Killing Her Softly (24 page)

"She kept to herself. She called herself Allie, saying Allegra was too old-fashioned, but I found it charming."

"Did Jason know Allegra?” Leslie asked.

Cecil shook his head. “No, I don't think so. His parents were dead, and he hadn't come to the house for years. I believe he was living in Athens then. It must have been about the time he married Eva."

"Were you there when Eva died?” Simon asked.

"Where?” Cecil blinked at them. His gaze darted around the room, landing on Scruffy, who was rooting in the pile of rags which Leslie had forgotten to pick up. With startling agility, he bent and scooped the dog into his arms. “Bad dog. Mustn't do that."

"In Athens, when Jason's wife had her accident,” Simon persisted. “Were you there?"

Cecil eyed him suspiciously. “I was out with Jason that evening. We found her when we returned to the house. Actually, Jason found her."

Cecil's gaze swung to Leslie. “He killed her, you know."

Leslie gaped at him. “If you were with him, how could he have? Unless you helped?"

"Of course I didn't help,” Cecil said scornfully. “Eva was a lovely girl. We were all fond of her. No, I figured it out later. We stopped at a taverna two blocks from the house, for a late dinner. Jason said he was going to the kiosk on the corner, to make a phone call. He went to the house, killed her, and came back."

"Did you tell the police this?” Simon asked.

"No. Jason was my friend. Friends stick together. We were together for the evening. No one asked me if Jason left at any time. After all, Eva deserved it. She was seeing another man."

"Was she?” Simon said coldly. “Wouldn't divorce have been less messy? I understand Jason came within a millimeter of being charged with murder."

"If they divorced, Jason wouldn't have gotten her money. No, the only way he could inherit was if she died.” He sighed. “Poor Eva. If only she'd kept her mouth shut. We could have been happy."

Leslie stared at him in horror. “You can't be saying you're the man Eva was seeing?"

"Why not?” he asked, cool as fresh snow. “They were both my friends."

Leslie grabbed Simon's arm, suddenly afraid she would throw up on Cecil's polished hardwood floor. “Simon, let's go. It's too hot in here."

"Please come again,” Cecil said, following them to the door, the perfect host.

"You don't believe him, do you?” Simon said. “It's too crazy. I had someone check the police records. There truly was no evidence to indicate anything but an accident in Eva's drowning. And her housekeeper was there until ten minutes before the men came home. Wouldn't she have noticed if Jason had been in and out earlier?"

"I'd like to believe that,” Leslie said, pressing a hand against her stomach, where the iced tea she'd drunk churned miserably. “But I don't know what's the truth any more, and what are lies."

Jimmy met them by the back door of the house. He shook his head in response to Simon's inquiring look. “Nothing. Just dead leaves and trampled grass. Not even a cigarette butt."

"What will you do now?” Leslie asked.

"Wait, I guess. That's all we can do. If someone comes after those crates, or even snoops around the house, we'll haul them in for questioning."

He headed toward his Land Rover. “There will be two men on duty here at night, one in the basement and one outside.” He shrugged. “It'll leave me shorthanded, but it can't be helped. Tomorrow I have extra people coming in from Kerkira."

"Anything we can do?” Simon asked.

"Keep your eyes peeled. If you see anything at all suspicious, call me.” Halfway into the car, he paused. “How did you make out with old Cecil?"

A dozen thoughts spun in Leslie's head. Before she could sort them out, Simon answered. “Nothing very useful, I'm afraid. Allegra once stayed in the house—that's where the name came from."

"Any chance that Cecil might be Leslie's secret admirer?"

"Offhand, I'd say unlikely."

Leslie cut in. “I don't know, Simon. His obsession with my hair is pretty strange. And Allegra was blonde, too.” She frowned as another thought hit her. “And so was Melanie."

"Speaking of Melanie, the forensics report said there were traces of feathers in her throat,” Jimmy said. “She was likely smothered with a pillow."

Leslie shuddered.

"It doesn't look as if she suffered,” he added. “She was probably unconscious from dehydration at the time. She wouldn't have felt a thing. And then her killer put her in the trunk and boarded up the space."

"But who?” Simon said. “Even if what Cecil said about Jason killing Eva is true, I can't see him killing his own daughter."

