Killing Her Softly (3 page)

The policeman gazed around the spacious hall and up the stairs that led to the upper floor. In spite of his youth and apparent nonchalance, she had a feeling he missed nothing. She sat down on the cool marble stair tread. The gray cat poked his head around the corner and came in, sniffing at her hand before climbing into her lap. He settled down to purr, his body vibrating under her palm.

"Nice cat,” the policeman said. “Where did you find him?"

"He found me,” Leslie said. “Last night."

The policeman pulled out a notebook and retrieved his pencil from his pocket. “Did you see anyone last night?"

"I met one of my neighbors on the path. An old man named Cecil Weatherby. He was looking for his dog, Constable—? I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Just call me Jimmy.” He grinned. “You're from Canada, aren't you? I grew up there. Came here when I was eighteen, when my parents moved back. I didn't like it at first, but I do now."

That accounted for his English, his familiar accent. “Cecil's all right,” Jimmy continued. “He's British but he came here to Platania for years on holidays, had his house built. When he retired, he decided to stay. You don't have to worry about him. He'll invite you to dinner. He always does that with newcomers."

Jimmy had already written down her account of what had happened, and noted her passport number. Pulling the little bag into which he'd placed the bullet out of his pocket, he bounced it in his palm. “We'll check this out. It's a small bullet. Could be from a pellet gun. It was probably just kids shooting at birds."

"In the dark?” Leslie asked.

Jimmy shrugged. “With kids, you never know. And it hadn't been dark that long. Your garden is just the sort of place they'd hang out."

"Have you had a problem with kids coming around here? Perhaps vandalism?"

"Actually, no,” Jimmy admitted. “And, as you probably know, the house is looked after. A property management company in Corfu town—we call it Kerkira—sends somebody down to check on it at least once a week."

"I know. I got the key from them. Didn't Jason live here?"

"Now and then he'd come. They took care of it when he was away. Last time he was here, he stayed four or five months, until he died. He didn't write to you?"

Leslie shook her head. “No, but we weren't enemies."

The young man's face grew painfully red, and he shuffled his feet. “I'm glad to hear that. People say—"

Leslie frowned when he broke off. “What do people say?"

Clearly ill at ease, Jimmy took a deep breath. “Since no body was found, there's been gossip that maybe he isn't dead. His business wasn't going well at the end—” He shrugged. “You know how people talk."

"When we were married, his business was successful,” Leslie said. As far as she knew. “We lived in a nice house, which he had before I met him. He seemed to have plenty of money."

"Maybe things went downhill later. That's what I'm getting at. If he's alive, maybe he doesn't want you here. Maybe he's angry because of the divorce."

Leslie sighed. “I don't think so."

Jimmy looked relieved. “That's it, then. The gossip's probably all wrong, anyway. And I'm sure this was an accident. Let me know if you have any more problems."

"I will,” she promised, getting up and standing in the doorway as he turned his Land Rover and drove off.

Nerves jumping under her skin, she sank back down on the stairs. She hugged the gray cat, taking comfort from the soft warmth of the furry creature.

In the past twelve hours, two people had voiced the theory that Jason might still be alive. She couldn't deny that the thought had crossed her own mind, in spite of the police report and Jason's brief note included with the lawyer's letter.

Why had word of his death taken so long to reach her, more than a month after the fact. She'd asked the lawyer. They hadn't known of her existence until they'd located Jason's personal papers, which had been misfiled in the office.

The whole thing gave her an unsettled feeling, as if Jason were reaching from the grave to put her under some obligation to him. After all this time.

Their divorce had been amicable, if insomuch as such transactions could be. She would have sworn that Jason was as relieved as she at the dissolution of their marriage, a marriage that had limped along during its last years, with Jason away half the time.

And now she found herself in his house.

A shadow slanted into the hall, and she jumped to her feet. It was stupid not to have closed the door. Then she laughed ruefully. This was a small village in Greece, not downtown Toronto. Still, nobody had killed her mirror there.

"Hello? Anyone home?” The deep voice washed over her and she closed her eyes. This was all she needed, that annoying man from last night.

