Killing Her Softly (6 page)

At her nod, he inclined his head politely. “Good evening, then, Leslie. I'll look forward to it.” He began to walk away.

Scruffy yelped a high-pitched bark. The gray cat glided out of the bushes. The dog pulled at the leash, growling. To Leslie's surprise, the cat, until now the most benign of creatures, sank into a defensive crouch. His tail lashed the ground. He hissed at the little dog, who barked hysterically.

"Scruffy, that's enough.” Cecil gathered the leash around his hand and picked up the dog. The cat, having won the skirmish, rose and stalked to the step, where he began to wash his paws, tail still twitching.

"Goodbye, Leslie,” Cecil said again.

"Goodbye,” Leslie said.

Her frown remained as he slowly walked down the driveway and disappeared around its curve.

Like a genie from a bottle, Eugenia popped around the side of the house. She wore a ragged sweat suit and her hair was in disarray. “Was old Cecil here? I thought I heard that beastly little dog yapping."

"Yes, he was here,” Leslie said calmly. “He invited me for supper."

Eugenia looked faintly horrified. “You're not going, are you? He'll probably poison you."

Unsure whether to take this remark seriously, Leslie decided to ignore it. “I think he's lonely. I've accepted his invitation."

"Well, mark my words, he'll start thinking of you as a relative—his have all died, or he's alienated them—and you'll never get rid of him. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Leslie couldn't help but smile, and no longer cared if Eugenia noticed. With her secure ego, Eugenia could take it. “I won't. I want to talk to him. He must have known Jason. And I'd like to see his paintings."

Eugenia's voice dropped to a whisper. “They're weird. That's what they are. Weird. I don't know where he gets his ideas, but they're frightening."

"In what way?"

"Oh, all dark colors and strange shapes. You can see things in them.” Eugenia shuddered. “One of them has eyes that watch everything you do."

"Does he sell these paintings?"

"Oh, yes. They fetch good prices, too. I can't imagine why, but then, tastes aren't what they used to be.” Eugenia put her hand on Leslie's arm. “Be careful. I can see you have a kind heart, but don't let him take advantage of you."

"Why, did Cecil take advantage of you?"

Eugenia looked embarrassed, her eyes dropping to the puddle next to the back step. “Not exactly. He hasn't spoken to me since I told him what I thought of his paintings, over twenty years ago."

"Twenty years ago? That's a long time."

"Yes, but I'm entitled to my opinion. And he had the nerve to complain about my singing when everyone knows I'm a true artist. He calls opera incomprehensible caterwauling, so I think he owes me an apology, if there are apologies to be made."

Leslie was beginning to get the picture. Neither was likely to back down and, after twenty years, the situation was probably hopeless.

"He's too old.” Eugenia sniffed disdainfully. “And too stubborn by far, that man.” She patted Leslie's arm again. “Don't forget our tea tomorrow."

There was still plenty of light after her hasty supper of canned soup and toast to have a look at the beach. Leslie picked her way down an overgrown path through the dense jungle of the garden. She winced as blackberry thorns scratched her bare ankles. It was dark and gloomy under the trees, the path swallowed up at times by the rampant undergrowth. Only the setting sun assured her she was going in the right direction.

She emerged from the trees at the edge of the promontory on which the house stood. A steep stairway, stone steps bounded by a wooden rail, led down to the beach at least thirty meters below. The gray cat, which had followed her, licked at the scrapes on her ankles, his tongue warm and as rough as a rasp.

Pushing him aside, she grasped the rail, testing the sea-weathered wood. It appeared sturdy enough, festooned with morning glory vines.

She climbed carefully down, the vines grabbing at her hands and tangling her feet where they grew across the stone treads cut into the hillside. The plants needed to be cut back, if she were going to use the stairs regularly. She would have to hire someone to do it, or buy a machete. Once they were cleaned up, she could run down to swim every morning. No use wasting her own private beach.

Soft, fine sand sifted into her shoes as she stepped from the last stone step onto the beach. The sea murmured and hissed, its gentle melody soothing her.

