Killing Her Softly (22 page)

"It's true."

"And what about you? Maybe we can add you to our list of suspects?"

Simon shook his head. “I'm afraid the last time I fired a gun was fifteen years ago, when I did my military duty. And I never got to be a good shot. Besides, I was in the kitchen with you when Jason was killed."

"You could have an accomplice,” she said, but she knew she was reaching, trying to hurt him as he had wounded her.

"I don't. And I haven't been telling you to leave, have I?"

"That first evening, you weren't exactly welcoming."

"So sue me. Leslie, what's this all about? I promised I wouldn't hurt you."

She sank down on a chair, her knees suddenly trembling. “You could have been lying. You knew more about Jason than you let on, and you didn't tell me."

He pulled out the adjacent chair and sat down, clasping his hands between his knees. “Leslie, there was nothing to tell. No proof, no evidence. I did wonder at first if you might have been involved in his business, but I quickly realized you couldn't have been."

"Thanks,” she said sardonically. “I think."

Simon exhaled wearily. “Why don't you go to bed, Leslie? I'll be up as soon as I have a word with the officer outside."

She flung her head up. “You don't have to stay. No one's going to break in here while he's out there."

"What about the basement?"

"We don't even know if that's how they're getting in.” “Even so.” Getting to his feet, Simon took his chair into the pantry and braced it under the doorknob. Since it opened outward, that would hold it against all but the most determined assault. And as added insurance, he balanced a half-dozen empty jars on the chair's woven cane seat. If anyone broke in, they would make a hell of a racket.

He came back into the kitchen, dusting off his hands. Leslie regarded him without the least bit of softening in her eyes. His heart plummeted. So he'd really done it.

But he didn't see any other way he could have handled it, and sooner or later she would have discovered his secret. Tomorrow he would have to see Jimmy, give him the records of his observations of the house since Christmas. One way or another, Leslie would have found out.

"I'm not like Jason, you know,” he said quietly. “Good night, Leslie."

She was lying in bed, the sheet primly tucked under her arms, when he came into her room. Her expression was not welcoming. “What do you want, Simon? I'm sure you figured it out. The party's over."

His jaw hardened. “It's not over, Leslie. It's only beginning."

He deliberately stripped off his clothes, his eyes never leaving hers, until he stood naked before her. He snapped off the light, walked around the bed, and got in under the sheet. Leslie scooted over until she was practically hanging over the edge on her side of the bed. He didn't try to touch her.

Sleep was going to be a long time coming.

Leslie stared at the dark ceiling. At intervals, lightning strafed the room with a blue luminance, but it lacked fire, as if the storm had given up. Thunder rumbled in the distance, sounding like a faraway train.

"Just for the record—” Simon's voice washed over her with a touch that was at once soothing and irritating, like a damp wash cloth on sunburned skin. “I'm sorry."

"Are you?” she asked, determined not to give in. “A little late, isn't it?"

He shifted violently, the bed rocking beneath them. “What did you expect me to do? I didn't know if I could trust you. But I know I do now. You should be satisfied."

Satisfied? She almost laughed. Last night she'd been satisfied, loved into a delicious lassitude such as she'd never experienced. But today, harsh reality and the knowledge that it was all an illusion had slapped her in the face.

Suddenly she didn't want to argue any more. She didn't want to deal with it. “Go to sleep,” she said tiredly. “Or, better yet, go into the guest room. We'd both be more comfortable."

He said nothing after that, but she could tell from his breathing, soft but a little too fast, that he was as wide-awake as she.

What was she angry about? she asked herself, ruthlessly analytical. Wasn't it because she couldn't stomach the thought of another man hiding part of his life from her so soon after finding out the truth about Jason? Part of the truth. The rest they might never find, she reminded herself bleakly.

I didn't know if I could trust you.
Simon's words echoed in her brain. Her anger began to subside, shame taking its place. If she was brutally honest with herself, she knew her anger hadn't been with Simon. It had been with herself, a knee-jerk reaction to what Jason had done to her.

