice that in Canada, nothing to fool around with.

  A soft meow told her the cat was back. She bent to pick up her keys, brushing against the velvet fur. In the darkness outside, a bird or a
nimal shrieked, making goose flesh break out on her skin.

  The scream was followed by a crash. The foyer mirror opposite the door shattered into jagged pieces.

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  Chapter Two

  "It's a bullet, Mrs. Adams."

  Leslie stared at the distorted gray pellet in the policeman's hand. Going to the open door, she hugged her arms around her waist, suddenly chilled despite the hot sunlight pouring into the hall.

  Someone had shot at her. No doubt she'd made a perfect target, spotlighted by the outside light. Bending to pick up her keys had probably saved her life.

  "Mrs. Adams?"

  She turned to face the policeman. He had an earnest, young face. Did they hire cops right out of high school here? He hardly looked old enough to shave, but at least he spoke English.

  "Mrs. Adams,” he said patiently, now that he had her attention. “You say this happened last night, sometime after ten o'clock? Why didn't you call us then?"

  "I thought the mirror had fallen and broken. I couldn't turn on the light because the switch gave me a shock. I figured I'd clean up the glass this morning, but when I came down, I saw the hole in the wall and the frame still intact."

  Frowning, he strode over to the light switch. He pushed it with the eraser end of the pencil he held. The ornate chandelier over their heads burst into prisms of light. Sticking the pencil into his pocket, he flipped the switch to off. “Seems to be okay. Maybe it was a short circuit."

  "Probably,” Leslie agreed. She'd already decided to get an electrician to check the wiring. Last night she'd used a flashlight to get ready for bed rather than risk the lights. She didn't want to burn the place down on her first day, especially when she wasn't sure what was going to be done with it.

  The policeman gazed around the spacious hall and up the stairs that led to the upper floor. In spite of his youth and apparent nonchalance, she had a feeling he missed nothing. She sat down on the cool marble stair tread. The gray cat poked his head around the corner and came in, sniffing at her hand before climbing into her lap. He settled down to purr, his body vibrating under her palm.

  "Nice cat,” the policeman said. “Where did you find him?"

  "He found me,” Leslie said. “Last night."

  The policeman pulled out a notebook and retrieved his pencil from his pocket. “Did you see anyone last night?"

  "I met one of my neighbors on the path. An old man named Cecil Weatherby. He was looking for his dog, Constable—? I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

  "Just call me Jimmy.” He grinned. “You're from Canada, aren't you? I grew up there. Came here when I was eighteen, when my parents moved back. I didn't like it at first, but I do now."

  That accounted for his English, his familiar accent. “Cecil's all right,” Jimmy continued. “He's British but he came here to Platania for years on holidays, had his house built. When he retired, he decided to stay. You don't have to worry about him. He'll invite you to dinner. He always does that with newcomers."

  Jimmy had already written down her account of what had happened, and noted her passport number. Pulling the little bag into which he'd placed the bullet out of his pocket, he bounced it in his palm. “We'll check this out. It's a small bullet. Could be from a pellet gun. It was probably just kids shooting at birds."

  "In the dark?” Leslie asked.

  Jimmy shrugged. “With kids, you never know. And it hadn't been dark that long. Your garden is just the sort of place they'd hang out."

  "Have you had a problem with kids coming around here? Perhaps vandalism?"

  "Actually, no,” Jimmy admitted. “And, as you probably know, the house is looked after. A property management company in Corfu town—we call it Kerkira—sends somebody down to check on it at least once a week."

  "I know. I got the key from them. Didn't Jason live here?"

  "Now and then he'd come. They took care of it when he was away. Last time he was here, he stayed four or five months, until he died. He didn't write to you?"

  Leslie shook her head. “No, but we weren't enemies."

  The young man's face grew painfully red, and he shuffled his feet. “I'm glad to hear that. People say—"

  Leslie frowned when he broke off. “What do people say?"

  Clearly ill at ease, Jimmy took a deep breath. “Since no body was found, there's been gossip that maybe he isn't dead. His business wasn't going well at the end—” He shrugged. “You know how people talk."

  "When we were married, his business was successful,” Leslie said. As far as she knew. “We lived in a nice house, which he had before I met him. He seemed to have plenty of money."

  "Maybe things went downhill later. That's what I'm getting at. If he's alive, maybe he doesn't want you here. Maybe he's angry because of the divorce."

  Leslie sighed. “I don't think so."