Taking off her shoes and carrying them in her hand, Leslie walked up the deserted beach. Delicately avoiding the shifting water, the cat kept pace with her. The stretch of sand extended a couple of hundred meters before ending in a rocky headland that hid the village from her. The beach seemed completely private, although the young woman at Corfu Property Management had explained that other houses also had access to it.

The sun sat on the horizon, a bronze ball turning the water to molten gold. Pink and mauve clouds, like wispy silk scarves, muted its light. Leslie turned back. Night fell quickly once the sun set, and she didn't fancy climbing those stairs in the dark.

A flash of light sent her gaze up the precipitous hillside. No windows were visible through the dense shrubbery. She shrugged. Probably the sun reflecting off broken glass.

She began to climb, avoiding the handrail with its tangle of vegetation, harboring who knew what insects. Her calves ached from the unaccustomed exertion and she paused, catching her breath. In the bushes above her, she heard a faint rustling sound. The shrubs at the top of the cliff swayed, and Leslie frowned. There wasn't enough of a breeze to cause that much motion.

The cat suddenly yowled and flung himself against her leg. Her breath hissed out as the distended claws left raw scratches on her skin. She grabbed at the rail.

It gave way under her hand. She uttering a startled cry and clawed at the vines, managing to snag one with her fingers. Scrabbling for purchase as her feet skidded out from under her, she felt a muscle wrench painfully in her side. She twisted to regain her balance, then sat down abruptly. Pain shot up her tailbone, but she was safe.

A rumble came to her ears and a pebble bounced past her. Launching himself at the stairway, the cat leaped upwards, his tail like a bottlebrush.

More pebbles rained down, a fist-sized rock narrowly missing Leslie's head. She looked up, then flung herself two steps down, into a niche between the rail and a huge boulder. An avalanche of rocks and uprooted shrubs poured down, sand exploding upward as it hit the beach.

For a moment, Leslie lay there. Then she pushed herself to her feet, sneezing violently. She stared up the hill, terror clawing at her chest.

Only a few broken branches showed where the landslide had passed. And the haze of settling dust.

Leslie stared at the broken rail right above her head, the one she'd grabbed to break her fall. Her throat constricted around a stifled scream.

The rail wasn't rotted. A fresh white edge ending in jagged splinters showed where it had been sawed almost all the way through. The slightest weight against it would have caused it to break away.

She sank down on the step, her blood congealing in her veins.

Someone had tried to kill her.

And she was suddenly convinced that this was the second attempt.

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Her legs shaking, Leslie climbed to the top of the steps, making sure she placed each foot carefully to avoid using the handrail. The sky had darkened to deep indigo, displaying a single star and a sliver of moon, but she was blind to its beauty.

The tree-shrouded path leading back to the house lay before her, almost invisible in the gloom. Leslie hesitated, biting her lip. What was waiting for her in the dense shadows? The hair on her nape prickled. Was that the rustle of a large body passing through the shrubbery?

The sound died, and the crickets began their nightly serenade, reassuring her that there was no one around. Stiffening her spine, she plunged into the undergrowth. She ran toward the house, brambles catching at her clothes. Once a branch whipped across her face and she swerved violently, almost braining herself against a tree trunk. Gulping in relief when she smelled the fragrance of jasmine that told her she was near the house, she slowed to a walk,

She'd turned on the light over the kitchen door before going to the beach. The yellow bulb glowed feebly, moths and gnats kamikazeing against the glass fixture.

"Safe.” She ran across the patio, closing her eyes for an instant as a wave of dizziness coursed through her.

She crashed headlong into a solid wall, realized at once that it was a man, and recoiled, stifling a scream. “Get away from me!"

"What? What's happened?” Simon's voice. Simon himself, spotlighted by the yellow bulb.

She kept her hands raised in a defensive position, not sure whether she should be glad to see him, or run as fast as she could in the opposite direction.

"Someone tried to kill me,” she said starkly, still poised for flight.

"Well, it wasn't—” he broke off, shock racing across his face. Shock that appeared genuine. He couldn't be that good an actor. “You did think that, that it might have been me."

She hugged her arms around her waist, trying to still the inner trembling. “Well, what was I supposed to think? The rock slide didn't start by itself. And now I find you up here. How do I know you weren't responsible? You made your feelings clear enough last night."