To her chagrin, the cat squirmed out of her arms and leaped to the floor, stropping himself on the visitor's ankles in effusive welcome.

Simon bent and stroked the thick fur. “Hi, cat. You remember me, do you?"

"You know this cat?” Leslie asked. “What's his name?"

"No name. Just ‘cat'. He used to hang around the docks when the fishing boats came in. Still does, sometimes. But last year he decided he would preside over the garden here."

A man who liked cats couldn't be all bad. Some of Leslie's leftover resentment faded.

"Has there been a problem, Mrs. Adams? I saw Jimmy coming down the hill."

Would it matter if she told him? Jimmy hadn't said to keep it quiet. Besides, she wanted to see his reaction. He hadn't made any secret of his animosity toward her. What if he'd followed her last night, and tried to scare her?

"Someone shot at me.” She gave a short laugh. “Unless they were aiming at the mirror they hit.” She gestured toward the shards of glass on the floor, without taking her eyes from his face.

"What?” Unless he was a superb actor, his shock was real. In fact, she could have sworn his face paled. “When was this? Last night? Why didn't you call the cops sooner? This house is pretty isolated. Or doesn't the phone work?"

"It works. As I told Jimmy, I thought last night the mirror had simply fallen. I couldn't use the lights. You wouldn't know a good electrician, would you?"

He glanced at the chandelier, which was casting rainbows around the hall, even though it was off. “The lights work, don't they? I know an electrician went over all the wiring less than a year ago, when Jason came back. Everything checked out."

"Well, the switch gave me a shock last night.” With some trepidation, she reached out her hand toward it, hesitated, then, biting her lip, flipped the switch. She yanked back her hand, feeling like an idiot when nothing happened, other than the chandelier lighting up. No flash. No shock.

She turned it off, making sure her contact with the switch was brief.

"Could have been static,” Simon said. “The air's dry here. When it's about to storm, that happens sometimes."

"But it hasn't stormed."

"Still.” He shrugged, looking at her for a moment. He dropped his gaze to the floor, seeming to find something fascinating about the pale, veined squares of marble at his feet. He looked for all the world like a schoolboy summoned to the principal's office.

"Uh, Mrs. Adams—may I call you Leslie? Seems more friendly, somehow."

She wasn't sure she wanted to be friends with a man of his arrogance, at least not the way he'd been last night. But curiosity again won. “Okay."

"Leslie, that's why I came. I was out of line last night. I want to apologize for what I said. After I thought about it, I knew that if you'd had anything to do with Jason's schemes, you would never have had the nerve to show up here. So I'm sorry."

To her, it sounded as if the words were dragged from him. Nevertheless, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, it wasn't as if she'd be seeing much of him after this.

"All right,” she said. “It was an understandable mistake.” She rubbed her hands together briskly. “Now, tell me something. You live here in Platania, don't you?"

Frowning slightly, he nodded. “Yes, except one day a week when I'm in Kerkira, taking care of business."

What kind of business? The question popped into her head. But she didn't voice it aloud. “What can you tell me about Jason's death?"

He looked startled. She saw his throat convulse as he swallowed. “Why didn't you ask Jimmy?"

"Because I already talked to the police. I want to know what people are saying and what you think."

She sat down on the bottom stair tread and patted the space beside her. “I haven't shopped yet, or I'd offer you a drink."

"That's all right.” Picking up the cat, he sat down next to her. She sensed the tension in him, as if he thought it might be better to leave while he could. His tanned knuckles looked pale against the cat's dense coat.

In the silence, the cat purred like a well-tuned sports car. Simon's scent wrapped itself around her, subtle, pleasant, a mixture of herbal soap and warm man, with an undertone of sun-dried cotton.

"What happened to Jason?” she said quietly.

He started, as if he'd been so far away in his thoughts that he'd forgotten her presence. “He drowned. They didn't find the body. But it's a very treacherous coast, with strong currents. It's not the first time something like this has happened."

"What was he doing windsurfing in April?"

"Reliving his youth, perhaps?” Simon's tone was just short of sarcastic. “Or maybe because the waves are better in winter and spring."

