Killing Her Softly

by Freda Vasilopoulos

  "They took away the body, then?"

  "Yes. He said not to disturb the attic, though, in case an investigator wants to have another look.” Simon opened the fridge door. “How about a drink? I've got orange juice, lemonade, white wine."

  "Lemonade will do, please."

  As he poured it out and handed her a glass, he searched her face. Gently he laid one finger beneath her eyes. “You've got black circles. You need more rest."

  "Thanks,” she said with a faint edge to her voice.

  "You can stay here tonight.” The words were casual, but a flicker of emotion in his eyes told her the invitation was not.

  She grasped the lemonade glass between her palms, anchoring herself to the cold wetness. She was acutely aware that Simon's invitation carried more than an offer of a bed. He was offering himself, as well, and asking her to accept that offer.

  Was she ready for this? She and Jason had formally separated two years ago, but they hadn't shared the same room for at least a year before that. Sex had not been a priority in her life, but Simon stirred feelings in her she didn't understand. And it was tempting to immerse herself in them, to forget the horror of her discovery.

  And yet, she was scared. Could she really give herself to another man, share that intimacy of body and soul with him?

  "You didn't happen to see a stray bunch of keys, did you?” Simon's voice cut through her indecision.

  She almost gulped in relief that he wasn't going to push it.

  Groping in her pocket, she pulled them out. “These? Baby brought them to me this morning.” The color abruptly drained out of her face, her skin turning icy cold. “How did you know about the keys?"

  She struggled to her feet, her balance shaky, and braced her hands on the table. “What's happened to Jason?” Her voice rose. “You know something, don't you? That's why you asked all the questions, didn't you?"

  Simon let his eyes fall closed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Leslie, please. I found the keys. In the car, after Jason's accident."

  "So you could have gotten into the house.” Her strength gone, she sat down again. “I knew I shouldn't have trusted you."

  "Leslie, it wasn't like that—” He swallowed hard, visibly fighting for control. “Look, Leslie, if I'd had a key this morning, I wouldn't have had to break into your house.” He dragged the collar of his shirt aside, revealing the jagged, red scrape on his shoulder. “This didn't exactly tickle, you know."

  Remorse filled her, but not enough to drive out the demons of distrust formed during her childhood and reinforced by Jason. “I'm sorry,” she said. “But I have to go. Goodbye, Simon."

  She walked briskly out the door to her car, a rush of adrenaline overcoming the shaking in her legs. Thrusting the key into the ignition, she cranked over the engine. It coughed and stalled. She tried again, and it started. She glanced over at the house. Simon stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable, but he made no move to stop her. She stepped on the clutch. Gears grinding harshly as the wheels spun in the loose gravel, she drove off.

  * * * *

  Leslie sat on the window seat in the bare dining room long after dusk stole across the sky and shrouded the garden in gloom. Her stomach felt hollow and empty, but she ignored it, knowing she would never be able to force a bite of food past the constriction in her throat.

  The house gave her a creepy, spooky feeling, but where else could she go?

  The gray cat crept across the hardwood floor on silent paws. He meowed inquiringly before jumping up beside her. She lowered her knees and gathered him onto her lap. “Oh, cat,” she murmured into the velour-soft fur, “what am I going to do?"

  She had been ready to trust Simon. More than trust him.

  And now she realized he could be behind the attempts on her life.

  No! Her logical mind rebelled. No. If he intended to kill her, he wouldn't have rescued her from the attic. But the fact remained that he knew more about Jason's death than he'd told her. And he'd had a key to the house all along. She couldn't help but feel betrayed.

  The cat purred in her arms, but she drew little comfort from his warmth. It was starting all over again, her involvement with a man who couldn't be trusted. She'd begun to like Simon, to believe in his integrity.

  But she'd been wrong before, hadn't she? She'd given Jason her trust and her loyalty. And he'd eventually counted both as no more valuable than dust.

  Hadn't she learned? Not a hell of a lot, apparently.

  * * * *

  She was standing at the stove, scrambling a couple of eggs for a late supper when the cat ran, meowing happily, to the door. A moment later, a heavy fist landed on the panels.

  She opened it, scowling, hoping to discourage him. She might have known Simon wouldn't stay away, not only because of her precipitate departure but because of his protective instincts, knowing she was all alone in the house she was beginning to think was haunted.

  "Yes?” she said coldly.

  "May I come in?” Steady eyes, no hint of apology.

  The absence of guilt in his demeanor shook her resolve.

  "Why?"

  "Because we have a number of things to talk about.” He picked up the cat that was fawning at his feet.

  "And if I say we don't?” The sight of those strong fingers gently kneading the cat's fur reminded her of how they'd felt on her face, gently washing moisture back into her skin, checking her pulse.

  He must have sensed the falseness of her bravado. A smile played across his lips. “I'm bigger than you, so if I want to come in, you can't stop me."

  His humor sent some of her demons into hiding. “I guess that's true.” Not allowing herself to smile in return, she stepped aside. But she wasn't going to fall for any sweet talk, she reminded herself, stiffening her spine. Not ever again. “Have you eaten?” she asked, gesturing at the pan. “I can add a couple of eggs."

  "Thanks. I'm okay. I ate a while ago.” He pulled out a chair and straddled it, resting his arms on the back. “Have you heard from the solicitor?"

  "Not so far.” Leslie transferred the eggs to a plate, adding tomatoes she'd cut up earlier, and a couple of slices of bread. She put them on the table and sat down to eat.

  "Why don't you call their office and see if they've made any progress?” Simon said after a moment.

  "Yes, I'll do that.” Leslie swallowed the last mouthful of salad. “Did you get the box from the attic this morning?” she asked, casting a troubled look at the ceiling.

  "Yeah. Jimmy said it was okay. Do you want me to bring it in here?"

  She cleared away her dishes and spread the contents of the box on the table. Within twenty minutes she knew she'd been right about the box. It held ledgers detailing Jason's business. At least that was what she assumed they were, because the entries consisted of dates and amounts of money. No words appeared anywhere, only cryptic combinations of numbers and letters that didn't appear to follow any set pattern.

  "Some kind of code,” Simon suggested. “Not that it matters, if he's dead. The business died with him."

  "Except for Harlan Gage,” Leslie said slowly. “If it's true what he said. And unless we know for sure whose side he's on, I can't ask him what this all means."

  She closed the last ledger and lifted it to return it to the box. It was then that she noticed the corner of an envelope protruding from the crossed flaps at the bottom of the cardboard box. She dropped the ledger and pulled it out. Words typed on the envelope jumped out at her: Last Will and Testament of Jason Adams.

  "What's that?” Simon asked, tiredly rubbing his eyes.

  A broad smile spread over Leslie's face. “No wonder that solicitor in Athens was so vague about Jason's affairs, mumbling something about an incomplete will. I think we just found the will, and I'm sure they'll be most interested to have it."

  To her disappointment, Simon didn't look impressed. “Tomorrow. We'll call him tomorrow.” He got up, yawned, and stretched. “It's late."

  He paused, looking s
traight at her, and added in a tone she knew better than to argue with. “I'm staying tonight.” Going to the kitchen door, he opened it and brought in a small duffel bag. “And before you go all Victorian maiden on me, I'm sleeping down here, where I'll know if anyone tries to get in any of the doors."

  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.

  Sh
e 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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  Chapter Ten

  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.