Killing Her Softly Page 7

  "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.

  Jimmy, the helpful but slightly patronizing cop? No, she couldn't go to him with every fancy especially since he hadn't gotten back to her about the pellet hitting the hall mirror.

  The phone was on its eighth ring. She tapped her foot impatiently. He had to be there. Unless he'd already gone to the orchards to do whatever one did to olives at this time of year.

  The ringing cut off in mid-note. She heard a clatter, then a muffled curse. Finally a voice, thick with sleep, grunting something in Greek, or maybe it was English.

  "Simon,” she said. “Are you there?"

  Pause, a pregnant silence. “I'm here,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. Another clatter. “It's six in the bloody morning.” His voice rose in indignation.

  "I know. I'm sorry to wake you. Simon, was the cat out or in when you left last night? I thought I put him out, but I was thinking about the locksmith and I'm not sure he didn't sneak in again before I closed the door."

  "How the hell should I know? Don't tell me you phoned at this hour to say you've lost the bloody cat. He took care of himself for years. He'll come back."

  "No, you don't understand.” She rolled her eyes. “He's here now.” She held the receiver close to the cat, and he obligingly meowed, probably because he'd been doing so for the past minute, demanding to be let out. “What I want to know is if he was in or out when you left last night."

  There was a brief silence. She could hear the faint ticking of a clock, then a quickly squelched jangle as the alarm rang and he shut it off. “He was out. I remember now. I saw him on the path behind me when I turned the corner.” Simon sounded wide awake now, his voice grim. A sensation of heat washed through her body, followed by a chill so profound she shuddered. “Then how did he get in again during the night?” She managed to get the words out through trembling lips. “I'm sure I locked the door."

  "It's not necessarily anything to get alarmed about,” Simon said reasonably. But under the quiet logic she heard the echo of her own fear. “For all we know, he has his own ways of going in and out."

  "Maybe,” she conceded.

  "You didn't hear any noises in the night, did you?"

  "No, except that after I realized someone might have come into the house and let the cat in, I couldn't sleep a wink. But I didn't hear a thing."

  "Okay,” Simon said. “Go to Jimmy this morning, and tell him everything. I think he'll be in the police station around seven, so you can get that done before the electrician comes. Don't forget to call the locksmith."

  The number. Where had she put it?

  As if he'd read her mind, Simon said, “On the kitchen table."

  "Just a second. I'll get it.” She put down the phone and went into the kitchen. Yes, there it was. She lifted the crystal saltshaker and pulled out a wrinkled paper.

  Her eyes widened in horror, and she ran back to the phone, her hand scrabbling for the receiver. It slipped through her sweaty palms and banged against the side of the cabinet on which the phone sat. She could hear Simon yelling as she picked it up. “What happened? Did you drop the phone? You nearly broke my eardrum."

  "Simon,” she said, cutting in. “Someone was in the kitchen."

  "What? Are you okay?” Panic sharpened his voice.

  "No. Yes. I'm okay,” she said hurriedly. “He's not there now. But he left a note."

  "What does it say?"

  "It says, ‘Locks can't keep me out'."

  Simon burst into a string of curses. Leslie held the receiver away from her ear until he paused for breath. “Leslie, are you there?"

  "I'm here."

  "Okay. I'm getting up now. I'll call the locksmith. We'll see if locks can keep your intruder out.” He hung up.

  Leslie pulled the receiver away from her ear and stared at it, exasperated. He was going to drive her crazy. She knew it. Those mercurial moods—he was either scolding her or trying to protect her. And he was definitely not a morning person, although she gathered from the ringing alarm that he forced himself up shortly after six.

  She p
ut down the phone, and picked up the cat. “Yes, you want to go out, don't you?"

  He nuzzled her chin with a cold nose as she opened the back door. She glanced at her watch. Too early to go down to the village. She'd have a look around the garden. Maybe whoever had delivered the note had left footprints.

  In the garden, with the house securely locked, she examined the paths around the house, also checking that no windows were open. No sign of footprints but the ground appeared too hard and dry to retain them.

  She made a studied survey of the areas next to the paths, but knew it was hopeless. Years of accumulated leaf litter covered any sign left by a trespasser. Still, there was no doubt in her mind that someone had been lurking near the house last night—in search of what?

