Capturing Cleo

“I don’t want you to drive me home,” she protested, snatching her arm from his hand.

“I can’t let you go off like this,” he said sensibly.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, walking down the sidewalk and briskly away from him, reaching into her purse for her keys.

For a moment he forgot that she was part of a murder investigation and just…watched. Cleo Tanner was not a slender woman. She had ample hips and breasts that were practically poured into that black dress, and wonderfully shaped long legs beneath the too-short hem. Those legs ended in high-heeled shoes that no human being should be able to walk gracefully in. She definitely shouldn’t be able to stalk away from him so confidently, that gentle sway of her hips tantalizing and teasing him this way.

“Fine.” He surrendered. “I’ll follow you home and make sure you get there all right.”

“You will not follow me home,” she said, glancing over her shoulder with an angry toss of her long black curls.

She turned down a narrow alleyway that led to a small private parking lot. There were just four cars there—hers, Edgar’s, Eric’s and the barmaid’s, he imagined. Keys in hand, she headed for the ruby-red Corvette that was parked beneath a street lamp. It was several years old, but was in excellent shape…and it was, after all, a Corvette.

“Nice car,” he said to her back.

“Thanks,” she said tersely. “It was Jack’s, and it was the only thing I got out of our marriage that had any value to speak of. He hated me for leaving him, but he hated me more for getting custody of the car.”

“It’ll be all right here overnight. I’ll have a patrol car drive by—”

“Thank you, but it’s not going to be here overnight,” she insisted.

He was tempted to toss the obstinate woman over his shoulder and carry her home that way, but he didn’t think she’d stand for it. Still, she was in no condition to drive herself home.

Her hands trembled as she attempted to fit the key into the car door lock. She tried, but it wasn’t quite working for her. As the key finally slid into the slot, Luther reached around and placed his hand over hers. She jumped as if she’d been shocked, but he didn’t remove his hand. His fingers brushed the veins at her wrist; his body pressed close to hers kept her in place.

“I need to ask you a few more questions, anyway,” he said softly. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her. “I’ll drive you home, then in the morning I’ll pick you up, take you to the station to answer a few questions and then bring you back to your car.” This close, he could feel her deep tremble. And more. The softness of her body, the fascinating curves that fit him, somehow. “You’re in no shape to drive, Ms. Tanner. It’s not safe.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said again.

He slipped his fingers into her palm and confiscated the keys, snaking them easily into his own grasp and lifting them away.

“Hey!” she shouted, spinning on him as he took a step back. “Give me those keys!”

“I’ll give them to you when we get to your house,” he said, turning his back on her and heading for the alley that would lead to the street and his car. He didn’t have to turn to see that she followed. He heard the tempting click of her high heels against the asphalt.

“You have no right,” she began breathlessly.

“So call a cop,” he mumbled, just loud enough for her to hear.

She mumbled herself, something obscene and just short of threatening. Luther smiled. “I’ll drop you off, then pick you up in the morning at nine to take you to the station to complete my questioning.” Yeah, he still had plenty of questions about Jack Tempest and Cleo Tanner.

Cleo stayed a distance behind him but kept pace, her step clacking on the walk in a rhythmic way that made him want to turn and watch. He didn’t. He led the way to his car and opened the passenger door for her, facing her at last. Man, she was pissed, big time.

But she did slide into the passenger seat, giving him one last glimpse of those terrific legs in the light of a street lamp, as she pulled them in behind her.

He wondered if she’d bolt before he reached his seat and started the car, but she barely moved. As he pulled out of his parking space, she turned to glare at him.

“Ten,” she said softly but insistently. “I’m not a morning person.”

Cleo slammed the door of her duplex. Slammed it hard enough for that irritating cop to hear from where he sat, calmly watching from the car that idled at the curb.

She tossed the keys he’d taken from her onto the couch, threw her purse to land beside it and kicked off her shoes. How dare he? How dare he!

Rambo padded into the living room to welcome her, and Cleo bent to rub the dog’s soft head. “Hi, girl,” she said. “Did you miss me?”

Rambo, a golden-colored mutt of uncertain origin that was about the size of a bird dog, answered with a low woof that sounded suspiciously like a yes.

