Killing Her Softly Read Online Free PDF Page A

a piercing wolf whistle.
    "He's got good taste, hasn't he?” Simon said conversationally.
    The bird whistled again, its bright eyes studying Leslie. “Pretty Baby."
    The impudence of the thing. In spite of the shock that remained as an icy knot in her chest, Leslie couldn't help smiling. This had to be the bird Cecil Weatherby said terrorized his dog.
    The woman shifted the mynah to a perch on her shoulder, where it promptly tangled its claws in the fringes of her scarf. She extended her hand. “You must be Leslie Adams. I'm Eugenia Turner."
    Giving Leslie's hand a firm, businesslike shake, she tilted her head in much the same manner as her bird had done. In fact, at once the bird on her shoulder mimicked the pose. Leslie fought to keep a straight face. “I'm happy to meet you. How did you know my name?"
    "Jason mentioned you,” Eugenia said. “Not that he ever talked to me much. Dour sort, wasn't he? He didn't like Baby at all. Used to get all upset if he came over here."
    "Aren't you worried that he'll get lost?” Leslie asked as the bird gave another high-pitched laugh.
    "Hush.” Eugenia admonished him. To Leslie, she said, “His flight feathers have been trimmed, so he can't get far."
    Leslie stretched out a tentative hand. The bird regarded her solemnly for a moment, then hopped onto her finger, claws gripping like cool, brittle twigs. Muttering in his throat, he preened his glossy black feathers. “Pretty Baby. Pretty Baby."
    "Come and have tea with me,” Eugenia said. “Tomorrow. At four. We'll talk.” Taking back the mynah, she headed for the door, her high-heeled mules clicking on the marble floor. The scent of her perfume lingered after her departure, like an aura infusing the room.
    "And where is it that I'm to join her for tea?” Leslie asked a little breathlessly.
    Simon straightened from his appraisal of the empty fireplace. “That's easy. Go around to the far side of the garage and you'll see a break in the hedge. That's the short cut. If you want the more formal entrance, just go down the street toward the village. It's the first driveway on the left. She's your nearest neighbor."
    "Has she lived here long?"
    "Years. She was born near here, but her husband was British. It was natural for her to retire here, since she had the house."
    "Then she'll be able to tell me where I can get a car. I want to do some sightseeing.” Snooping, she reminded herself. There were too many questions about Jason's death. “There seems to be nothing to rent. I asked yesterday in—what do you call it?—Kerkira?"
    "I think Jason had a car. You could use that. It should be in the garage."
    She cast him a sidelong look, debating the wisdom of letting him stick around longer than necessary. “Awfully helpful, aren't you, all of a sudden?” she said bluntly. “Especially after last night, when you were ready to run me out of town."
    A faint flush colored his elegant cheekbones. “I said I was sorry. It was more of a reflex than anything personal."
    She studied him for a moment longer. Whatever he was after, she'd figure it out sooner or later. Meantime ... “Okay,” she said briskly. “Let's find the keys."
    "They'll be in the kitchen. That's where Jason kept all the keys, next to the door.” He led the way down the hall.
    "You know your way around this place, don't you?” Leslie said. “Isn't that kind of odd, considering you and Jason weren't exactly friends?"
    "My father was a contractor. When I was a kid, I helped him do repairs around this house. It hasn't changed much."
    "Oh. Does your father still do that kind of work?"
    She saw his shoulders stiffen. All the earlier tension rushed back. “My father's dead, Mrs. Adams. And your husband was at least partly to blame. Here's the keys,” he added brusquely.
    Jason seemed to have a lot to answer for, Leslie thought dismally as they went out into the heavy heat of midmorning. One man's death, another's character assassination, to use Simon's own term.