CAPTURING CLEO

by Linda Winstead Jones

“Why not?”

  Because no one got that close. Because she already liked Malone too much. “I just… don’t.”

  “Good argument,” he muttered dryly.

  “If there really is someone out there who’s fixated on me, don’t you think it might be a little dangerous to pretend to be my...” Oh, she couldn’t say it. She absolutely, positively could not look Malone in the eye and say lover. “Boyfriend?”

  He grinned. “That’s the idea, darlin’.”

  “Please tell me I don’t have to call you Sugar or Honey or Pooh Bear.”

  “Luther will do.”

  He’d met a thousand women like Thea Woodson, in his years on the force. They were innocent bystanders, victims of crime, and long-suffering relatives. They were never suspects. They often dabbed at their eyes with starched hankies, if they thought they should, but hysterics were not in their repertoire. Cleo was right: To commit a crime of passion, you had to possess some passion. Thea had none, and neither did her annoying twit of a husband.

  Palmer wasn’t completely stupid. He hadn’t looked directly at Cleo since they’d met in the restaurant parking lot. He kept his head down, his eyes averted. When he did get brave enough to lay his eyes on anyone other than his wife, it was usually Luther. Palmer was curious. Surprised. And more than a little afraid.

  Before Palmer headed back to Montgomery, he was going to get a little sermon on the folly of messing with Cleo. He might be playing it safe today, since Cleo was not alone, but what would happen the next time she went to a family gathering and the bastard cornered her somewhere?

  Not looking at Cleo had to be a chore. She was dressed more conservatively than usual, in a navy-blue dress with a high collar and a hem that touched her knees. But nothing could disguise the figure beneath the dress, and the way she walked... There ought to be a law.

  “So,” Thea said, laying her eyes on Luther as she played with her salad. “Is law enforcement a family profession?”

  “No,” he said succinctly.

  “Well, you seem to be an intelligent man. I suppose you have plans to study the law. Or run for some kind of political office, or—”

  “Luther is a cop, Thea,” Cleo said. “He likes being a cop. He will always be a cop. Right, honey?”

  He cut his eyes to a very amused Cleo. She was always beautiful, but when she smiled she lit up the room. Even when it wasn’t real. “That’s right, darlin’.”

  “Well,” Thea continued, undeterred. “What does your family do?”

  “My mother waited tables, until she died. I was eleven. I never knew my father.”

  Thea paled, no doubt horrified that her sister had taken up with a man who had such a common background. Luther didn’t care, not anymore. There had been a time, though, when he’d hidden the sad facts of his childhood from everyone.

  “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “No.”

  Palmer wagged his fork in Luther’s direction. “If you ever want a job selling cars, just give me a call. We’re always looking for—”

  Luther gave Palmer a glare that silenced him in mid-sentence.

  Thea straightened her already rigid spine. “It’s just that I know how little police officers make, and it’s such a thankless job...”

  “You don’t have to try to find Luther a new job,” Cleo said sharply. “And you don’t have to worry about me sullying the good family name by marrying a cop. We’re not engaged, we’re just sleeping together.”

  Thea was sufficiently embarrassed, as Cleo had no doubt known she would be. The woman pursed her lips and paled, then blushed. “I was just being friendly.”

  “Besides,” Cleo said, “if you ask me, cops are a lot more noble than car salesmen or football players or interior decorators. I can live without those people in my life, but I would hate to live in a world where we didn’t have men like Luther watching out for us.”

  “There’s no need to get defensive,” Thea said.

  “I’m not defensive,” Cleo said as she set her fork down. “I’m pissed.”

  No wonder Cleo didn’t like to go home to her family for the holidays. He suspected she and Thea always butted heads this way.

  Luther placed his hand on Cleo’s knee; she jumped and jerked her head around to look at him.

  “It’s okay,” he said softly.

  “It’s not,” she answered. “You shouldn’t have come. This always happens.”

  “Why don’t we talk about something else,” he suggested. “What about Jack? No one liked him, right? I imagine that’s a subject you can all agree on.” Besides, he would love to hear what Thea and Palmer thought about Jack. Cleo didn’t see them as suspects, but Luther did. At this point, anyone and everyone was a suspect.

  “I kinda liked Jack,” Palmer muttered.

  “He stole the publishing rights to the songs I wrote!” Cleo snapped.

  “No,” Thea said. “You signed them over to him. That’s not stealing.”

  Luther looked down at his salad. It was going to be a very long lunch.

  Thank goodness Thea and Palmer had decided they needed to retire early and would not be coming to the club this evening. A few hours with her sister drained her. An entire day might be lethal.

  Cleo took a deep, calming breath. This club was her place, where no one made her feel small. Where no one looked down their pointy noses at what she did. She was safe here.

  There was already a good-size crowd waiting for her set. They drank and talked and laughed, and one of them kept plugging quarters into the jukebox and calling up old instrumental tunes. Sad piano, mostly. Some poor guy whose heart had been broken.

  It had taken a while, but she’d finally gotten Eric and Edgar together and to herself, when Malone was not around. The three of them put their heads together behind the bar.

  “I can’t believe you guys lied about me being here the night Jack was murdered.”

  Eric and Edgar exchanged a quick look. “We knew you’d be a suspect,” Eric said. “You can’t expect that we’d just sit back and not help.”

  “Yeah,” said Edgar. “I didn’t like the way that cop looked from the minute he walked in. He’s trouble.”

  “He’s just doing his job,” Cleo whispered. “I’m going to tell him the truth. Tonight.”

  “No!” Edgar and Eric said together, one voice gravelly, one almost childlike.