  Jimmy looked relieved. “That's it, then. The gossip's probably all wrong, anyway. And I'm sure this was an accident. Let me know if you have any more problems."

  "I will,” she promised, getting up and standing in the doorway as he turned his Land Rover and drove off.

  Nerves jumping under her skin, she sank back down on the stairs. She hugged the gray cat, taking comfort from the soft warmth of the furry creature.

  In the past twelve hours, two people had voiced the theory that Jason might still be alive. She couldn't deny that the thought had crossed her own mind, in spite of the police report and Jason's brief note included with the lawyer's letter.

  Why had word of his death taken so long to reach her, more than a month after the fact. She'd asked the lawyer. They hadn't known of her existence until they'd located Jason's personal papers, which had been misfiled in the office.

  The whole thing gave her an unsettled feeling, as if Jason were reaching from the grave to put her under some obligation to him. After all this time.

  Their divorce had been amicable, if insomuch as such transactions could be. She would have sworn that Jason was as relieved as she at the dissolution of their marriage, a marriage that had limped along during its last years, with Jason away half the time.

  And now she found herself in his house.

  A shadow slanted into the hall, and she jumped to her feet. It was stupid not to have closed the door. Then she laughed ruefully. This was a small village in Greece, not downtown Toronto. Still, nobody had killed her mirror there.

  "Hello? Anyone home?” The deep voice washed over her and she closed her eyes. This was all she needed, that annoying man from last night.

  To her chagrin, the cat squirmed out of her arms and leaped to the floor, stropping himself on the visitor's ankles in effusive welcome.

  Simon bent and stroked the thick fur. “Hi, cat. You remember me, do you?"

  "You know this cat?” Leslie asked. “What's his name?"

  "No name. Just ‘cat'. He used to hang around the docks when the fishing boats came in. Still does, sometimes. But last year he decided he would preside over the garden here."

  A man who liked cats couldn't be all bad. Some of Leslie's leftover resentment faded.

  "Has there been a problem, Mrs. Adams? I saw Jimmy coming down the hill."

  Would it matter if she told him? Jimmy hadn't said to keep it quiet. Besides, she wanted to see his reaction. He hadn't made any secret of his animosity toward her. What if he'd followed her last night, and tried to scare her?

  "Someone shot at me.” She gave a short laugh. “Unless they were aiming at the mirror they hit.” She gestured toward the shards of glass on the floor, without taking her eyes from his face.

  "What?” Unless he was a superb actor, his shock was real. In fact, she could have sworn his face paled. “When was this? Last night? Why didn't you call the cops sooner? This house is pretty isolated. Or doesn't the phone work?"

  "It works. As I told Jimmy, I thought last night the mirror had simply fallen. I couldn't use the lights. You wouldn't know a good electrician, would you?"

  He glan
ced at the chandelier, which was casting rainbows around the hall, even though it was off. “The lights work, don't they? I know an electrician went over all the wiring less than a year ago, when Jason came back. Everything checked out."

  "Well, the switch gave me a shock last night.” With some trepidation, she reached out her hand toward it, hesitated, then, biting her lip, flipped the switch. She yanked back her hand, feeling like an idiot when nothing happened, other than the chandelier lighting up. No flash. No shock.

  She turned it off, making sure her contact with the switch was brief.

  "Could have been static,” Simon said. “The air's dry here. When it's about to storm, that happens sometimes."

  "But it hasn't stormed."

  "Still.” He shrugged, looking at her for a moment. He dropped his gaze to the floor, seeming to find something fascinating about the pale, veined squares of marble at his feet. He looked for all the world like a schoolboy summoned to the principal's office.

  "Uh, Mrs. Adams—may I call you Leslie? Seems more friendly, somehow."

  She wasn't sure she wanted to be friends with a man of his arrogance, at least not the way he'd been last night. But curiosity again won. “Okay."

  "Leslie, that's why I came. I was out of line last night. I want to apologize for what I said. After I thought about it, I knew that if you'd had anything to do with Jason's schemes, you would never have had the nerve to show up here. So I'm sorry."

  To her, it sounded as if the words were dragged from him. Nevertheless, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, it wasn't as if she'd be seeing much of him after this.

  "All right,” she said. “It was an understandable mistake.” She rubbed her hands together briskly. “Now, tell me something. You live here in Platania, don't you?"

  Frowning slightly, he nodded. “Yes, except one day a week when I'm in Kerkira, taking care of business."

  What kind of business? The question popped into her head. But she didn't voice it aloud. “What can you tell me about Jason's death?"