Free Killing Her Softly by Freda Vasilopoulos Page A

apprehensively, remembering the mindless terror that had assailed her when they'd opened the basement door.
    Beneath her feet, she heard a whispering sound, a hissing sibilance, like voices in the distance. Her skin crawled. Could she be hearing the souls of Melanie, Jason and his parents, lost at sea and forever crying to be freed from their watery prison?
    No one's there, she told herself sternly, trying to shake off the fancy. She swallowed to moisten her dry throat, goose bumps breaking out on her skin. Nervously she backed toward the door.
    A moment later, she laughed ruefully. The drain in the floor. Water was running under a grate near her feet. The diameter of the hole told her it was probably a storm sewer, or the access point for a sump pump.
    Simon emerged from behind the boiler. “Looks fine.” He led her out, closing the door behind them. Leslie let out the breath she'd been holding. He eyed her closely. “Are you okay?"
    She shivered. “I don't like this place."
    "It's the cold and the dampness. You might find it has more appeal some August day when we're having a heat wave."
    "Not a chance,” she muttered.
    Simon grinned. “Let's have a look at the rest of the place while we're here."
    They passed what appeared to be more storage rooms. Random drafts ambushed her out of nowhere, making her jumpy. She kept her eyes on Simon's broad back, but even his presence gave her scant comfort. She knew little enough about him. And she'd had enough warnings that she wasn't welcome in the house. What was to stop him from leading her into a secret corner of the cellar and disposing of her?
    Get a grip, she rebuked her imagination. But she kept her eyes on the grotesque black shadows that climbed the walls ahead of them. The corners remained secretive, invisible, silent except for the rustling of a few dry leaves that must have drifted in at some point.
    Simon paused before a door made of massive oak planks crisscrossed with iron straps. It was closed by an ornate iron handle fitted with a modern dead-bolt cylinder lock. Checking the brand name engraved on the lock, he found the key to open it.
    It turned easily, as if it had been oiled yesterday. Simon frowned. “Someone's been taking good care of this."
    "Corfu Property Management,” Leslie said. “They told me Jason paid them in January, for the whole year. They have every intention of looking after it unless the lawyer told them otherwise."
    Cold air hit them, smelling of old dust and wine, a not-unpleasant yeasty scent. Mixed with it was an indefinable chemical odor. Again Leslie was gripped by a feeling of dread, as if icy fingers were crawling up her spine. She wanted to get out of here, out of the dank blackness and into heat and light.
    Ruthlessly, she dismissed the fear, chalking it up to a leftover childhood terror of dark closets where monsters lurked. Chiding herself for being a coward, she stood her ground.
    Simon groped for a switch, clicking on the inadequate light bulb. Leslie's mouth fell open. Sturdy wooden racks of bottles reached almost to the low ceiling. “Did Jason own all this?"
    Stepping forward, Simon took a dusty bottle from the nearest shelf, wiping off the cobwebs with the tail of his T-shirt. He whistled as he read the label. “I'd say it's been in the house for years, probably ever since the winery was operative,” he said, carefully returning the bottle to its place in the rack.
    A sudden thought struck Leslie. “If Jason's business wasn't going well, why didn't he sell them? He could have set himself up as a wine merchant. I don't know much about wine but some of these bottles should be pretty valuable by now, after sitting down here for seventy-five years."
    "Some of it's been sitting longer than that,” Simon said. “If I remember the old story, the wine cellar existed here before the house was built."
    They turned back to the door. “What are those crates?” Leslie asked, pointing to the heavy wooden boxes stacked to the