  * * * *

  Several hours later, at the police station, Leslie was wondering why she'd bothered to take Simon's advice and report the note.

  "You say it was wrinkled like this when you found it?” Jimmy asked, regarding the threatening message.

  "Yes, just like that,” Leslie said.

  Frowning, Jimmy turned the ragged sheet of paper over in his hands. “Looks as if it was stuffed in somebody's pocket."

  "What are you going to do about it?"

  "It was probably the same mischief makers that shot the pellet into your front hall. Still, I'll have someone go by the house after dark, check that there's no one in the garden. Once you change the locks, the house will be secure."

  Leslie stared at him. “That's all?"

  Jimmy steepled his fingers before his nose. “Mrs. Adams, this note is likely a prank. And you have to understand that the roses you got yesterday are probably perfectly innocent. We Greeks like to welcome visitors."

  "Not me. They don't want me here, because of Jason."

  "Jason is dead. Has anyone been unfriendly to you?"

  "No, but they haven't gone out of their way to be friendly, either.” Except Simon, she added silently. And maybe he had his own axe to grind.

  "They're sizing you up,” Jimmy said complacently. “You'll see. In a few days they'll be bringing you food or inviting you for dinner."

  "Well, my neighbor Eugenia invited me for tea. This afternoon."

  "There you have it.” Jimmy stood up. “We'll keep our eyes and ears open. If there is the slightest suspicion that somebody severely resents you, we'll have a word with him. With new locks, anyone who had a key before won't be able to come in. You'll be safe. And of course you can call me if you're the least bit afraid."

  Dissatisfied but not knowing what else he could do, Leslie thanked him, shaking the hand he offered. At the door, she turned. “By the way, has anyone been around inquiring about Jason?"

  Jimmy shook his head. “Not that I know of."

  * * * *

  By late afternoon the electrician had checked the wiring and pronounced it sound. He'd found a scorched wire in the front hall switch, and replaced it. “A small short, probably from a loose connection. It should have tripped the fuse, but these things happen sometimes,” he explained in careful English.

  "What about the lights going out in the basement?"

  He shrugged. “I found nothing wrong. It could have been a general power failure. We get those quite frequently, since the electricity grid that covers the island is old and in need of updating."

  Leslie paid him, and the locksmith who had just finished. “I'll have to give a set of keys to Corfu Property Management,” the man said, “since they're still the official caretakers of the house."

  "How do you know that?” Leslie asked in surprise.

  "I do other work for them,” the man said. “Here's my card. If you check with them before you leave, they'll probably reimburse you for the expense."

  "That's fine,” Leslie said, slightly uneasy about not having all the keys in her possession.

  Upstairs, giving her face a quick wash before her appointment with Eugenia, she wondered why Simon hadn't come by. But then, he wasn't her keeper. She guessed that by sending the locksmith, he figured he'd completed his duty.

  * * * *

  Eugenia's garden was a riot of flowers, in contrast to Leslie's which contained mainly shrubs and trees in every shade of green imaginable. Leslie inhaled the heady perfume of the blossoms as she walked up the gravel path.

  A raucous wolf whistle made her laugh. “Pretty Baby, Pretty Baby.” She scanned the gingerbread-trimmed verandah. There he was, sitting on a swaying jasmine that draped a trellis, his beady eyes impudent. The fragrance from the tiny white blossoms filled the air. The bird fluttered his wings and pecked at his perch. A moment later, an object dropped with a clatter at Leslie's feet.

  She picked it up. A gold charm bracelet.

  Eugenia came bustling out of the house. “Hello, Leslie. I'm glad you could come.” She noticed the bracelet in Leslie's hand. “So that's where it is. I've been looking for it."

  She crossed the verandah, and shook her finger at the mynah bird. “Bad Baby. How did you get out?"

  "Out,” Baby echoed. He obediently hopped onto her shoulder, falling for the bribe she offered, a slice of orange. She stroked a gentle hand over the bird's ebony feathers. “He's a wild thing at heart, doesn't like his cage, and I think he's found a way to unlatch the door. I'm sure I fastened it."

  "I don't mind if he comes over to see me,” Leslie said.

  "I can't let him get into the habit of flying off all the time. He's bound to get lost.” She returned the bird to his cage in the front hall, firmly closing the little door and twisting the intricate latch. “There you go, Baby. You can take a nap."