Cleo was heading for the bedroom to change clothes, when the soft knock sounded on the door.

“What now?” she snapped, spinning around and heading for the front door, Rambo at her heels. “Am I now incapable of finding my way to bed alone?” The very idea of Malone insisting on coming in and helping with that chore made her heart lurch.

She threw open the door, only after putting an unyielding expression of distaste and disgust on her face.

“Jeez,” a tinny voice said softly. “What happened to you?”

Syd Wade lived in the other half of the duplex. Cleo considered herself short, at almost five foot four, but Syd barely topped an even five feet. She had a neat head of medium-length very red hair and an almost girlish shape and face. An artist, Syd made her living with a small picture-frame shop, and painted portraits on the side.

“Sorry,” Cleo said, opening the door wide and shedding the tough expression. She glanced quickly to the street, and saw that Malone was gone. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Obviously,” Syd said as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “You’re home early, your car’s not in the driveway and you’re really mad at somebody. Gotta be a man.”

In spite of the disastrous evening, Cleo managed to smile. “You’re so astute.”

Syd knew her way around Cleo’s place, and not only because it was a mirror image of her own home. Syd and Cleo had stuck together through thick and thin. They’d shared holidays when neither cared to make the trip home to celebrate with their dysfunctional families: Cleo to Montgomery and Syd to Knoxville. They went to movies together, and commiserated when things went wrong. Cleo couldn’t paint and Syd couldn’t sing, but they were both artists. They understood one another.

And they talked about men. Cleo had given up. Three years of marriage to Jack was enough to ruin any woman. But Syd, who was a few years younger and had not yet been badly burned, still held out hope for finding that perfect man.

Syd made her way to the kitchen and took two tumblers from the cabinet. She poured juice in each glass and handed one to Cleo as she left the kitchen and made her way to her favorite chair in the living room. “Okay,” she said, plopping down and tucking her feet beneath her. “Tell all.”

Cleo sat on the couch and leaned back, Rambo at her feet. Her smile was long gone. “Jack’s dead.”

Syd’s eyes got wide, and she leaned forward in her chair. “What happened?”

“He either jumped or fell or was…pushed, from the First Heritage Bank building this morning.”

Syd’s mouth dropped open. “I heard about that! They didn’t give the victim’s name, but I saw it on the news when I got home, and there was a small article on the front page of the evening paper. Oh my God, that was Jack?”

Cleo nodded. She got cold again, and shivered. “I hated him,” she said. “I really, really hated him. But I used to love him. I was young and stupid,” she added, “but…”

“I know.” Syd rose from her chair, set her juice on the coffee table and sat beside Cleo, placing a comforting arm around her shoulder. “You probably don’t know whether to be mad or sad or happy, and I can’t blame you. Jack really did a number on you.”

Cleo shook her head. “It’s a shock, that’s all. I didn’t love Jack anymore, hadn’t for a very long time, but…but hearing he was dead made me remember a lot of old stuff.” She could still remember loving him, or, rather, loving the man she’d thought him to be. That first rush of what she’d thought was love had been so powerful, so beautiful. So false.

She had defied her family for Jack, had run away with him with her head and her heart filled with dreams and hope and love. Within three years he’d managed to kill them all. Heaven help her, she didn’t dare to dream anymore.

“No wonder you slammed the door when you got home,” Syd said, giving her a friendly squeeze. “Shoot, I thought I’d find the thing off its hinges when I came over to see what was wrong.”

“I didn’t slam the door on account of Jack,” Cleo said, her sadness quickly being replaced with anger. “This…this cop showed up tonight to give me the news, and I swear, I’m pretty sure he thinks I killed Jack.”

Syd snorted as she left the couch and returned to her chair, snatching up her juice along the way. “Moron. If he knew you at all—”

“And I am not finished with this guy,” Cleo interrupted. “He’s coming by tomorrow at ten to take me to the station to finish his interrogation.”

“Want me to come with you?” Syd asked, wide-eyed. “I can close the shop for a few hours.”

“No thanks. I can handle Malone.” I think.

“So, this Malone is the man who made you slam your door?”

