Killing Her Softly (10 page)

In the hall, she felt a draft. Going into the living room, she found a window open. She leaned out over the sill. It was too high for a person to climb up, but the shrubbery below would no doubt support the weight of the cat. A measure of relief flowed through her. That must be how the cat had gotten in now and out.

The relief ebbed, leaving behind new worry. It didn't explain how the window had gotten open. She was sure she'd closed all the windows before going to Eugenia's.

The wind was rising, and ominous clouds banked on the horizon, tinted deep purple and scarlet by the lowering sun. At the edge of the garden, the gray-green leaves of an ancient olive made a faint clicking sound, as if a skeleton walked. She shivered. A storm coming? Or only in her mind?

She pulled the window shut, sliding the latch into place. It was a little loose. Maybe it hadn't locked properly and the wind had swung the casement window open.

Thoughtfully she walked upstairs and turned on the taps in the huge claw-footed bathtub, pouring in a generous amount of gardenia-scented bath salts. Running back downstairs while it filled, she loaded a plate with crackers and cheese, and picked up the book she'd been reading at odd moments.

Pulling the shower curtain around the tub to preserve the steam, she settled into the hot water with a sigh of contentment. The wind rattled around the eaves, and a loose shutter banged on the far side of the house. Storm coming, for sure. But she was safe. The new locks would keep intruders out, and she'd double-checked the windows.

She munched on crackers and let her mind drift.

Thunder suddenly boomed, making her jump. Rain or, more likely, hail, pattered against the window. Leslie closed her eyes. She'd stay only a moment longer. The water had cooled, and by now the cat was probably scratching at the door, demanding to be let in.

Her mind was floating drowsily on the edge of sleep when a hand reached around the curtain and grabbed her ankle.

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She had only enough time to register that the hand wore a thin black leather glove before she found herself sliding violently beneath the surface of the water. Gardenia-scented bath water shot up her nose, cutting off her breath. The room turned dark and spun crazily around her.

As she sank toward a black whirlpool of oblivion, some lucid part of her mind told her to fight. The urge to open her mouth and gasp for breath was almost overwhelming. Clamping her lips tightly together, she clung to the last shreds of consciousness.

The slickness of the bath salts saved her life. That, and the fact that the taps were mounted on the long side of the tub, rather than at the opposite end to where she'd been sitting.

Her clawing hands latched on to the tap and she hung on, at the same time flipping her body over and away from her assailant. The hand slid off her foot, a great wave washed over the side of the tub, and she was free.

The lights went out.

Gasping, choking, Leslie rested her head against the plastic hose that fed the shower nozzle. She coughed, a strangled retching that hammered at the top of her head. Her throat and the back of her nose felt raw, as if she'd inhaled acrid smoke. She swallowed hard, tasting gardenias, and held her breath.

She heard nothing except her own frantic heartbeat. Was he out there, crouching in the dark, waiting to try again? If he did, she would have no defense.

Fighting against her rising panic, she exhaled and pressed her hand to her chest. Her ragged breathing seemed to fill the dark room.

Cautiously she hooked a toe around the edge of the shower curtain, at the same time dragging the towel, now half soaked, off the side of the tub. She wrapped it around her body and sat up, using her foot to maneuver the vinyl curtain out of the way.

There was enough light from the hall to show her the room was empty. The door stood ajar, indicating how the intruder had left. She'd closed it when she got into the bath. Not that it would have kept anyone out, since the privacy latch was broken.

She lifted her head, her nostrils flaring as an alien scent hit her senses. The gardenia scent from her bath pervaded the room, but she could smell an underlying odor—after-shave or perfume.

Again, dizziness buzzed in her ears. She shook her head to clear it. Pulling the plug, she stood up, reaching for another towel off the rack. She dried herself hurriedly, and put on the thick robe that an hour ago had seemed too heavy for the warm evening.

Sitting down on the edge of the tub, she clutched the robe closed, shivering as if it were the middle of winter. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she coughed wretchedly.

