wrought-iron benches sharply black, the paths smooth ribbons of swept gravel, the upthrust cliff of volcanic stone oppressive. Nothing marred the utter stillness.
A shadow moved.
I tried hard to distinguish one patch of shadow from another. I was sure, almost sure, that something had moved near the entrance to the poolroom.
As quietly as possible, I slid up the window and leaned out to press against the iron grille that barred my window. I heard the scrape of gravel beneath a shoe. I strained harder to see.
At the same time, I wondered frantically how best to rouse the household, how to call Tony, without warning the intruder. For whoever it was, whoever walked so softly across the patio, must be an intruder, or he would not be so careful to stay in the shadows.
My breath expelled in a sigh.
There was only an arm’s length of space that lay bare in the moonlight that the figure had to cross to reach the darkness of the colonnade.
I saw him for that instant, for the fraction of time it took him to move in the pale hard light of the moon until he reached the sanctuary of the colonnade. I didn’t see his face. I didn’t need to see it. I knew the shape of his head, the set of his shoulders.
Why should Tony Ortega move as quietly as a thief in the garden of his own home?
And, if he did, why should I care?
But I did care. I liked him. I liked the way he smiled and the way he moved. I liked the good humor in his eyes and the gentleness of his hands when he touched me. I stared down into the dark garden, puzzled and disappointed.
A door opened. In a brief flash of light. I saw Tony step inside the room and softly shut the door behind him.
That was the same door that had opened last night after the cry woke me. I had watched the patio and that door had opened, and I had heard a murmur of Spanish and the muted sound of sobbing.
I turned away from the window, crossed to the chair beside my bed, and found my dressing gown and slipped into it.
There was something both sinister and frightening happening at the Casa Ortega, and somehow, it involved me.
I was going to find out what it was.
Chapter 8
I slipped like a ghost past the living room where embers glowed in the fireplace and tiptoed down the stone stairs and paused beside the splashing fountain to listen. Knowing myself to be an intruder now, I crept to the door of the poolroom and watched a long moment to be sure the glimmering green water was empty, that the tables and chairs waited silently for players who would not come this night.
My soft slippers slapped against the tile floor. I stopped twice more to listen. The night seemed full of movement and sound, but each time there was nothing but the soft ripple of water, distant barking of dogs, and, once, the faint trill of a whistle.
I reached the sliding door and cautiously stepped out onto volcanic flagstones. The colonnaded wing loomed darkly to my left.
It must have taken me some few minutes to make that journey, to slip on a dressing gown and move uncertainly down the dark hall, to pass the living room and then to step quietly down the stairs, pausing to make sure no one was about.
It was only when I was outside, shivering in the chill air, that I realized I was not alone in the garden. First I strained to see into the shadows beneath the colonnade, where Tony had entered a room. The faint murmur of voices wasn’t coming from that direction. No, somewhere deep in the garden voices whispered as lightly as leaves rustling in a gentle breeze.
Now it was I who stepped from shadow to shadow, moving ever deeper into the garden. The deep, sweet scent of the roses and freshly turned damp earth mingled. Water fell softly in the central fountain. Once I stepped on a magnolia leaf and it crackled so sharply I knew the whisperers must hear. I waited, breath held, but the soft light whispers continued. Then it was silent. Footfall by footfall, I crept on. I was almost upon them when they spoke again. They were
A shadow moved.
I tried hard to distinguish one patch of shadow from another. I was sure, almost sure, that something had moved near the entrance to the poolroom.
As quietly as possible, I slid up the window and leaned out to press against the iron grille that barred my window. I heard the scrape of gravel beneath a shoe. I strained harder to see.
At the same time, I wondered frantically how best to rouse the household, how to call Tony, without warning the intruder. For whoever it was, whoever walked so softly across the patio, must be an intruder, or he would not be so careful to stay in the shadows.
My breath expelled in a sigh.
There was only an arm’s length of space that lay bare in the moonlight that the figure had to cross to reach the darkness of the colonnade.
I saw him for that instant, for the fraction of time it took him to move in the pale hard light of the moon until he reached the sanctuary of the colonnade. I didn’t see his face. I didn’t need to see it. I knew the shape of his head, the set of his shoulders.
Why should Tony Ortega move as quietly as a thief in the garden of his own home?
And, if he did, why should I care?
But I did care. I liked him. I liked the way he smiled and the way he moved. I liked the good humor in his eyes and the gentleness of his hands when he touched me. I stared down into the dark garden, puzzled and disappointed.
A door opened. In a brief flash of light. I saw Tony step inside the room and softly shut the door behind him.
That was the same door that had opened last night after the cry woke me. I had watched the patio and that door had opened, and I had heard a murmur of Spanish and the muted sound of sobbing.
I turned away from the window, crossed to the chair beside my bed, and found my dressing gown and slipped into it.
There was something both sinister and frightening happening at the Casa Ortega, and somehow, it involved me.
I was going to find out what it was.
Chapter 8
I slipped like a ghost past the living room where embers glowed in the fireplace and tiptoed down the stone stairs and paused beside the splashing fountain to listen. Knowing myself to be an intruder now, I crept to the door of the poolroom and watched a long moment to be sure the glimmering green water was empty, that the tables and chairs waited silently for players who would not come this night.
My soft slippers slapped against the tile floor. I stopped twice more to listen. The night seemed full of movement and sound, but each time there was nothing but the soft ripple of water, distant barking of dogs, and, once, the faint trill of a whistle.
I reached the sliding door and cautiously stepped out onto volcanic flagstones. The colonnaded wing loomed darkly to my left.
It must have taken me some few minutes to make that journey, to slip on a dressing gown and move uncertainly down the dark hall, to pass the living room and then to step quietly down the stairs, pausing to make sure no one was about.
It was only when I was outside, shivering in the chill air, that I realized I was not alone in the garden. First I strained to see into the shadows beneath the colonnade, where Tony had entered a room. The faint murmur of voices wasn’t coming from that direction. No, somewhere deep in the garden voices whispered as lightly as leaves rustling in a gentle breeze.
Now it was I who stepped from shadow to shadow, moving ever deeper into the garden. The deep, sweet scent of the roses and freshly turned damp earth mingled. Water fell softly in the central fountain. Once I stepped on a magnolia leaf and it crackled so sharply I knew the whisperers must hear. I waited, breath held, but the soft light whispers continued. Then it was silent. Footfall by footfall, I crept on. I was almost upon them when they spoke again. They were
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