“He wouldn’t let me drive home,” Cleo said, looking for confirmation that she’d been right in being incensed. “He said I was too upset and it wasn’t safe, and then he took my keys right out of my hand and insisted on bringing me home.”

“Oh,” Syd crooned, “that actually sounds kind of sweet.”

“Sweet?” Cleo took a swig of her own juice. “Malone is not sweet, not at all. He’s a…he’s a macho jerk.”

“Good-looking?”

“Syd!” Cleo shook her head in dismay. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“That’s a yes,” Syd said, with a small smile.

Cleo shook her head. “All right, if he wasn’t a cop, and if he didn’t think I’d pushed my ex-husband off a tall building, I might think he was…relatively handsome.” Gorgeous, actually, if only his dark eyes hadn’t been so tired. “But the man has a serious testosterone problem,” she added defensively.

“Too much or not enough?” Syd teased.

“Too much,” she muttered.

Syd leaned forward, hands spread wide. “All right. On the Barney Fife-Bruce Willis scale of masculinity, with Barney being one and Bruce being ten, where does this cop fit?”

Cleo sighed but didn’t hesitate. “Fifteen.”

Syd fell into peals of laughter, and Cleo couldn’t help but smile.

“I’ve got to meet this cop,” Syd said as she fell back.

“You do not.”

“A fifteen! I’m impressed. I need to judge for myself.”

“This from a woman who’s looking for a man who will slide along the scale to fit her every whim.”

Syd straightened her spine defensively. They’d had this discussion before. “What’s wrong with looking for a man who will rub your feet and cook dinner when you need a four, and be a warrior when you want a ten? Or a fifteen,” she said, with a waggle of her red eyebrows.

“Nothing,” Cleo said, “except that such a man does not exist.”

“Of course he does.”

Syd was so optimistic, and Cleo had given up on winning this argument long ago. Some things a woman has to learn for herself.

But Cleo would do anything to keep Syd from learning the lesson the way she had.

Last night it had been too dark to see much of anything, but by morning’s light Luther got a good look at Cleo Tanner’s place. She lived in a neat duplex in an old neighborhood, with tall, ancient oak trees by the curb and bushes growing wildly around the front porch. Those bushes would flower in the spring, he was almost certain. The yard was neat but not precise. There were spots of green in the dormant grass.

It was two minutes after nine when he left his car and made his way to Cleo’s front door. He could hope otherwise, but he didn’t expect she’d be happy to see him.

Too bad.

He knocked once, then rang the bell. Someone inside the place shuffled, then shouted “Just a minute” in a sleepy, huskily sexy voice that made his innards tighten. Luther smiled, but made sure the smile was gone before the door swung open.

Last night Cleo Tanner had been all vixen: slinky black dress, high heels, red lipstick. This morning she was straight from the bed. Curling black hair going everywhere, lips au naturel, though still lush and enticing. And instead of a slinky black dress she wore a T-shirt that hung to her knees. The T-shirt was purple and had a grinning spread-eagled cat in the middle of it: a paw rested over each breast.

She was yawning, but when she stopped yawning and realized who had awakened her, her golden eyes went wide and she slammed the door in his face.

“You’re not supposed to be here until ten!” she shouted through the closed door.

“I said nine,” Luther said, leaning against the closed door.

“I said ten!” she said, and then he heard her stomp away.

The door next to Cleo’s opened, and a petite redhead wearing jeans and a too-large denim shirt stepped out. She looked him over suspiciously.

“Detective Malone,” he said, lifting his jacket to flash his badge.

She was not intimidated. “I figured as much.” She mumbled something as she reached tentatively past him to try Cleo’s front door, finding it locked. “Fifteen, huh?” she muttered.

“Fifteen what?”

“Nothing.” She circled around him to the mailbox, which hung on the wall not two feet from the front door. In a few of these old neighborhoods, the mailman still came right to the door. The redhead reached behind the mailbox to grab a small magnetic box on the underside. She opened the container and took out a key, using it to unlock Cleo’s door.

Luther’s urge to smile disappeared. Not only did the woman not have a peephole in her front door, or the common sense to ask who was there when someone knocked, but she stored her spare key in such an obvious place that any self-respecting criminal would find it in a matter of seconds.