How else could Simon have handled it? Blabbed all his secrets to her at their first meeting? Including telling her Jason might be a criminal, as well as devious and dishonest? That would have endeared him to her.

He was right. Better that she'd found out about Jason through her own investigations. It was her own fault, anyway. No one had sent for her. Her own curiosity and impulsiveness in coming to Corfu had gotten her into this.

And she would have to work her own way out of it.

"I'm sorry, too,” she said in a small voice. To her surprise, tears clogged her throat and made the words quaver. “You were right and I was wrong. I overreacted."

By this time, the tears were leaking out from under her tightly closed eyelids, and running down into her ears. She clamped her lips together, stifling a sob.

The next thing she knew, he had his arms around her, holding her, keeping her safe, as he'd tried to do all along. If only she'd let herself admit it. Her face pressed into the curve of his neck, she cried in earnest, unable to help herself. It was as if all the crying she'd suppressed in the last year burst forth, as if a dam had broken.

Through it all, Simon held her, sliding his hand up and down her back. His fingers tangled in her hair, and he gently smoothed it, whispering words she didn't understand.

The sobs diminished to ragged hiccups. Leslie stirred restlessly against him, tasting the salty tears on her lips and on his skin. Embarrassment heated her face. “Simon, I'm sorry. I've made you wet."

He laughed quietly. “Don't worry, I'll dry."

He laid his palm on her cheek, cool and faintly rough. With a little murmur, she lifted her hands and locked them around his neck. His muscles clenched, and she could feel his heartbeat speed up until it thudded against her chest. Strong. Solid. His quick-drawn breath and the hardness of his body told her he was aroused, instantly responding to the feel of her against him.

His mouth came down to cover hers, and she thought of nothing more except the softness of his lips and the wonder of loving him.

Simon was already out of bed when Leslie woke the next morning. She quickly showered, dressed and went downstairs, where he was making pancakes.

Any awkwardness she might have felt from last night disappeared as he greeted here with a matter-of-fact, rather absentminded kiss. In fact, she felt a little piqued that he could so easily take her for granted.

But then he turned away from the stove after flipping the pancakes on the griddle, and gave her a wink and a grin full of promise that sent heat surging through her body. Nothing was resolved between them—she had no idea what he might be thinking in terms of the future—but the feeling that they were partners again was enough for now.

Only partners? said a sly little voice in her mind.

Okay, lovers, she admitted, in a physical sense. As for her emotions—well, she still shied away from examining those too closely.

When they'd finished eating, Simon stacked the dishes in the sink. “Now we're going to check out that coal chute.” He picked up the flashlight he'd left on the table.

Luckily, the bin had been swept clean years ago and contained only the usual dust and spider webs. Simon shone the flashlight around the area, which was about three meters across. The floor consisted of wooden planks, laid in squares. “Could be old pallets,” Simon muttered. “Bricks are delivered on skids like that."

He bent and pulled at one section after another. They were tight, nailed to each other, or to a frame underneath. Then, in the far corner, the pallet came up in his hand. Not just up, but attached to a hinge, too. He gave a long whistle.

Leslie leaned over his shoulder to have a look. Underneath the pallet was the outline of a trapdoor. Simon took hold of the ring embedded in the heavy oak. It lifted readily.

Beneath them gaped a deep hole. “No way down,” Leslie said, disappointed.

Simon settled back on his heels. “Or up. What we need is a ladder. I saw one in the garage. Do you want to stay here while I get it?"

The basement lights flickered, as if in warning. Leslie stiffened her spine, taking the flashlight from his hand. “I'll wait here, but hurry."

He was back in ten minutes that seemed an eternity, but nothing disturbed the quiet of the cellar.

The hole beneath the coal chute turned out to be only about three meters deep, judging from how much of the ladder protruded above it. “Not a bad climb, then,” Simon remarked.

He went down first, and Leslie, nervous about spiders and mice or, heaven forbid, rats, waited until he gave her the all clear. She heard him say something else, and then she saw the passage below, lit by electric lights. “You mean there's power down there?” she called, her voice bouncing from the wooden walls.

"Come on down."