She got up and turned on the light over the sink. Opening the tap, she splashed her face with water and drank from her cupped palm. Her teeth clattered together and she clenched her jaw. A jolt of pain shot up her temple.

Leaning on the edge of the sink, she closed her eyes to shut out the image of her white face and wild, tormented eyes.

Had she fallen asleep and dreamed that black hand reaching for her? She was sure she'd been awake, thinking about letting the cat in.

The cat. Her legs trembled so violently that she could hardly stand. Hanging on to the smooth wooden banister, she crept down the stairs, moving slowly, as if her joints had aged and stiffened.

She flipped on every light switch she passed as she crossed the front hall, peered into the living room, and entered the kitchen. There was no one in the house.

The back door was locked. She heard a faint meow, and opened it a crack. The cat slid inside, then stopped, growling faintly. He sniffed the air, then set his nose against the floor and trotted a few steps toward the living room.

Leslie's foot slipped as she went after him. She looked down. There were wet marks on the marble floor, like footprints, although on the glossy surface no tread pattern was visible. Relief washed through her. She hadn't dreamed it. She should have thought to check before she let the cat in. The bathroom floor had been awash with water. Her assailant must have stepped in it.

She went back to the stairs. Yes, there, too, faint wet marks, rapidly evaporating. But not much use, since they were just that, wet patches. The man must have been wearing smooth-soled shoes.

If the intruder was a man. Come to think of it, all she'd seen was a black glove, and that only for a second. It didn't take much strength to pull an unsuspecting person under water. She'd seen a movie once, one of those thrillers shown at two in the morning for insomniacs. If you pulled the legs of a person sitting in a bathtub, water rushed up her nose and she could be unconscious in seconds. And dead in minutes if no one lifted her out of the water. Foolproof murder. It would look as if she'd fallen asleep in the bath and drowned; who would suspect foul play?

Going into the living room, she yanked the curtains closed across the windows. She paced around the room, her movements jerky and agitated. Digging her fingers into the rough terry of her robe, she hugged her arms around her waist. Would she ever feel warm again? Or safe?

As if to mock her, she heard a thud in the basement, barely audible above a roll of thunder. Well, she wasn't going down there again, not by herself.

The cat trotted at her heels, his steps quick and nervous. Something—the storm, the intruder, or her own tension—had affected him. The fur stood out around his neck like an Elizabethan ruff. She missed his purr; the sound would have been comforting, normal.

Her assailant had left awfully fast. He hadn't checked to make sure she was dead. In fact, he had to have known she was not. Her rasping breathing must have been audible outside the bathroom.

Nor had he made a second attempt to drown her, and he'd quickly doused the lights.

All this pointed to two possibilities. The first was that the entire episode had been staged to scare her, not to kill her. The second was that he'd been afraid he wouldn't succeed once he'd lost the element of surprise.

In any case, he'd been careful she couldn't identify him. Which meant she must know him, or was apt to run into him in the village.

She frowned. That might or might not narrow down the number of suspects. She had to start with those she knew, repugnant as that might seem. Still, how well did she know any of these people? She had to start thinking as a criminal would, regardless of how the idea revolted her.

"Simon.” She said it aloud in the empty room. The cat, marginally calmer now, meowed inquiringly. Rain no longer drummed on the windows, and the thunder had subsided to a faraway mutter.

Could Simon be behind all the incidents? He'd had opportunity, although she couldn't see how he'd have gotten in through the locked doors and windows tonight.

Still, someone had. And Simon had motive, she thought, remembering the accusations he'd flung at her the first evening. Of course, he'd backed down on that, but how did she know he was sincere?

On the other hand, he'd cleaned her wounds and checked the house. She remembered the concern in his dark eyes. No, it couldn't be Simon. In any case, he would have succeeded. He was easily strong enough to overpower her.

Unless he hadn't wanted to leave bruises ... Forget that. If she continued like this, she'd really be paranoid.

What about Eugenia? She was friendly, and the only person Leslie had met who didn't seem to be hiding anything. Except earlier—what had they been talking about? Oh, yes, Jason's death. Eugenia had reiterated what everyone so far had said, that it was an accident. Had her manner been too vehement?