"He didn't,” Jimmy said. “I had a phone call a little while ago. Jason was on his friends’ yacht the night Melanie supposedly died. When they got back to the house in the morning, she was gone and her robe was on the beach. Jason's in the clear."

"What about Eva?” Leslie asked. “Was she having an affair with Cecil?"

"Could be,” Jimmy said. “It would explain his falling out with Jason. They were friends before. After Eva's death, they no longer spoke.” He stepped up into the Land Rover. “Jason was away a lot when they stayed here during the summers, and Cecil was the nearest neighbor. Who knows what she did in her spare time?"

Leslie woke abruptly, pushing aside the sheet that had covered her. Her clothes were stacked neatly on a chair. Simon must have brought them up.

Heat flooded her body as she remembered how they had practically fallen on each other after lunch, so eager to make love that they'd left clothes scattered from one end of the house to the other.

She'd never done anything like that before, making love in the bright light of afternoon. Simon had awakened a capacity for passion she'd never dreamed lived within her.

For a moment, she closed her eyes as pain clenched her heart. How could she leave when the time came?

And she would have to leave. The house might have given her a reason to stay, but the huge mortgage made it impossible to keep it. Once the debts were paid, there would be nothing left.

No, she couldn't stay

What if Simon asked her to? a little voice taunted in her head. Tempting, but it would be complicated. And so far, Simon had uttered no words of commitment, no sign that he saw this as anything but a brief summer romance.

To her, it was much more. But could she trust that the happiness she'd found with Simon would last forever? Was she in love with him, or only in love with the delicious sensuality she felt in his arms?

Shaking off her unproductive musings, she got up and went into the bathroom. A note was stuck on the mirror.

Back in an hour. S.

She smiled at the big, flourishing initial, so evocative of his self-confidence. A self-confidence she wished she had.

Locking the bathroom door, she took a quick shower. The shivery feeling she got when she remembered the black-gloved hand hadn't entirely left her. Who had it been? Jason? Or some other person who wanted her out of the house?

She was safe now, wasn't she?

In the kitchen, she paused. An elusive memory nagged her, something that had drifted through her mind just as she had awakened.

Outside in the garden, the mynah whistled. Leslie looked out the window. He had escaped again, and sat now in the crook of the large tree where she'd found his treasures. Below the tree, the gray cat eyed him.

She snapped her fingers. Keys. That was what she'd been dreaming of. The first keys the mynah had brought her—they'd never tried them. Now where had she put them?

She pulled out the cutlery drawer. Silverware lay in neat compartments, nothing out of place. The junk drawer. Every house had a junk drawer. Opening the next drawer, she rummaged through an assortment of old electricity and phone bills, finally dangling the keys in triumph.

One of them had to open the small room behind the armoire.

The basement door stood open, lights blazing, if one could use such a term for forty watt bulbs. She walked down the stairs and over to the coal bin. The ladder stood in place.

Leaning over the edge, she called down. “Hello, is anyone there?"

After a moment, the policeman appeared below her. “Can I get you anything to eat or drink?” Leslie asked.

"Perhaps a little later,” he said in careful English.

"Well, I want to check something out in the wine cellar. If Simon comes in, tell him where I am, would you, please?"

The young man frowned worriedly. “Shouldn't you wait for Simon to go with you into the wine cellar?"

"I'll be fine,” she assured him.

"Well, okay.” He still looked doubtful.

Leslie muttered in annoyance. The armoire was locked. What did that mean? Had Simon found a key and locked it during one of his security checks of the house? Or had their basement prowler come back? She'd thought that problem had disappeared with Jason's death, but was it possible someone else also had access to the house?

Maybe Simon was wrong about the door leading to a bomb shelter. Maybe it led to another passage into the house.

She spun around, the hair on her arms prickling. Was that a sound behind her, on the other side of the wine rack? She stifled a rueful laugh. Probably a mouse.

She turned back to the armoire. If none of the available keys fit, she would get a screwdriver or a hammer and break the lock.

"My, my, what have we here? A nosy little pigeon."

Leslie turned so quickly she bumped her head and saw stars. Harlan Gage stood in the aisle between the racks, a rifle in his hands. The wooden butt rested against his hip, the barrel pointed almost negligently at her stomach. The way he held the gun showed easy familiarity with it.

