Killing Her Softly (17 page)

To Leslie's surprise, when she called the Athens law office the next morning, the receptionist told her that Christos Papadopoulos was presently in Kerkira checking out some of the aspects of Jason's estate. She recited his phone number.

Excitement rising, Leslie dialed it. Another receptionist, again speaking excellent English, confirmed that Mr. Papadopoulos was presently there. Would it be convenient for Leslie to see him at four? It would.

Simon nodded when she told him. “We can drive to Kerkira now, if you like.” He grinned. “I'll show you the sights."

The address Leslie had scribbled down indicated a street near the Esplanade. At Simon's suggestion, Leslie parked the car in a quiet little square in the Old Town. “There's never any space near the park,” he explained. “It's not far to walk."

White clad cricket players stood on the lawn, like a scattering of seagulls on a meadow. Leslie heard muted applause as someone scored a point. She brushed her hand over her sweat-beaded forehead, wondering how they could play under the intense afternoon sun.

Simon had taken her around the Old Town, where she'd bought kumquat preserves and a wildly decorated T-shirt. After lunch they'd gone out to Pontikonissi, finding respite from the heat in the cool, dark church. Later, Simon had laughed as she sat on the sea wall, dabbling her feet in the water. Then he took off his shoes and joined her.

She couldn't remember when she'd enjoyed a day more. Or been with a man who could make her laugh and briefly forget her problems. They would return soon enough, she knew.

Papadopoulos, a short, bespectacled man with thinning hair, greeted them with a cordiality that changed to enthusiasm when Leslie handed him the will she had found in the attic. “Your husband's affairs have been, ah, difficult,” he said in passable English. “I understand you work in the financial field?” She nodded. “Then you know that this may take some time to finalize. But having the will is going to facilitate matters."

He tapped the envelope on the desk. “In the normal execution of these matters, I would study the document and call you back for an appointment. But as I am already working on the estate and I have ascertained that you are the only relative, I will open it now. You will understand that if there are irregularities or other beneficiaries, I may have to ask you to return at a later date."

"That's fine,” Leslie assured him. She waited, perched on the edge of her seat, while he slit the envelope and read through the two sheets inside.

He laid down the papers and looked at her, lips pursed and fingers steepled under his chin. “What is it?” she asked.

"I believe this is your husband's final will, since I have no other documents to dispute that. And it is dated the third of April, this year."

"Three weeks before he died,” Leslie said.

"That would be correct.” Papadopoulos's dark gaze moved to Simon, sitting silently beside her. “This may also be irregular, but do you want Mr. Korvallis to stay while I read it?"

Leslie glanced at Simon. She shrugged. What difference did it make? Sooner or later, he was bound to find out what was in the will. “Let him stay,” she said.

Papadopoulos nodded, picking up the will. “It's very simple, so I will dispense with the legal jargon. What it comes down to is that Jason Adams has left you, Leslie Adams, his entire estate, consisting of one house in Platania and the contents of the wine cellar in that house."

"Oh.” Leslie felt numb, overwhelmed. The house was hers. But what was she going to do with it?

"I'm afraid, my dear Mrs. Adams,” Papadopoulos went on, “that that's the good news. The bad news is that the house has a mortgage on it, the payments and the taxes are in arrears, and even if it were sold at anything near the market value, there would be little left."

So, he
had
been in trouble. A chill suddenly enveloped her. Was it possible that his death hadn't been an accident, but suicide?

"Do you have any idea what the market value of the house is?” Simon asked.

The solicitor pursed his lips. “Not offhand. A real estate agent would be happy to tell you."

"What about Jason's business?” Leslie asked.

"That's why I'm here, Mrs. Adams. We're trying to straighten that out. We have very few of his records, although he's retained me as his solicitor for a number of years. But he did most of his business in cash and in person. And it appears to have died with him."

Simon leaned forward. “Have you heard of a man named Harlan Gage? He claims to have been Jason's partner."

"Harlan Gage.” The lawyer riffled through the papers on his desk. “Yes, that name is mentioned. I'm not sure what their connection was."