The redhead flashed him a small smile and slipped inside. A moment later she was back, holding the door open wide and inviting him in.

“Cleo’s in the shower,” she said, leading him into the living room. “You’re early.”

“Actually, I was two minutes late,” Luther said, glancing around. The place was as neat and plain on the inside as it was on the outside. Very homey, very feminine. The furniture was mismatched and looked comfortable, and a few odds and ends added color. There was even a vase of red roses on an end table. Something from the boyfriend, he imagined with a frown. Whoever that might be.

While he was contemplating possible suspects for the role of Cleo Tanner’s love interest, a big dog padded up to him and sniffed uncertainly.

“Be nice, Rambo,” the redhead said, then she fixed a calculating smile on Luther. “I’m Syd Wade,” she said. “I live next door.”

“Luther Malone,” he said, offering his hand. She took it and shook, very briefly.

“I have a picture-frame shop in town. I’ve Been Framed.”

“What?”

“I’ve Been Framed. That’s the name of my shop.”

Luther nodded, figuring it would not be nice to tell her he’d never heard of the place.

“And I would love to stay until Cleo gets out of the shower, but I have an order to put together before I open at ten. Since you’re a cop, I guess it’s okay to leave you here unsupervised.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“And for your information, there’s no way Cleo killed that moron she used to be married to,” she said defensively.

He agreed with her but wasn’t ready to say so aloud, so he just nodded an acknowledgment.

“Behave yourself while you’re waiting,” she said with a smile. “Or Rambo will get you. She’s a real tiger under all that hair and those big brown eyes.”

Luther looked down at the dog, whose big, friendly eyes and wagging tail did not jibe with the name Rambo.

Syd left, and Luther sat down on Cleo’s couch. Rambo joined him, placing her chin on his knee and looking up with eyes that begged shamelessly for love and attention.

“Okay,” he said, scratching behind the dog’s ears. He was almost certain Rambo sighed in delight.

No, he didn’t think Cleo killed Jack Tempest, but she was definitely involved. The grapefruit was no accident. In fact, it was downright creepy. If he’d thought Tempest had any reason to kill himself, he’d think the man had jumped with the grapefruit in his hand, just to point the finger at Cleo. From what little he’d learned, Tempest had done his very best to make Cleo’s life difficult since the divorce.

Stealing the publishing rights to the song she’d written and recorded years ago had only been the beginning. He hadn’t exactly let her go after the divorce. He kept turning up, like the proverbial bad penny, wherever she went. She moved, and a few months later he was right behind her. He managed a few unsuccessful musical acts, and a couple that had done fairly well. Surely his business had suffered when he’d given harassing Cleo so much time and attention, but he’d managed to do okay.

He’d tried to ruin her credit by listing her name on his old unpaid debts, causing her all kinds of grief. Whenever she seemed to be doing well, Tempest turned up to throw in a monkey wrench, somehow. He’d gotten her fired from countless singing jobs. He’d harassed her for years, while being very careful not to cross any legal line.

The latest bit was, Tempest was behind a petition to get Cleo’s liquor license revoked. Something about being too close to a church, even though the church in question was three blocks away and she’d been in operation there for over two years without a single problem.

Jack Tempest had either loved his ex-wife very much, or hated her beyond all reason. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, coming into the room and catching him daydreaming with his fingers enmeshed behind Rambo’s ears.

Cleo looked too damn good. Hair damp and curly, blue slacks and matching blouse snug, heels high—if not as audaciously high as last night—she was soft, nicely curved and feminine.

“I thought cops were like vampires and had to be invited in,” she said in a voice that was definitely not soft.

“Your neighbor, Syd, let me in.”

Cleo rolled her eyes and mumbled something obscene, and Luther forced back a smile.

“I don’t suppose you have any coffee?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I don’t drink coffee.”

“No wonder you’re not a morning person,” he said, rising slowly and pushing back the urge to find out if Cleo would growl and sigh if he rubbed behind her ears. She’d probably bite his hand off. Changing the subject seemed like a good idea.

“Why didn’t you ask who was at the door before you opened it?”