Perhaps her friendliness was an act to put Leslie off her guard. An opera singer had to be a pretty fair actor.

Leslie rested her forehead against the nearest wall. This was getting her nowhere.

She paced some more, pausing at the empty fireplace. It was laid with wood, gnarled roots she thought might be from olives trees, neatly stacked on a tent of paper and kindling.

Cecil. The idea of the frail old man as a suspect was ludicrous. Why would he want to harm her? He could have ignored her; he didn't have to invite her for dinner. He was lonely and wanted to be a good neighbor.

But he'd acted weird about Jason, too.

Come to think of it, everyone she'd talked to acted weird about Jason and his accident.

She sank down on the sofa, covering her face with her hands. Despair washed over her. Why had she even come here? It had been an insane idea from the beginning. She must have been crazy to think she would find out anything about Jason's death. Or his life.

And why should she even care?

The phone rang.

Dimly she heard the noise jangle through the room, flailing her already raw nerves.

She grabbed the receiver. “Yes?” Glancing at her watch, she noticed with surprise that it was only a little after ten. Early by Corfu standards.

"Leslie?"

She closed her eyes. Simon. Hadn't she been through enough this evening?

"Leslie, are you all right?"

She found her voice. “No, I'm not all right!” she yelled. “I don't know if I'll ever be all right again. This place is making me crazy!"

He didn't say anything for a moment, but she felt his shock at her outburst as if he'd telegraphed it over the wires. “Leslie,” he said in a shaken voice, “are you alone?"

"Yes,” she whispered, beginning to tremble again. She had to trust him. She had to trust somebody.

"I'm coming right over.” She heard a curt click and the buzz of an empty line.

As if drawn by a magnet, she focused on the fireplace. Yesterday, had the fire been laid? She couldn't remember, but somehow the picture in her mind was that of a black, empty space between the bricks.

She pressed her fingers into her forehead, trying to subdue the ache behind her eyes. Never mind, she would ask Simon. He might remember.

It took him less than five minutes. Gravel crunched under the car tires as he braked in the driveway. His footsteps scuffed on the flagstones, and then he hammered on the door. “Open up. Leslie, it's me."

Running to the door, she jerked it open. He practically fell into the front hall. He recovered at once, kicked the door closed behind him and grasped her upper arms. His dark gaze searched her face. She felt the heat of his palms and wanted nothing so much as to lean her face against his chest and pretend she was safe.

She couldn't afford to indulge this fantasy. New despair filled as she realized she didn't even know if she could trust Simon.

She was alarmingly white, Simon thought, obviously scared. But she wasn't in hysterics, and in her eyes, along with the fear, he saw resolution. That grit and toughness he'd sensed in her from their first meeting controlled her panic.

Twisting the dead bolt into place on the door, he steered her into the living room. He wanted to fold her into his arms and hold her, keep her safe from harm. He firmly reined in the impulse. The tension in her body, and the way she quickly freed herself from his hands told him she would resist any further closeness.

He felt torn, just as he had yesterday. He wanted to protect her, but it wasn't likely that she would let him. And he wasn't sure whether it was just him she was rejecting or if she mistrusted men in general. Not that he blamed her. Living with Jason had probably reinforced in her mind the belief that men were liars who could not be depended on.

And didn't he have his own agenda? He hadn't been honest with her either. Deep down, he would just as soon see her leave the house and Platania, and let him get on with his own search into Jason's past.

Jason owed him. And if he was still alive, Simon was determined to make him pay.

He'd been willing to let it drop, but Leslie had shown up. And the almost simultaneous appearance of Harlan Gage—he'd found out his name from the inn register—pointed to the need to question more closely what Jason had been up to.

Oh, he was certain Leslie knew little or nothing about Jason's activities immediately prior to his “death". He suspected she was an innocent pawn who already regretted coming to Platania.

Well, he hoped she'd leave now. She was already in danger, and would be in more soon, unless he missed his guess.