"Maybe I can help,” Leslie said. “At the house, there's a box of papers. I think they document at least some of Jason's business. I've also had several offers to buy the house. I don't know how serious they are."

A ghost of a smile crossed Papadopoulos's face. “If you get a serious offer, I'd take it, if I were you. Jason had the house on the market two years ago, but it didn't sell."

His smile grew wider. “Actually, if the house burned down, you'd be in the clear, unless you were charged with arson. It's very well insured, and the policy is paid up until Christmas. But that's hardly a solution.” He looked at his watch. “I'm afraid I won't have time today, but could I pick up that box of papers tomorrow morning?"

"Of course."

In a daze, Leslie walked out into the breathless heat of late afternoon, barely aware of Simon beside her. It was just typical of Jason, after years of shutting her out, to die and dump his mess squarely into her lap.

"What are you going to do?” Simon asked, jarring her out of her disquieting thoughts.

"Do? I don't know. Sell, I guess. I wonder how much the wine cellar would bring."

"Plenty, I'll bet. Some of that Napoleon brandy is worth a fortune."

"Enough to cover the debts?"

"Probably more than enough."

"Not that I want anything for myself, you understand,” Leslie said. “I just want to clear this up."

Simon took her arm as they crossed a street. “Then let's find a place to have dinner. Things always look better on a full stomach."

The narrow, meandering streets of the Old Town were virtually deserted at ten that evening, except for lean, half-wild cats slinking away into the shadows. From a window above them, a clarinet wailed a plaintive melody.

"It's so sad,” Leslie said as the last note quivered and died on the night air.

"What?"

"The music,” she explained. “It's so sad, and so Greek."

"Our history is full of turmoil."

She laughed, half-bitterly. “So was—is—my life. I should have been Greek."

He stopped and faced her, his hands coming up to grasp her shoulders. “Let it go, Leslie. Leave the past behind. Jason's gone. You can't change what's happened, but you can determine your future. Give me a chance."

"I can't change it,” she said bitterly. “But I'd be stupid if I didn't learn from it, wouldn't I?"

And for that, he had no answer.

Leslie offered Simon the car keys, but he said she had to learn to handle the road at night as well as in daylight. She drove carefully, guiding the little car around the tight loops through the olive groves. The pale leaves of the trees appeared as insubstantial as ghosts in the glow of the headlights.

On a short straight stretch, a rusting Fiat passed her, then braked sharply at the next curve. Leslie slammed her foot down on her own brake. The Fiat roared away, leaving her coughing in the dust its wheels spun up beside the pavement.

She braked again, slowing down in anticipation of a long down grade.

She held her foot on the pedal. Odd, it felt soft. Frowning, she tried again, lifting her foot and setting it down firmly. The car jolted, slowing, but the pedal again sank to the floor. Definitely mushy. A red light on the dash blinked a warning, then went out.

"What's wrong?” Simon asked with that uncanny perception that never failed to surprise her.

"The brakes—they feel funny."

"Then stop, and I'll have a look."

"Here?” she asked, gesturing at the olive trees crowding the road, and the ditch guarding them.

"As soon as you have a chance."

She pressed the pedal to slow for a curve. “They seem all right now. I think we can make it to the village. It's just ahead."

The road leveled off, ran up another hill, then descended again, toward the village. Leslie stepped on the brake again, and this time she was horrified to find her foot sinking to the floor with no resistance. The dash warning light filled the car with a wash of crimson.

"Oh, hell,” she muttered. Frantically, she pumped the pedal. No use. She'd lost them. And from here it was all downhill to the village.

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One hand on the wheel, the other on the gear shift lever, Leslie swallowed the panic that dried her throat. Movie scenes notwithstanding, there was more than one way to stop a car, especially one as small and maneuverable as this.

Luckily, there were no tight hairpin curves between here and the village. Risking a glance at Simon, she saw that his face was grim as he braced one hand on the dash.

"If you go straight down, you'll end up in the sea,” he muttered.

"Soft landing, at least,” she said darkly.

