Killing Her Softly

by Freda Vasilopoulos

  Leslie laid down the brush and pulled out a drawer, rummaging under the clothes in it. “I'm sure I put it in here,” she muttered. Her movements became frantic. She threw lacy underwear onto the floor, finally pulling out the drawer until Simon could see its bottom.

  He sat up, all languidness vanishing. “Are you sure that's the right drawer? Maybe it was one of the others?"

  She pulled each one out. “They're all empty."

  Simon swung his feet to the floor. “That does it. Either our prowler's been back, or one of the cops going through the house today took it. And that's highly unlikely."

  The color drained from Leslie's face. Simon drew her toward him, into the cradle of his thighs as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Don't worry about it, Leslie. Not tonight. Remember the notes and the roses? They disappeared, as well. Your admirer doesn't seem to want you to keep anything."

  "All the doors are locked, aren't they?"

  He nodded, his thumbs tracing a delicate pattern along her throat. “Windows, too. I stuck a chair under the basement door handle. We're safe."

  Leslie gnawed at her lower lip. “I guess,” she said uncertainly.

  "No one can get in,” Simon said forcefully. “I promise you. Now come to bed. It's time we got some sleep."

  "Sleep?” she asked, mischief coming into her eyes. She pressed closer. “I think at least one part of you isn't ready for sleep."

  Simon grinned. “I'm waiting patiently."

  Leslie made an impudent face at him and stepped back. Unzipping her jeans, she dropped them on a chair. They made a loud clunk as they landed. Her mouth fell open. “The keys. I forgot about the keys."

  "What keys?” Simon sat up.

  "The first keys the mynah brought. I wanted to try them in the bomb shelter lock. That's why I was in the wine cellar."

  "And Gage interrupted."

  "No, the armoire was locked. I couldn't open it. Gage came just as I was going to get a screwdriver."

  Simon settled back against the pillows, his bare skin gleaming in the soft lamplight. “It can wait until morning, can't it?” he said unenthusiastically.

  She pulled the jeans back on, briskly zipping them. “No, it can't. It'll keep me awake all night, wondering. But you don't have to come. The entrance to the tunnel is nailed shut. I'll be okay."

  He pushed himself to the edge of the bed, standing up. Her mouth went dry as she stared at the hard, lean lines of his body. Putting out a tentative hand, she touched the warm, resilient skin. She tenderly traced the minor cuts from broken glass and the almost healed laceration from when he had hurled himself through the window to rescue her from the attic.

  "You could have been hurt, you know,” she said huskily. “Why didn't you leave me with Gage? What good would it have done if we'd both been killed?"

  "I couldn't leave you with him,” Simon said simply. “I couldn't take the chance.” He broke off, his eyes falling closed. Stepping forward, he pulled her against him and just held her for a long moment. Then he let out a shuddering breath and released her, his lips curving as he dropped a kiss on her forehead. “On account,” he said. “You'll get the rest as soon as we wreck your blasted armoire and satisfy that cat's curiosity."

  * * * *

  Simon sniffed the damp basement air as they passed the furnace room. “I'm still thinking I smell gas."

  "How can you tell? It reeks in here of brandy and wine. What about the drain in there? Is it sewer gas?"

  He exhaled. “Possibly. The water table's low at this time of year. Sometimes that causes it."

  "Is it dangerous?"

  "Only in large quantities. The smell isn't very strong."

  Although the glass had been swept up by one of Jimmy's officers, the wooden floor was still damp in places. Simon dispatched the armoire lock by twisting a screwdriver in the keyhole until it released. The inner panel opened easily, revealing the solid wooden door with its modern lock. “Let me have those keys."

  Silently, Leslie handed them over, tensely holding the flashlight while he tried one after another until she heard a sharp click. “That's the one. Leslie, give me the flashlight, please, although if it's a room, it's probably wired."

  "Let me see, too.” She crept forward, placing her hand on his shoulder, the skin cool beneath her fingers.

  He pushed the door open. Not unexpectedly, the hinges moved silently, obviously well oiled. A musty smell, reminiscent of herbs or dried flowers, greeted them.

