Killing Her Softly (12 page)

She jumped out of bed, and ran to the door.

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Leslie kicked aside the chair and flung open the door, remembering too late that she should have checked it first for heat. The hall was clear, smelling only of the musty potpourri used in the linen cupboard opposite her room.

She ran back inside to the French doors and stepped out on the balcony. The crisp morning air enveloped her with the fragrance of jasmine and wood smoke.

Down the slope toward the village, she saw a thin blue wisp rising from a stone chimney visible through the trees. An unseen donkey brayed, a raucous sound like a creaking gate. On the patio, the cat rolled over in the sun, his paws kneading the air like a kitten's.

She laughed. The serenity of the scene filled her with sheer relief and a sense of euphoria she couldn't control—didn't want to control.

She laughed out loud, shuffling her feet in a little dance. In daylight, last night's events seemed unreal, as if they'd happened to someone else.

The storm the night before had taken the edge off the heat. Downstairs Leslie filled a bowl with corn flakes and milk and took it out to the patio to eat. The little table was pockmarked with rust and the cane seats of the chairs were unraveling, but the fresh air and the exotic scent of the garden made up for these deficiencies.

The cat lay in boneless slumber next to the back step. When Leslie walked past him, he got up, stretched, shook himself to settle his coat, and meowed inquiringly. She set a saucer of milk before him and after a suspicious sniff, he began to lap it up.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel as Simon, dressed in work boots, a yellow T-shirt, and ancient jeans bleached almost white, strode around the corner.

"Last night you drove. Today you walked. How far away do you live?” Leslie said by way of greeting.

"I've been checking kiwi vines,” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “The top end of my property borders on the street out there."

"And where were you yesterday, when the electrician came?” She'd been too distraught last night to mention it. “I thought you wanted to talk to him."

"Unexpected business in Corfu.” He grinned, and his eyes warmed. The memory of the kiss they'd shared hung between them like a sensual perfume. Cheeks hot, Leslie looked down, fidgeting with her spoon. “Why, did you miss me?” he added slyly.

"In your dreams,” she retorted, embarrassed that he had probably read her thoughts.

He laughed. “You must have had a good night. No more disturbances?"

"Nothing."

"Was anything missing from your room?"

"Not that I can see."

Simon frowned. “Then what were they looking for? Leslie, are sure you're telling me everything?” He made an impatient sound. “How can I help you if you're not honest with me?"

"Why should you help me?"

"Somebody has to. It might as well be me."

She lifted her chin, pushing aside the uncomfortable reminder that last night she'd been grateful for his help. “I can take care of myself. I was just upset last night. I overreacted. This morning it seems stupid."

His expression didn't alter. “What about the bathtub thing? Someone tried to drown you."

"Well, they didn't succeed, did they?” she said tartly. “Maybe they just wanted to scare me. It's just too crazy. Why would anyone want to harm me?"

"That's a good question,” Simon said, getting to his feet. “And I'd like an answer."

Leslie carried her bowl into the kitchen and put it in the sink. A knock sounded on the front door. Simon strode through the hall and opened it. The glare of sunlight dazzled Leslie's eyes and she saw only the silhouette of a man.

"Mr. Gage, I presume,” Simon said, using his best sarcasm.

"Who are you?” the man asked, standing his ground. “I was told Mrs. Adams is staying here."

"What do you want with her?” Simon said belligerently.

"I'd like to talk with her. About her late husband, with whom I had business dealings."

"Jason's dead. Mrs. Adams has never had anything to do with his business, so she can't help you. Good day.” Simon turned away, starting to close the door.

Enough of this, Leslie thought. She squeezed past Simon and addressed the man who stood outside. He was neatly dressed in a tan summer-weight suit and a linen fedora. Under the brim his face was pale, his eyes in shadow.

"How may I help you?” Leslie asked. “I'm Leslie Adams."

The man smiled and extended his hand. “I'm so pleased to meet you. My name is Harlan Gage. Please accept my condolences on your husband's unfortunate demise."

His hand felt damp, his fingers limp. Leslie let go, hiding her distaste. His oily smile and polished words were no doubt meant to instill trust in her. It wasn't working. She'd run into plenty of people in her life who were perfectly polite on the surface but stabbed you as soon as your back was turned.