She stepped on the clutch and shifted from fourth gear to second. The engine lugged ominously, a grinding roar echoing in her head. The car slowed.

Gratified that it was responding, she gently pulled up on the hand brake. If she could slow the car a little more, she knew she could stop it by turning into the track used by tractors entering the olive groves.

Her headlights picked out the break in the trees. She spun the steering wheel, narrowly missing a thick olive trunk. She jerked up the hand brake. The car shuddered to a stop, the engine stalling with a harsh cough.

Leslie rested her forehead against the steering wheel, dust settling around the car and drifting into the open window. Her heart pounded in her throat. It felt as if it would never beat at its normal pace in her chest again.

"Leslie, are you all right?” Simon's voice seemed to come from a great distance. “Where'd you learn to drive like that?” His voice cracked, and he grabbed her shoulder, pulling her against him. “Don't you ever scare me like that again."

"I don't want to scare myself like that again, either, thank you very much,” Leslie said shakily.

He hugged her close, and she let herself fall against his chest. His warm, hard chest, where she could hear his heart beating in double time. The gear lever dug into her thigh, but it was a minor discomfort compared to what could have happened.

Still holding her, Simon reached forward and turned off the Renault's head lights. “No use draining the battery. You must have lost the brake fluid. I saw the brake light come on."

Leslie nodded. “Yeah, it blinked before, but it stayed on just before the brakes died."

"Can you stand?” Simon asked.

She laughed unsteadily. “How did you guess?"

"Oh, I've had a few mishaps in my life. Fell off a roof once. Lost my lunch, and couldn't stand alone for half an hour."

He got out of the car and came around to her side to help her out. For a moment Leslie clutched the roof of the car, until the trembling of her legs subsided. “Wasn't there's a flashlight in the glove box?” Simon asked.

"I think so."

He got it out and knelt beside the car, shining the light underneath. He groped with his hand, then stood up and showed her his fingertips, shiny with oil. “You lost your brake fluid. Whether by accident or not, I can't tell, not until the car is towed and put on a hoist."

A chill ran over Leslie's skin. She shivered, hugging her arms around her chest. “It could have been an accident.” Even to her own ears, the statement sounded hesitant, as if she needed to reassure herself. The alternative was too horrifying.

"It could have,” Simon agreed. “But the mechanic checked the car over thoroughly the other day, and it was okay. Brake seals can deteriorate, but that doesn't cause entire system failure all at once. It's a gradual process, and you'd notice."

"The brakes were fine this morning. If it was tampered with, it had to have happened in Kerkira today."

"I think we'd better report this to Jimmy tomorrow morning,” Simon said grimly. “In the meantime, I guess we walk. Good thing it's not far."

The house appeared undisturbed, but Simon walked through all the downstairs rooms anyway, checking the locks on the doors and windows. The gray cat wound himself around his ankles, purring, apparently at ease.

Leslie picked up the cat, hugging him close. He nuzzled her, his whiskers tickling her chin. “I'm going upstairs. I need a shower."

"Just let me look around first.” Simon walked past her, loping up the stairs two at a time. After a moment, he called to her. “All clear. I see you're being careful about locking your balcony door."

She went slowly up and entered her room, aware of Simon standing on the landing. Was he waiting for an invitation to stay? She was tempted; the brake incident, on top of everything else, had shaken her and she didn't want to be alone. But having him here would lead to complications she felt in no condition to handle.

Not that he would force himself on her. He hadn't last night, had he? No, she was more afraid that she would fling herself at him, and never let him go home again.

In the glow of light from the hall, she could see the bed sheets in disarray, attesting to her haste that morning. She set down the cat. He stopped purring and stood in the middle of the room, ears pricked but tail down, growling faintly. Shaking her head at him, Leslie crossed over to the dresser to turn on the lamp.

In front of the mirror, she slipped off her earrings and unhooked the shell necklace she'd worn. Her white sundress was wrinkled, and an oily smudge decorated the front of it. She grimaced at her reflection. She looked like a ghoul, dead white face with hectic dots of red on the cheekbones.