  Baby squawked rudely. “Out."

  "Not out.” Eugenia laughed. “Sometimes I swear he understands everything I say.” She hooked her hand into Leslie's elbow. “Come into the living room and sit down while I fetch the teapot from the kitchen."

  Leslie wandered around the room, looking at the numerous family photographs displayed on cloth-covered tables and hanging on the walls. On the grand piano, an ebony monster gleaming in the corner of the room, stood more photos, of Eugenia accompanied by various people in evening dress. Leslie picked one up, staring at a familiar face she couldn't quite put a name to. She glanced down, saw the autograph. A pleasure as always, Placido Domingo.

  The clatter of cutlery told her Eugenia had come back. “You're a singer,” Leslie said, with more than a little awe. “You're famous."

  "Retired now, my dear,” Eugenia said, smoothing her blouse over her ample bosom. “But I had some grand times."

  Eugenia related amusing stories about her career, and Leslie found herself relaxing. But a subtle tension returned when Eugenia fixed her bright black eyes, eyes that were so like the mynah's, on her. “I hear you've been talking to Jimmy the Cop. No, you don't have to give me that look. Everyone calls him that."

  Leslie set down her teacup so abruptly it rattled in the saucer. “I found a threatening note in my house this morning."

  Eugenia's eyes widened. “You don't say."

  "Yes, but I had the locks changed today, so that should solve the problem, according to Jimmy. You've been here a while. You wouldn't know who had keys besides Jason and Corfu Property Management?"

  Eugenia shook her head. “No. And I offered to look after the place, you know, just keep an eye on things, whenever Jason was away. But he turned me down—rather smartly, I might add. Said he liked his privacy, and didn't want his keys spread around."

  "That sounds like Jason,” Leslie said gloomily. “Did you know him well?"

  "As well as anybody, I suppose. He came and went over the years, but we didn't talk often. Of course, I was away a lot of the time until I retired, after my dear husband died.” Eugenia picked up the pot and offered more tea. “So tomorrow you're having dinner with old Weatherby."

  Leslie frowned. “I hope he hasn't forgotten."

  Eugenia made an inelegant noise. “He won't. He has an eye for a pretty lady. But watch out for him. He has moods. And that nasty little dog of his is g
oing to kill Baby one day. If I don't get it first."

  Leslie leaned back in her chair. “Funny thing, he told me his dog is afraid of your bird. What about the cat that lives at my house? He hasn't been a bother, has he?"

  "That gray tom? No, he's never a bother. I sometimes let him into my cellar to get rid of mice."

  Leslie grimaced wryly. “I wish I could get him down my basement. I've got mice there, too, but he won't go in there."

  "Too dark and gloomy, probably,” Eugenia said. “I understand there's a well-stocked wine cellar down there."

  "Yes, I've seen it.” Leslie hesitated, then plunged on. “You didn't bring me roses yesterday, did you?"

  Eugenia frowned. “No, but it could have been one or another of the villagers. To welcome you."

  "That's what Jimmy said. So I've got people welcoming me and people telling me to leave."

  "Are you planning to stay long?” Eugenia didn't look at her, and her fingers picked at a loose thread in the poppy-patterned skirt she wore.

  Was there some hidden meaning behind the question? Leslie couldn't put her finger on it, but somehow a faint tension shimmered in the room. “However long it takes until the lawyer contacts me about the will. I can arrange a further leave of absence from my job if I have to. I need to find out more about Jason's death."

  "It was an accident,” Eugenia said abruptly. “Leave it at that."

  Leslie stared at her, but Eugenia got up and went to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a kettle of hot water that she used to top up the teapot. Leslie finished her tea, lost in thought. Two people had warned her to leave the subject of Jason's death alone. Did that mean what Simon had said it did, that no one was likely to mourn Jason? Or did it mean they knew more than they were telling, something they didn't want her to know?

  * * * *

  Her mind churning, Leslie escaped as soon as she could, cutting into her own yard through the prickly wall of cypresses. She barely noticed the astringent scent of the needles, and carelessly brushed off those that clung to her shirt.

  Pushing open the kitchen door, she nearly fell over the cat which had somehow gotten shut up inside. He gave a pained yowl and stalked off into the garden, tail twitching in annoyance. She sent a silent apology after him as she closed and locked the door.