She climbed down the ladder and looked around. The passage was narrow, apparently blasted out of solid rock. Mostly solid rock. At intervals the walls were shored up with wooden planks. The light bulbs hanging from the ceiling were dusty, and gave off only a dim light. There was no sign of any ladder other than the one they'd used.

Prudently keeping the flashlight in his hand, Simon led the way along the passage. Leslie inhaled the pungent scent of earth and dampness. Occasionally the hand she ran along the wall beside her encountered a trickle of water, miniature waterfalls that had given birth to green lichen in the cracks of the rock.

"It's not a natural cave,” Simon said. “You can see the serrations in the rocks from blasting. My guess is this was probably built before the house, possibly as an entrance to the original wine cellar."

"Do you think anyone's been using it?” Leslie asked.

Simon shrugged. “Hard to say. I guess we'll know when we reach the end."

They reached the end sooner than they expected. The tunnel took a right angle turn and they came into a slightly wider area, blocked by a solid oak door. Its hinges were tarnished brass and its lock an old-fashioned one that would require a much larger key than any they'd seen in the house. And its design was such that it would be impossible to open without a key.

"Well, that's that,” Leslie said, unable to hide her disappointment. Every route they took seemed to lead to a dead end.

The light bulb above this area had burned out long ago, leaving the corners in darkness. Simon played the flashlight beam around, and let out a whistle. “Maybe not,” he said. “Take a look at that. Don't they look familiar?"

Leslie bend down and glanced at the blank labels. “They certainly look like the crates we found in the wine cellar. But how did they get down here?"

"Either they were lowered down the chute, or they were removed from the house and came in from beyond that door. And with all that's happened, I'm willing to bet that they don't contain bottles of wine.” He took Leslie's arm and led her back along the passage. “If I had a hammer, I could open one, but I think it's wiser to get Jimmy in to take a look at them. My cousin gave me quite a lecture about disturbing evidence."

Reaching the bottom of the ladder, he sniffed the air, frowning. “Do you smell anything?"

Leslie's nostrils flared as she inhaled. “Only damp earth, and that chemical smell from the crates. Why?"

"For a moment, I thought I smelled gas, either sewer or propane.” He shrugged. “It's probably nothing."

"Guns!” Leslie exclaimed as Jimmy pried the lid from one of the crates.

"That's why Gage was so interested in the wine cellar,” Simon said thoughtfully. “But someone moved the crates."

"Did he think we were going to let him haul them out of the house, just like that?” Leslie said incredulously.

"Maybe not at first, but after he brought a letter from Jason, wouldn't that have been authority enough?” Simon walked over and checked the brass lock on the door beyond them. “At least before I told you about his record."

Jimmy stood up from his examination of the crates. “I'm going to post a guard here around the clock. We'll see if someone comes to pick up the crates. I don't think they could have gotten them down the shaft, so they had to have come through that door. On the black market these weapons are worth a small fortune."

Leslie gnawed worriedly on her bottom lip. “Do you think Jason was involved with this?” The thought chilled her. How little she had known about the man she'd married.

Jimmy shrugged. “We may never know now, unless we catch the person who picks these up, and he talks."

He rattled off a series of instructions to the officer at his side before turning back to Leslie. “He'll be staying here, Leslie. That should ease your mind. You'll be safe in the house."

He grinned and winked at Simon. “Simon can go back to his work. That is, if he wants to."

Leslie's face grew hot. “I'm sorry, Simon. I didn't even think, but I've kept you from your work for several days now."

"Don't worry about it, Leslie.” Simon sounded distracted. “I'd like to get to the bottom of this. Jimmy, I take it there wasn't a key on Jason's body that would have fitted that lock."

Jimmy shook his head. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring with four or five keys on it. “I almost forgot. Leslie, you can take them. That's all we found in his pockets, other than a wallet, which should be released to you in a couple of days. One of these keys opens the basement door, and another the wine cellar. I tried them when I came in. So far, we haven't found what locks match the others."

"Some of the storage rooms in the basement, I'd say,” Leslie suggested. “We changed the locks on the outside doors."