"Is that what you used to kill Jason?” she said through frozen lips.

Surprised flashed in his eyes. “Me? You think I killed Jason?” He gestured an abrupt negative with his free hand. “Don't try to lay that on me. It's true, Jason got cold feet. He didn't want to go through with the deal. But I didn't kill him. Someone else must have, and I have my suspicions, but they'll never prove it, so there's no use throwing accusations around. The people we're dealing with have some nasty tricks they love to try on those who betray them. Jason's number came up."

"So you suspect someone you did business with killed him.” Leslie filed away the information, some of her fear subsiding. At least she wasn't dealing with a killer. Not yet.

Gage glanced nervously around. “I'm not saying anything more. I'm going to deliver the guns. I don't want to end up like him."

"Did you forge the letter you showed me?"

He shrugged, the gun barrel dropping slightly. “I didn't have to. I reminded Jason how easy it is for someone to die in a hot attic, or a burning house. He wrote it quite willingly. Oddly enough, he did care about you. He nearly had a heart attack when he heard you were living in the house."

Leslie's mind began to work again, her fear replaced by a cold fatalism. If she could keep him talking, the policeman below would wonder why she hadn't come back. Or Simon would return. After all, his note had said an hour. She didn't know how long he'd been gone when she found it; he could be back at any time. “Do you know where the guns are?"

"Yes, I made that fool Cecil tell me about an hour ago. I got the keys and I made him show me the passage into the house."

"Through the armoire,” she asked, gesturing toward the massive cabinet.

"Armoire? No, Jason tricked me there. The passage is where that blasted cop is standing right now.” He lifted the rifle, prodding her in the ribs. “I need those guns. My contact is picking them up on the beach tonight. You're going to help me."

"Like hell she will."

Leslie gulped in relief at the sound of Simon's voice, a relief mixed with renewed terror. He wasn't likely armed, nor would he have taken time to call the policeman up to help. Her only hope rested on the chance that the cop would become worried enough to investigate before it was too late.

She couldn't see Simon, but she guessed he was in the next aisle over. “Those crates aren't going anywhere,” Simon said. “I'd suggest you drop your gun, Mr. Gage."

Gage hadn't turned, hadn't removed his hard gaze from Leslie. He poked the gun barrel into her stomach. Leslie gasped and doubled over in pain, involuntary tears spurting from her eyes. “Come any closer, Korvallis, and she gets it. I've got nothing to lose."

Leslie slowly straightened, rubbing her stomach with one hand and using the other to clear her eyes.

A bottle slipped out of the rack and smashed at Gage's feet. Leslie was gratified to see him start. Even hardened criminals had some nerves left.

"Move toward the door, Leslie. He won't shoot you in here. The walls are thick, but a shot would bring the cop running. And he needs you to trade for the guns. You're no good to him dead."

She could only pray that was true, but Simon's confident words gave her courage. Pretending she was still weak from pain, Leslie took a step away from Gage, holding on to the wine rack beside her.

Another bottle fell. Pungent brandy fumes rose around them.

"Run, Leslie. I'll take care of him."

Two bottles at once shattered on the floor, the wine spraying Leslie's legs. Gage, looking rattled, swung the gun to the left, toward Simon's voice. Leslie took a deep breath and lunged away from Gage, down the narrow passage toward the open door.

In her haste, she forgot to allow for the wet wooden floor and her rubber-soled sneakers. She stumbled, slipped, and almost fell. Gage slammed into her. He yanked her arm around, bending it viciously up her back. She cried out at the agony that shot through her shoulder.

"Leslie, are you all right? I'll kill the bastard."

"Simon, get the police,” she gasped, biting back another cry as Gage's grip tightened cruelly. She twisted her body, hoping to get him off balance. Not a chance, she realized. His strength was far superior to hers.

"Move, bitch,” Gage snarled, prodding her with the rifle barrel.

Leslie's head whirled, and she staggered as he forced her to walk ahead of him. Dizziness fogged her brain, either from pain or from the brandy fumes. She sensed rather than heard Simon keeping pace with them in the adjacent aisle. Dimly, she hung on to the thought that he was nearby.