"I never knew he windsurfed,” Leslie said. “But then, I've lately discovered I didn't know much about Jason at all."

"He windsurfed for years, even before the sport became popular here. He liked the sea."

"And it killed him,” Leslie said.

"His parents drowned, as well, in a ferry sinking. And maybe his daughter. Some say there's a curse on the family."

Leslie turned her head to stare at him. “A curse?"

"Yeah. They say his family will all die on water."

"Superstition, I suppose."

Simon shrugged. “Maybe. But superstitions are funny. If you believe them, they sometimes come true."

"So he had a daughter,” she said in a resigned tone. In the past twelve hours she'd discovered more about Jason's past than she had in ten years of marriage. Nothing could surprise her any more.

"Yeah. She was twenty-five when she died."

"What happened to her?"

For a long moment he said nothing, his body so rigid the cat broke off his purring and meowed inquiringly. When he spoke, the words beat into her brain like blows from a hammer.

"I killed her."

That was dumb, Simon told himself. You didn't have to say it like that. But for some reason he'd been driven to ruffle the composure that had lasted even through his revelation that Jason had had a daughter.

He certainly got a reaction. She paled, and edged away from him, standing up and hugging her arms around her waist. “You killed her,” she said slowly, deliberately, looking at him as if she expected him to pull out an axe and start hacking her into small bloody pieces.

"You would have found out soon enough anyway. Plenty of people here say I did kill her.” He stroked the cat, his movements gentle and easy. “Just between me and you, I don't think she's dead."

Some of the color seeped back into her cheeks. “What happened to her?"

"The official version is that she drowned. I think she left, went back to England or something. It would have given her a perverse satisfaction, knowing I was left to face the questions the police asked. But there wasn't enough evidence to make the charges stick, no matter how much Jason ranted."

"Jason?” She looked sick and, for an instant, he felt sorry for her.

"Yes, Jason. He came to me, accusing me of sexually harassing his daughter. When she supposedly drowned, there were those who believed she committed suicide because of me, and others who said I murdered her to keep her from bringing charges in court. In their minds I killed her, either directly or by driving her to it."

A tense white line formed around Leslie's mouth. The only thing was, he couldn't tell if she was feeling fear and disgust with him, or merely sympathy for the unfortunate young woman.

"Her body was never found,” he said flatly.

The tendons on the backs of her hands stood out as she gripped her elbows. “Just like Jason's."

"And Jason's parents. As they say, the sea took them and didn't give them up."

Leslie sank down on a wicker chair that stood near the open door. “What about Jason's wife?"

"I'm not sure. Some kind of accident, I think, but I was in England then, and she hadn't lived here for a long time."

"Was Jason with her when it happened?” Leslie didn't like what she was hearing. She didn't like it at all. It seemed that everyone around Jason had died in an unnatural manner.

"I don't know,” Simon said. “Why?"

She hesitated, her stomach cold and hollow. “Curiosity, I guess,” she finally said, knowing her reply sounded lame. Her mind went back to the shot last night. Was Jason dead, or had he brought her here to kill her, for whatever insane reason? Except that he hadn't brought her. She'd done that all by herself, driven by memories and curiosity.

"How did you get mixed up with a man like Jason in the first place?” Simon's words were a welcome interruption to her disturbing train of thought.

What she would have replied died on her lips as a scream made the hair at her nape stand on end. It was followed by a cackling that echoed through the house. The cat launched himself from Simon's lap, skidded across the polished marble floor, and vanished out the open door.

"What was that?” Leslie gasped.

The maniacal laughter came again. To her astonishment, Simon laughed and stood up. He walked past her into the living room. “Here, Pretty Baby,” he called softly. “Come here.” She heard an indistinct crooning sound, followed by, “How did you get out? Don't you know a cat will get you?"

Leslie frowned, Cecil Weatherby's words jumping into her mind. A bird? The neighbor's, perhaps? She was about to join Simon when an odd figure came through the open doorway. A stout woman of indeterminate age brushed past her as if she were invisible, trailing a fringed scarf and clouds of Je Reviens.