Killing Her Softly Page 6

  "I had to fire her. I couldn't work. She was supposed to look after the office when I was out here. But she would lock it up and drive out when I was working in the orchards. Oh, she always had some paper for me to sign or some proposal I was supposed to approve. But they were only excuses. It was her job to take care of these things. And I paid her accordingly. So I gave her notice."

  "And instead of trying to kill you, she tried to destroy you,” Leslie said. “Hell hath no fury, and all that."

  "Yeah. She left quietly enough. Then, the next thing I knew, the police served me with a summons. She said I'd been stalking her and that I beat her when she refused my advances."

  Leslie gasped, although she should have expected something like this.

  "She even had bruises and a black eye. Don't ask me how she got them. I never laid a hand on her. By that time, I found her completely repulsive. And as if that wasn't enough, she spread a story around that we'd been secretly engaged."

  The story he'd told yesterday fell into place with this one. “She was Jason's daughter, wasn't she?” Leslie was surprised to hear the steadiness in her own voice. Inwardly she seethed with a mixture of emotions. Outrage. Sympathy. And that little nagging doubt, because she had only his word as to the veracity of the story. A moment ago, he had looked more than capable of violence.

  "Yes, Melanie was Jason's daughter.” His voice was harsh and angry. “Another fact she omitted from her resume."

  "Would it have mattered? Maybe she needed the job and knew about the trouble between Jason and your father. She was afraid you wouldn't consider her."

  "Not likely. You didn't know Melanie."

  Leslie stifled a rueful smile. If this were true, she didn't want to know Melanie.

  "No sooner was I served with a summons to answer charges of sexual harassment and breach of promise,” Simon went on, “than Jason charged into the fray. He raged about his innocent daughter and said he was going to sue me for every penny I had. I suddenly saw what was behind it. Money. The local gossip had it that Jason was in debt. Probably true, because he had the house for sale at the time."

  Simon clenched his fists at his sides. “It was August, almost two years ago. I went to see Melanie, to try to talk sense into her. She was staying here, at the house. In fact, she might even have stayed here when she worked for me, whenever she came to Platania. I never suspected her connection to Jason."

  "You hadn't seen her before? You told me Jason and his first wife lived here for a time."

  "When they did, Melanie was away at boarding school in London, and she was a child. No, I didn't know her at all."

  "What happened that night?"

  He dragged in a long breath. “Jason wasn't around. Melanie met me at the door in a robe, a very sheer robe. Her eyes were wild, and she seemed edgy. She said she didn't like her father's involvement in the situation, and would I settle out of court? I don't know where she got the information, but she seemed to have a good idea of my financial situation and even where I have money invested from my previous job in London. Probably through the computer. It struck me that I'd been set up, likely from the day she walked into my office."

  "Did you agree?” Leslie sat on the edge of her chair, her headache forgotten.

  "Hell, no. I turned her down flat, said I'd take my chances in court. I walked out, but she followed me. I figured to take a shortcut through Cecil's garden. The next thing I knew, she was running down the stairs toward the beach. It was a hot night, and she was a strong swimmer. I never gave it a thought, and went home. The next morning they found her robe on the beach. They assumed she'd drowned. By noon, the story had been embellished to the point that she'd died of unrequited love, or I'd killed her. Either way, I got the full blame."

  He stared off into space, his eyes hard and angry. “I never believed she drowned. I think she faked it, and left—her final revenge. She came out the tragic victim and I was left to face the gossip and the accusations."

  "What was Jason's reaction to all this?” Leslie asked.

  "Jason? He tried one more time to get money from me, but without Melanie's testimony he knew he didn't have a chance in court. He went away for about six or eight months."

  "That must have been when we divorced,” Leslie said slowly, feeling numb.

  Simon paced back toward the table. “He still had the nerve to come back. After your divorce, I guess it must have been. You'd think even a man as thick-skinned as Jason would realize how the villagers resented him. They were angry not only over his cheating my father, but even more because he would have sold the house to build a resort and they didn't know about it. They had a right to know.” He spread his hands. “So, Leslie, now you know."

  "Yes, now I know,” she said bitterly. She didn't doubt for one moment that Jason had been capable of everything that Simon had related. It all fit. His frequent trips away from home. His secretiveness about his business that purportedly traded in antiques. Now she wondered what else he'd traded in on the side. Would she ever know? On the other hand, would it matter if she didn't? She'd already learned more than she wanted to.

  "And that's why everyone was looking at me. They were wondering how much like Jason I was."

  "It wasn't because of that.” Simon stared at her with all the intensity of an artist about to paint a portrait. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, as if he were talking to himself. “You're really not like her at all. They should have seen it right away."

  "Like who?” she said impatiently. “What should they have seen?"

  "When you got off the bus, I heard what people said. They thought Melanie had come back."

  "Why?"

  "She had long blonde hair, just like yours."

  Leslie clasped her suddenly cold hands together in her lap. “Did she? And I suppose you thought she'd come back to haunt you?"

  "Only for a moment. But the villagers watched with great relish. I think they were wondering if I would kill you, too."

  "What? Surely they don't think you killed her. Didn't anyone see you walk home that night?"

  "According to the police, no. The streets were strangely deserted that night. They hadn't enough evidence to bring charges, but they thought about it. If they'd found a body, and there was any mark on it, I would be living at the convenience and goodwill of the state."

  "Oh.” She swallowed, tasting the grittiness of dust in her mouth from when the rocks had plunged past her. “So I look like Melanie. Does that mean you thought I might be like her, too, and that's why you spoke the way you did?"

  He gave a humorless laugh. “No. Believe me, no. I never mixed you up with Melanie. I knew her better than the villagers did, especially since she thought herself too high and mighty to associate with them. You're taller, thinner, and her eyes were hazel, not misty gray like yours. And she was cute."

  "Thanks,” Leslie said dryly. Not that she'd ever worried that she wasn't beautiful, but it wasn't very chivalrous of him to point it out so bluntly.

  To her surprise, a flush ran up his cheeks. “Leslie, I didn't mean it that way. She was cute in a childish sort of way. You're unique, lovely. With those bones, you'll be gorgeous when you're eighty, after the cute ones like Melanie have fallen apart."

  She stemmed the sudden warmth that flooded her heart. Sweet words were all very well, but she had to be practical. “Do you think anyone will ever know for sure what happened to Jason? And to Melanie?"

  "No. Because nobody cares. That may sound harsh, but it's the truth. A lot of people here and, I imagine, in other places where Jason did business aren't a bit sorry he's gone.” He scowled blackly.

  "Before I forget, you haven't seen a strange man around, have you? About my age, a little soft around the middle, brown hair, thinning on top. He's been asking questions about Jason."

  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."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Five

  "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."