"I was wrong. I told you. Besides, I just got here.” He clasped his fingers around her elbows, steadying her. “You look as if you're about to pass out. And you're bleeding."

She brushed her hand over the scratch on her forehead, gingerly exploring. Her fingers came away smeared with blood, which she wiped on the tail of her T-shirt. The scratch burned, as did numerous abrasions and scrapes on her legs and arms. With an odd detachment she recognized as shock, she noted that her sleeve was torn, hanging halfway down her arm. Simon's voice came to her as if from a great distance; she couldn't concentrate, and her knees felt rubbery.

"Where's your key?"

She didn't respond, only stared at him through wide eyes that were beginning to glaze over. Alarmed, he shook her slightly.

"Leslie!” To his relief, she blinked and groped in her shorts pocket for the key. He took it from her and unlocked the door, drawing her with him into the kitchen. Just as he was about to close the door, the gray cat streaked past their feet, disappearing down the hall.

"What's eating him?” he muttered. Hair standing on end, tail bristling, the creature had looked well and truly spooked.

The room was hot. Leslie hadn't closed the shutters, and the sun had been glaring through the west-facing windows for most of the afternoon. He turned the handle and pushed the window open, letting in the jasmine-scented night breeze.

A thud shook the floor, and he jumped, his heart hammering in his chest. Under his hand, Leslie's body jerked. If he hadn't been holding her arm, he thought she would've jumped a foot into the air.

Another thud, as if a heavy object had fallen somewhere in the basement. He scowled in the direction of the basement door. What was it? Never mind. He'd check it out later. Leslie needed his attention now.

He sat her down on a kitchen chair, propping her against the table. Going to the sink, he wet a cloth and brought it back to wipe her face.

The scratch wasn't deep, but he figured it must sting from the way she flinched when he ran the cool cloth over it. “Feel better?” he asked.

She nodded, offering him a shaky smile. Her hair was tangled and matted, coming loose from the habitual ponytail. He brushed it back, tendrils clinging to his fingers, wrapping around them the way she was wrapping herself around his heart. He'd fought against it, but even at their first meeting he'd unwillingly admitted that Jason had shown excellent taste in his choice of a second wife. Confident, yet vulnerable. Beautiful, but seemingly unaware of that beauty, which was a refreshing trait after the vanity of the women he'd known in London.

He rinsed out the cloth and washed her arms. He saw that she looked a little more alert, less exhausted and shocky. “Why do you think the landslide didn't start by itself? They do, you know. Goats disturbing the ground, rocks loosened by rain, earth tremors so deep underground you don't feel them. We get a lot of earthquakes in Greece."

Leslie's head was clearing, her body recovering from the deadly lethargy that was the aftermath of terror. Logic also reasserted itself. If Simon had tried to kill her, why would he be here now, offering first aid?

He had seemed stunned by her bedraggled condition. Of course, he might be good at faking his reactions, but she didn't think so. If he had started the slide, he wouldn't have been hanging around. Much better if he, or someone else, discovered her body in the morning.

Still, she didn't know him. The little nagging doubt persisted; she would stay on her guard.

She forced a tiny smile. “I have to confess I don't know much about earthquakes, or about Greece, except in terms of history."

Simon stared at her in disbelief. “You mean Jason never talked about Greece at all? Why, he grew up here."

"Did he? I thought he was British."

"He was,” Simon said. “But his father was stationed in Greece, with the British diplomatic service. They divided their time between Athens and Corfu. This was their summer house for many years."

"They didn't own it from Jason's childhood, then?” Leslie asked, her voice strengthening.

"They didn't own it at all. They rented it for their holidays. And for several years Jason lived here year-round, with his first wife. In fact, his family and mine were on good terms.” He paused, then added, “My great-grandfather built the house."

"Oh? Was he a contractor, too, like your father?"

"No, my great-grandfather was a businessman, like me, except that most of my business is running the family orchards. Most of which, incidentally, date back to my great-grandfather's days. He built the house for his wife, but when she died, he couldn't bear to look at it. He sold it to a company who rented the house to various tenants, and leased the land to a commercial winery. I believe even Cecil lived in the house for a while, when he was having his own house built."