  Simon flipped the light switch next to the door. Nothing happened. He played the flashlight beam around the room, revealing shelves loaded with canned goods and bottled water. In the far corner stood a cot, half hidden under a rumpled pile of blankets. A dusty light bulb hung suspended from the low ceiling.

  All senses alert, he circled the room, examining the food supplies, a shelf of books, a small gas hot plate with no bottle of gas attached. “This doesn't look like a bomb shelter. It looks more like a prison cell.” He pulled aside a curtain on the wall directly opposite from where they'd entered.

  "Another entrance?” Leslie asked.

  "Actually, it's a bathroom, toilet and sink.” He turned the flashlight toward the wall, leaving Leslie in almost total darkness. “Wait a minute, I think it is a door.” She heard a muffled thump. “Looks like it's bolted from the other side. I'm going to get the hammer and see if I can remove one of the boards."

  Leslie stood beside the cot, blinking in the flashlight beam as he emerged from the alcove. The musty smell seemed stronger. Probably from the pile of old woolen blankets.

  She pulled at one to straighten it. At that instant, the light passed across the bed.

  Blonde hair spilling over a cobwebbed pillow. A naked skull grinned toothily at her.

  Leslie's breath froze in her throat. Like a doll losing its stuffing, she sank to the floor in a dead faint.

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  Chapter Fourteen

  Bitter nausea rose in Simon's throat as he looked down at the skeleton on the cot. For a moment he felt light-headed and feared he would join Leslie on the floor. He took a deep breath, nearly gagging as he swallowed several times to control the churning in his stomach.

  He knelt beside Leslie, groping for her wrist. Her pulse was a little fast, but strong. He shone the light on her face. Her eyelids fluttered. She was about to come out of it. “Leslie,” he said softly. “Wake up. We've got to get out of here."

  Her mouth moved, but no sound emerged. She opened her eyes, lids heavy and languid. She half smiled. “Simon,” she said.

  Then the horror returned. She struggled against his gentle hold, her eyes frantic. “Jimmy. Did you call Jimmy?"

  "Not yet,” he said, as calmly as he could. “I didn't want to leave you."

  She closed her eyes, and a shudder racked her body. “What's been going on in this house?” she whispered.

  "I don't know,” Simon said grimly, feeling sick. “But we're going to find out.” He pulled her up, keeping one arm around her waist. “Can you stand?"

  Leslie swayed, then found her balance. “I think so."

  He led her to the door. “Just wait here for a second. I want to have another look at that body."

  She nodded shakily and stepped through the armoire, standing with her arms hugging her waist. Simon went back to the cot, bracing himself for what he would see.

  He let the blankets that were piled untidily on the cot slide to the floor. Underneath them, a single blanket and a sheet covered the skeleton, as if someone had tucked her lovingly into bed, ghoulish as that thought was. He lifted the folded blanket. She was dressed in a prim cotton nightgown, buttoned to the neck. Faded rose petals and crumbling lavender flowers lay scattered around her on the bottom sheet. That accounted for the herb smell they'd noticed; a body this long dead had little or no odor.

  He pulled up the blanket again and was about to turn away when the light reflected off a shiny object. A low whistle escaped his lips. Half hidden in the lace collar of the
nightgown, he saw the necklace that Leslie received.

  He played the flashlight beam on the bookshelves above the cot. The flat jeweler's box lay there, along with a tiny vase that held an almost fresh rosebud. Red, like the roses that kept appearing upstairs.

  Crouching down, he looked under the cot. Dust bunnies swirled away from the slightest movement. “I might have expected it,” he muttered as he used his handkerchief to pull out an old-fashioned suitcase. It had once been expensive, the leather still supple. A gold monogram adorned the side of it, ALC.

  A for Allegra?

  Still holding his handkerchief, being careful not to smudge any prints that might be on the handle, he unsnapped the locks. They opened readily, revealing an assortment of dresses, skirts, bathing suits, and underwear. Thoughtfully, he closed the case and pushed it back under the bed.

  "It's completely bizarre,” he said to Leslie as he took her arm. “I've never seen anything like it."

  "Is that Allegra, by any chance?"

  "I suspect it is. The initials on the suitcase are ALC. What's really odd, though, is that someone must be visiting her regularly."