She simply didn't trust Mr. Gage. He was too smooth, his clipped accent too perfect, as if he'd gone to speech school. Not only that, he hadn't removed his hat when he greeted her.

"Thank you,” she said under a guise of civility. “Simon is right, however. I knew nothing about Jason's business."

"No matter. All I want is a look around the house. I understand you might be willing to sell it."

"Where did you hear that?” Leslie said sharply.

He shrugged. “Around the village."

"Well, they're mistaken. The estate isn't settled."

"Perhaps you could let me look around anyway?” The man straightened and took a step closer. Behind her, she heard Simon make some sort of noise, and almost laughed. What was he now, her watch dog? “Jason invited me a number of times, but this is my first visit to Corfu and I wondered if you would indulge me."

Leslie stared at him. He had nerve; she had to say that for him. And her first impulse was to send him packing. Especially since she suspected that his desire to look inside the house was motivated by more than architectural interest. “Why not?” she said, swinging the door wider and standing to one side. “Come in."

She could have sworn Simon ground his teeth. Gage stepped inside and made a great show of admiring the curve of the stair banister before going into the living room to check out the hand-carved mantel over the fireplace.

As soon as he turned his back, Leslie elbowed Simon sharply in the ribs. “Smile, you idiot,” she hissed. “I want to see what he wants."

"The silverware, probably,” Simon muttered darkly.

"More likely the wine cellar,” she predicted.

And Gage's next words proved her to be right. “I'm also a connoisseur of fine wines. Would it be possible for me to see the wine cellar? Jason told me all about it, that he even has a couple of bottles of Napoleon brandy."

Simon, resigned, took the key ring from Leslie. “Maybe I'll lose him in there."

"They're gone,” Leslie whispered to Simon the moment they opened the wine cellar door. She stared at the clean squares on the dusty floor where the crates had sat.

"They're gone, all right,” Simon agreed. “Except for this one.” Behind them, Gage cleared his throat. “Let's take care of him first."

"Where are you from, Mr. Gage?” Leslie asked as Simon stepped aside.

"From London, my dear.” He sniffed the air like a bird dog. “This is marvelous. Truly marvelous."

"The brandy's out here,” Simon said in a repressive tone.

Gage moved after him, prattling about how wonderful it was that all this had been preserved. He examined the bottles Simon picked out, shining the flashlight beam on the labels. “Marvelous. Marvelous. If you ever decide to sell any of this, please get in touch with me. I'll be in the area for the next week."

Simon pulled down a bottle and handed it to him. “Here. A little souvenir of your visit."

Gage's face lit up. “Oh, thank you.” Then his expression altered, and the smile slipped. “Uh, thank you."

They went back upstairs. Leslie wasn't surprised when Gage declined to tour the rest of the house. She shook her head. Even scam artists—and she was sure he was one—had no finesse any more.

In the kitchen the cat greeted them with plaintive meows, as if to say they'd been gone too long.

As soon as the door closed behind Gage, Simon burst into laughter. “Did you see the look on his face? I wish I'd had a camera."

"Yes, what was that bottle you gave him?” Leslie said severely.

"Not Napoleon brandy, that's for sure.” Another shout of laughter rang through the hall. “I gave him a bottle of Greek brandy that you can buy anywhere for three or four euros."

Leslie joined in his laughter, but quickly sobered. “I don't trust that man."

"You, too? Then why didn't you let me drive him off?"

"Because I wanted to see what he wanted."

"And we still don't know,” Simon said. “It looks as if we can eliminate him from our list of people who may have keys to the house, though. If he'd had one, he could have checked it out the day before you came, at his leisure."

Leslie bit her lip. “When did Gage come?"

"The day before you did. Jason's been dead for two months. If Gage is supposed to be a business associate of his, I wonder why he didn't show up sooner."

"You might say the same about me,” Leslie reminded him. “But I didn't know until the lawyer wrote me."

"Could be the same with him. If I were you, I'd check with the lawyer, see if Jason actually had a partner by the name of Harlan Gage, once removed from East-end London, I'd say."

"Pardon?"

"His accent. It's too good."