Cleo stared at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving. “I thought you were my neighbor. She often drops by in the morning before she goes to work.”

“And why in hell do you keep a key under your mailbox?”

She shook her head. “Sometimes Syd lets Rambo out when I work late, and sometimes I forget my key, and…it’s really none of your business where I keep my spare key.”

“It’s not safe,” he argued.

“Who are you,” she said. “Keeper of the city? Defender of the weak?”

“Watchdog over the stupid,” he added.

Her amber eyes narrowed. “So now I’m stupid.”

“No, but keeping your key—”

“I pushed my ex off a tall building and I’m stupid.” She did as she had last night, offering her hands to him, palms up, wrists together.

His eyes fell to the delicate veins there, to the curve of her wrists and the pale softness of her fingers.

“So cuff me, Malone. Take me in. Arrest me and get this over with.”

He leaned in, ever so slightly. Just enough to make Cleo lean back. “Don’t tempt me.”

Chapter 3

“This is not the police station,” Cleo muttered, as Malone pulled his gray sedan to the curb. “As a matter of fact, we’re not even close to the police station.”

Malone threw open his door and unfolded his long body from the driver’s seat, ignoring her statement. He rounded the car and opened her door for her, leaning slightly in. Like it or not, he took her breath away when he moved in close like this.

“The Rocket City Café has better coffee,” he said as he offered his hand to assist her from the car. She grudgingly placed her hand in his and stood. “Besides,” he added as he released her hand and closed the car door, “you’re nervous. The station would just make matters worse.”

“I am not nervous,” she retorted.

The annoying Detective Malone responded with a brief smile.

The Rocket City Café was a small restaurant with plastic red-and-white checkered tablecloths and a strange collection of patrons. Two old men sat in a corner booth and argued about local politics. A group of elderly women crowded around a table in the center of the room, and from the excited utterances about brownies and bundt cakes, it seemed they were planning a bake sale. A middle-aged waitress in a pink uniform and a white apron leaned against the counter where a No Smoking sign was prominent, and smoked as if she really enjoyed every puff. A very young short-order cook, with his long hair in a hair net, scrubbed the grill behind the counter. He was singing, and not very well.

When the waitress saw Malone she smiled and put her cigarette out in a nearby coffee cup. “Hey, Sugar,” she said, with a grin that transformed her face into a mass of wrinkles. “The usual?”

“Yeah, and…” He glanced down at Cleo. “What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t make me eat breakfast in front of you while you sit there and glare at me. Get something to eat. They have really great doughnuts here, and if that doesn’t grab you, they have pancakes. Eggs. Cinnamon buns.”

She stared at him silently.

He lifted finely shaped eyebrows and pinned those dark eyes on her. “At least get something to drink.”

The waitress was waiting. Malone was waiting. And Cleo just wanted to get this over with. “Orange juice,” she said, giving in too easily. “And toast.”

Malone led her to a booth against the window, where they could watch the people passing on the sidewalk. This position also placed them as far away as possible from the other customers, no doubt so he could interrogate her without having to lower his voice.

Cleo sat, and the old cushion sank.

“So,” Malone said, taking his own seat, which didn’t seem to sink quite so low. “Tell me about Tempest.”

Cleo fixed her eyes to Malone’s. He thought she was nervous? She’d show him. She could be fearless when she had to be, and she was not afraid of this cop or anyone else. “Jack was a mean-spirited, unfaithful, unscrupulous snake. Marrying him was the worst mistake of my life, and I am not sorry to know that I won’t ever have to see his face again.”

The waitress popped into the picture to place a huge mug of coffee before Malone and a tall glass of cold juice before Cleo. Their conversation ceased until she moved away.

“Do you know who killed him?” Malone asked calmly.

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“Probably not.”

Malone took a long swig of coffee. “Fair enough,” he said as he set the mug on the table. “I’ll need a list of everyone who was in the club last week when you told your little grapefruit joke.”

“If I can remember.”

“Do you have a gentleman friend, Ms. Tanner?” He didn’t look at her as he asked this question, but stared into his cup of coffee. “Someone who might have felt compelled to defend your honor and then leave a grapefruit behind so you’d be sure to know this murder was a…gift?”