  "Yes, but who?” Leslie said faintly.

  "Good question. Is it possible it was Jason?"

  Another shudder ran through her. “What about Cecil? After all, he has the painting of her."

  "That's true. And there's Gage to consider. He wanted to look in the armoire.” Simon frowned. “No, it can't be him. Gage was only in his thirties. I'd say, from the clothes in the suitcase and the condition of the body, she's been dead for at least twenty-five years, possibly longer."

  They reached the top of the stairs. Simon felt Leslie trembling as he led her across to a chair. Under the bright kitchen light, her face looked as pale as cheese. “Are you all right?” he asked, wondering if she felt faint again.

  "If I could have a glass of water, please."

  She made a visible attempt to pull herself together as she raised the ice water to her mouth. The glass clicked against her teeth. Holding it steady with both hands, she managed to drink most of it. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Thanks."

  She took a deep breath, grimacing as if she hurt inside. “It's the same as Melanie, isn't it? A hidden body, not likely to be found unless the house was searched from top to bottom."

  Simon tapped his fingers on the table. “Not quite the same as Melanie. She was just left in the trunk. This is more like a shrine."

  "And I'm supposed to be next,” Leslie said dismally. She jumped up from the chair. “I'm getting out of here,” she said, her gaze swinging wildly around the room. “I'm not staying in this house a minute longer."

  Simon gently pushed her back into the chair, kneading her shoulders. His own hands were unsteady, and his stomach lurched uncomfortably. He imagined he could still smell the sweet scent of death and flowers. He dragged in several breaths, steadying his stomach.

  Going over to the door, he opened it, letting a fresh breeze carry in the scent of growing plants.

  Two bodies, now. Three, counting Jason's, but that didn't fit the pattern, and they already knew who had killed him—the greedy Mr. Wheeler.

  Two bodies, both women, both blonde, both hidden. The evidence pointed to a single killer. A killer who also stalked Leslie.

  He glanced out of the open door. Dawn was creeping across the clear sky. A soft gray light filled the kitchen, promising another gorgeous summer day. Had it been a lovely day like this when the woman downstairs had died?

  Obsession. Love gone wrong.

  "Do you remember a movie that's on late night television sometimes?” he said musingly. “The Collector. It was about a man who locked a woman up and kept her, imagining he was in love. I wonder if this was the same kind of obsession."

  Leslie looked at him, her eyes large and frightened in her white face. “He wanted to collect me, as well."

  Simon's heart twisted painfully. In two strides, he reached her, lifted her from the chair, and folded her into his arms. “I'm not going to let him. He'll have to go through me to get to you.” He set her back on the chair. “Wait here while I call Jimmy."

  He came back from the living room within minutes. “Is he coming?” Leslie asked.

  "I didn't get him.” Simon pushed his hand through his hair. “The phone's dead.” He took her hand and pulled her up. “We'll try another phone. But first I'm taking you home."

  "I'm sorry, Simon, but I can't let you do that."

  The voice that spun them both around was soft, almost regretful. Cecil stood in the pantry doorway, his face unshaven, his clothes rumpled, as if he'd slept in them. Scruffy's furry face peered out at them from the crook of Cecil's elbow.

  Leslie, exhausted from a night without sleep and from the traumatic events that had kept her up, had a sense that this wasn't really happening. At any moment she'd wake up and find herself in her bed.

  Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat. The old man and the dog—for the first time she noticed the similarity between them. They would have looked ludicrous, except for the gun in Cecil's other hand.

  The gun he pointed straight at them.

  "I can't let you take her away, Simon. She's mine."

  "I belong to myself,” Leslie said, setting her jaw. “No one else."

  "And I won't let you have her,” Simon said, placing himself in front of her. “Not like the others. You fixed the phone, didn't you? And the lights."

  Cecil's hand wavered, and momentary confusion clouded his eyes. “Phone?” He nodded, his eyes clearing. “Yes, I fixed the lights and the phone. You won't need them now. It was simple. I rigged a timer, to give the appearance that someone was at home when Jason was away on business. It worked without or without the fuse box. It also discouraged people like Mr. Gage from snooping around."

  Simon's mouth dropped open. “You knew about the guns."

