Killing Her Softly (2 page)

She wasn't mourning her husband's death, that he knew for sure, feeling a perverse satisfaction. Hard on the heels of this thought came the realization that against his better judgment, he
was
attracted to her.

Not wise at all—

He hadn't reached the age of thirty-six without having had his share of female companionship. In fact, there had been one woman with whom he'd been fairly serious for about a year, until she'd decided he was too involved in his career to make a good husband. But his life was different now. And Leslie Adams awakened something in him that he thought had died long ago.

Maybe it was a romantic notion that for every man there was a special woman, but deep down inside him he had to admit he half believed that. He'd had his parents as an example of two people who were truly one.

Was Leslie the one for him?

He shook his head, gazing moodily into his coffee cup. She couldn't be, not after having been Jason's wife. Jason, who'd earned his contempt. Jason, who'd almost ruined his reputation.

Was it over? Or was Jason still alive, waiting and watching?

Maybe he should have gone back to London after the Melanie fiasco, to avoid the gossip. But while his years of real estate development in England had brought him financial security, they hadn't brought him contentment. The orchards right here in Platania had done that, and the small business he'd built up.

He'd survived, and the talk had died down. He could only pray that Leslie's presence didn't revive it.

Leslie's footsteps slowed as she neared the top of the hill on which the house stood. Her breath rasped in her throat, and she muttered in annoyance. Months of too much work and too little exercise were catching up to her. She couldn't even make it up the path without stopping to rest, and in the afternoon she'd seen gnarled old ladies tramp up without even breathing hard. There were a lot of old people in the village; the constant walking up and down the hills must be the reason for their longevity.

Those people—why did they stare at her? She'd noticed it from the moment she stepped off the bus at noon. Was it only curiosity? She didn't think so. The stares were too intense, making her self-conscious and uneasy.

Of course, she might be imagining half of it, coming to a small village where she felt unsure of herself, not knowing the language or the customs.

She sat down on a stone wall next to the path, her shoulders hunched. Jason had lied to her, if what that man, Simon Korvallis, said was true. It shouldn't have come as much of a surprise, but deep inside her, it still hurt.

She knew she shouldn't feel this mixture of anger and disillusionment, not when she hadn't been entirely honest with Jason herself. She'd been working in a doughnut shop and putting herself through college when she'd met him. After their first conversation, Jason had made a point of coming in more and more frequently. When he asked her out to dinner, she'd accepted. She'd enjoyed herself; the age difference hadn't seemed important.

A month later, he'd asked her to marry him. She hadn't been sure if what she felt was love but he'd been charming and persuasive, and she'd sensed he was lonely. Having grown up in a succession of dreary foster homes, kept sane only by her keen intelligence and determined spirit, she knew what loneliness was. She'd consented to marry him.

At first their marriage had been a success. In fact, they had gotten along better than most couples she knew. And they'd traveled across Canada that first summer, seeing the country and getting to know each another.

At least Leslie thought they had. It was only later that she became aware of the gaps in Jason's life, the huge areas she knew nothing about.

A previous marriage? She'd never questioned him, and Jason had never mentioned any family. He'd lied, at least by omission. He'd had a wife. She wondered what other important facts he'd kept from her.

Perhaps he had children, children who could be near her age. No, Korvallis had said Jason had no family left. Which might explain the circumstances that had brought her to Corfu.

The letter she'd received a month ago from a law firm in Athens had come as a complete surprise. A partner in the firm, a Mr. Papadopoulos, had expressed his condolences on her loss and informed her that Jason had asked that she be notified in the event of his death. Since there was no one else, her participation might be required to settle his estate. They would contact her again.

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 animal 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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"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.