"Exactly what I thought,” Leslie said, pleased at her own perception. “Do you think we've seen the last of him?"

"I wouldn't bet on it.” Simon glanced at his watch. “Look, I have to get changed and drive down to Kerkira, but first let's check that crate."

Downstairs, he pried up the lid. Shredded paper protected the contents. Simon brushed it away, revealing a row of unremarkable wine bottles. He lifted one toward the light.

"Boutari Red.” Leslie read the label aloud. “Bottled in Patra."

"
Vin ordinaire
,” Simon confirmed. “
Tres ordinaire
. Considering some of the stuff stored in here, it's completely out of its league. Why would anyone order cases of this when there's a cellar full of exceptional wine and brandy here?"

"Maybe Jason ordered it for a party. He didn't want to waste the good stuff?” Leslie suggested.

"From what I hear, Jason never had parties."

They replaced the lid without nailing it down. Using the flashlight to poke into corners that the electric light left in shadow, they circled the room. In the wine racks, hundreds of bottles lay neatly on their sides to keep the corks moist.

Deep shadows hid the space behind the barrels. Simon played the flashlight beam around the end of the racks. “Furniture. Must be where they stored what they weren't using."

A couple of overstuffed chairs, a Victorian horsehair settee with some of the stuffing escaping, and a lamp table were stacked next to an armoire. Leslie took the flashlight from his hand to get a closer look at the armoire, a heavy piece trimmed with ornate carving. “I wouldn't mind that upstairs. It would hold a television."

Simon made a face. “You don't have a television. Didn't Jason do anything for entertainment?"

"He had his business. And no, he rarely watched TV, even in Canada."

They left the wine cellar and made a thorough search of the rest of the basement. Nothing suspicious turned up. On the other hand, they found no sign of the crates from the wine cellar. Which might have been suspicious, because there appeared to be no way in or out except up the stairs, through the pantry next to the kitchen. The windows were too small to admit anything bigger than a cat, and covered with sturdy wire mesh, besides. An old coal chute was boarded up.

Simon frowned when he saw it. “I wonder when that was done. The lumber and nails look new. But, judging from the boiler, coal hasn't been used as fuel in this house for at least twenty years."

"Maybe it was boarded up before, but the wood rotted and they replaced it.” Leslie shivered. “It's damp enough down here."

"Maybe.” Simon grasped Leslie's elbow. “Let's get out of here."

"Just a minute. I should take a bottle of wine to Cecil's, to go with dinner."

Simon handed her the flashlight and took the keys. “Wait. I'll get it."

In the kitchen, he paused at the door, the light in his eyes tantalizing her. “Want to come to Kerkira with me?"

Regretfully she shook her head. “I can't. Dinner with Cecil later, remember?"

"Stand him up. I'm much younger, have my own teeth—all around a better bet."

Leslie laughed. “Sorry, I couldn't disappoint him."

"Okay, then.” He turned toward the door, then spun around. He pulled her against his hard, sun-scented body, and kissed her soundly. “Think of this, when you're dining, oh, so properly with Mr. Weatherby."

She was unable to get Simon out of her mind as she sat in the garden. The heat had lost its edge, making the temperature pleasant in the afternoon, when most of the patio lay in shade. A loud wolf whistle startled her, and she dropped her book.

Something fell with a light metallic clink on the flagstones next to her. “Pretty Baby,” the mynah squawked from the silk tree over her head.

Leslie laughed. “You've escaped again, I see."

In the fork of the tree where he sat, she saw an assortment of bright objects. Not much of value: several keys, a soda can tab, a brass curtain ring.

She glanced down, remembering the clink she'd heard. At her feet lay a gold earring. Grasping it between two fingers, she held it up. It was set with what looked like a real diamond, winking as the sun hit it.

"Pretty Baby,” the mynah said again.

"Baby, where are you?” Eugenia demanded as she pushed her way through the gap in the hedge.

"It's a great day for gardening, isn't it?” Eugenia inhaled deeply, her formidable bosom stretching her neon pink T-shirt to the danger point. She scanned the trees. “Now where is that bird?"

"Up there.” Leslie smiled, watching the bird hop down onto Eugenia's shoulder. She held up the earring. “Is this yours?"