  Cecil nodded. “Very inconvenient when you came, Leslie. Jason and I had to move them out of the wine cellar. It wasn't easy getting them into the tunnel."

  "There are two tunnels, aren't there?” Simon said. “The other one is behind the room with the body, isn't it?"

  "Yes, but you can't use it,” Cecil said smugly. “Only I know how to control it, and I don't need a key. Jason never knew about it."

  "But you were hiding Jason,” Leslie said, a mélange of emotions seething beneath the determined neutrality of her voice. “Did you help him fake the accident with the sailboard?"

  A shadow crossed Cecil's face, and his fingers tightened on the gun. Leslie felt the tension in Simon's body as he braced himself to defend her. She gently moved the hand he held in front of her and stepped ahead, to stand at his side. Returning his questioning look with a faint smile, she laced her fingers through his. “We're in this together,” she whispered.

  "Well, Cecil?” she said, more loudly.

  Without taking his eyes from them, he put Scruffy on the floor, where the dog sat, growling in his throat. Cecil admonished him and took a firmer grip on the gun. “Yes, we staged the accident. I picked him up with the boat the shepherd saw. We had to do it. The last gun deal was going wrong, and Jason had received serious death threats. And Gage made everything even more precarious. He was an old business rival of Jason's."

  "Goes to show you shouldn't do business with criminals,” Simon said.

  Cecil's eyes glittered and he lifted the gun. “Please, Simon, I don't want to hurt you."

  "Put the gun down and no one will be hurt."

  Cecil appeared not to hear. His eyes swung to Leslie, his expression wistful. “You should have loved me, Allegra. You should have loved me. I can't let you leave."

  He'd gone completely over the edge, Leslie realized, her fear turning to pity. The old man looked fragile and unhappy. And possibly insane. But that could work in their favor, if they played it right. He thought she was Allegra. If she could play on his memory, they might have a chance of getting out of this alive.

  "I did love you,”
Leslie said, taking a gamble.

  "No, you didn't, Allegra,” he said sadly. “You wanted to go away. I had to keep you safe. But you just lay there, not eating, not talking. But I took care of you. For thirty years, I took care of you."

  Abruptly he reached out and grabbed Leslie's hand, keeping his gun trained on Simon, who was forced to let go of her. “Your hair is so pretty,” Cecil said, stroking his hand down its glossy length. “Just like hers."

  Back in the present, then, Leslie realized, steeling herself to stand still under his touch. She was almost convinced that he wouldn't shoot them. Especially if she could keep him talking. Sooner or later Jimmy would try to call, and when he discovered the phone was out of order, he would come in person.

  If she could keep Cecil occupied until then...

  She heard a raucous laugh from the garden, through the open door, and hope rose in her. Baby was out again. Which meant Eugenia might be here at any moment, looking for them. All they needed was a small distraction, and they could grab Cecil's gun.

  Cecil glanced at the open door. “That stupid bird of Eugenia's. He kept interfering, stealing keys. It inconvenienced us a great deal. For a while we couldn't get the guns from the wine cellar, until the bird left the keys here and we got them back. Nice of you to leave the stuff he brought on the kitchen table, Leslie.” He frowned. “There was one key ring we never found, though."

  "The ones we used to get into Allegra's room,” Leslie said.

  Cecil nodded. “Luckily, I didn't need it."

  "When exactly was Allegra staying here?” Simon asked.

  "One summer, thirty years ago.” Cecil's face grew soft and dreamy. “The summer I was having my house built. We each rented a room in this house. She spent all her time with me. But September came, and she was going to leave. Dear Allegra, why didn't you love me as I loved you?"

  "She would have come back,” Leslie said in a soothing tone. “She would have."

  "What about Melanie?” Simon asked, edging closer to Leslie again.

  Cecil roughly cleared his throat. “Melanie,” he said in a contemptuous voice. “She kept coming to Platania. Her hair was so pretty, shining like gold in the sun. I sent her flowers and gifts. She thought they were from Simon. After Simon left that night, I told her she didn't need him. I told her I would love her. She laughed and called me an old man.” His gaze shifted from Leslie to Simon. “You were wise, Simon. She was a witch. She had to be eliminated. She couldn't love anyone except herself."