  “He knows I didn’t do it,” she said, reaching out to take Edgar’s wrist and Eric’s in her hands. “There’s no reason not to tell—”

  “He’s trying to sucker you in,” Eric said. “He’s flirting with you so you’ll let down your guard and tell him everything, and then once you tell him you don’t have an alibi, he’ll arrest you. It’s always the wife or the ex-wife, you know, when a man is murdered.”

  “Not always,” Cleo said in a soothing voice.

  “He’s a cop,” Edgar reminded her. “Be careful. Think of this alibi as a little insurance.”

  She considered going along with them a while longer, but finally she shook her head. “No, I can’t. I’m going to tell him the truth.”

  Cleo was standing at the bar, a bottle of water in her hand, when Luther walked through the door less than an hour later. It was a good thing he thought her earlier defense of his chosen profession was all a show. If he knew she truly believed he was one of the good guys, a modern-day knight, a warrior of the new millennium, he’d think she was such a sap.

  Tonight she’d dressed for him. Not consciously, not at first, but as she’d taken this emerald-green dress out of the closet and strapped on the matching shoes, she’d wondered what he’d think. She wasn’t blind to the way he looked at her, like he appreciated what he saw even though she wasn’t tall or slender.

  She didn’t notice until Luther had almost reached the bar that he carried a package wrapped in royal-blue paper. There was no ribbon, and no visible card. But it was definitely a gift.

  When he reached the bar, he placed the package before her. She studied the c
rooked tape on the end, the badly bunched paper where it had been sloppily folded. “Don’t tell me,” she said with a smile. “You taught Rambo how to wrap presents. That’s really going to come in handy at Christmastime.”

  “Very funny,” he said, taking a stool beside her. No one stood near, and still he leaned close to her and whispered in her ear. “Open the damn package, and don’t get any ideas. It’s all for show.”

  “Of course it is,” she whispered back, reaching for the package and carefully picking off the tape. She unwrapped the present slowly, taking her time, peeking at the plain white box beneath the paper, then lifting the lid slowly. What would Luther buy a woman he was supposedly sleeping with? Lingerie, she guessed. Something silk and red and crotchless.

  She dropped the box lid to the bar. “Oh,” she said, lifting the package inside. “A peephole kit.”

  “I’ll install it this weekend.”

  Cleo turned the package over and quickly scanned the directions. “I don’t have a drill.”

  “I do.”

  She started to give him a husky I just bet you do, then thought better of it. You could only push a man like Luther so far, she imagined. “It’s very… thoughtful. No one’s ever given me a peephole before. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said grudgingly.

  She leaned toward him. To anyone watching, the way they whispered to one another might appear to be intimate. Cozy and romantic and sexy.

  “I’ll pay you back. How much did it cost?”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s on me. I’ll feel better if you have a peephole in your door.”

  “Will the department pay for it, since this is part of a job?”

  He grinned. “No way.”

  “Everyone is watching us,” she said.

  “I know.”

  Something she didn’t expect shimmied through her body. She liked this; Luther sitting close, his scent wrapping itself around her, his shadow enveloping her. It wasn’t real, it didn’t mean anything. But she didn’t want it to end. Not yet.

  “Dance with me?” she said, trying to put off the confession that her alibi was false.

  He shook his head. “I don’t dance.”

  “If you’re going to be my boyfriend, you must dance.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “I’ll teach you.”

  He pulled his head back, looked at her, and shook his head. She couldn’t help but smile. She wouldn’t have thought there was anything he couldn’t do. Or that he would admit it, if there was.

  He killed her smile with a simple sentence. “I heard your song today, ‘Come Morning.’ Found an old tape at a place that sells used CDs and cassettes.”

  Cleo scanned the faces in the club, looking for someone, anyone, who might be a murderer. A man who was strong enough to toss Jack off a building. A man who might send her flowers and sweet notes and then do her the favor of killing her ex-husband. She didn’t see anyone who fit the bill. She continued to search. Anything to take her mind off the life Luther had reminded her of when he mentioned that tape. She’d written a few of the songs and performed some standards in her own style, but only ‘Come Morning’ had been a hit.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  “Why? It’s a great song, and your voice was—”

  “It was a stupid, saccharine, naive, heartrending, juvenile pile of—”

  “It was nice,” he said. “Maybe a little naive, but in a sweet way.”

  “‘Come Morning,’” she said. “I wrote that for Jack right after we were married, and I was so stupid I believed every word.” She’d opened her heart for the world to see and hear. How foolish.

  “This afternoon you said he stole the rights?”

  Ah, that’s why he’d gone to the trouble to search out an old copy of her song. More motive. “The publishing rights. That’s where all the money is.”

  “What happened?”

  “He convinced me to sign the rights over so he could more easily handle all my business. That way I wouldn’t have to worry my pretty little head about it.” She shook her head, marveling at her own gullibility. “I never dreamed, when I signed, that we wouldn’t be married forever. I couldn’t imagine that he would betray me, in more ways than one.”

  “Do you still write?”

  “No.”

  “You should,” he said. “It’s a talent.”

  What could she say to that? Thank you. Bug off. I don’t have the heart, anymore, Jack killed it. “I was just a one hit wonder.”

  Edgar brought Luther a cup of fresh coffee, and Luther accepted with what seemed to be genuine appreciation. “You make great coffee, Edgar,” he said.

  Edgar just grumbled as he moved down the bar. He didn’t like Luther much. Neither did Eric. They were both convinced that Malone was still trying to pin Jack’s murder on her. How could she blame them for trying so hard to protect her?

  She hadn’t told them that the courtship was fake, a ruse to smoke out the real killer. She was afraid one or both of them would give the gig away.

  “The funeral is day after tomorrow,” she said, when Luther turned back to her.

  “I know.”

  He leaned close once again. Something about him smelled so good. Not cologne, not the scent of the peppermint that usually surrounded him, but something more basic than that. He smelled like a man was supposed to smell.

  “I’ll pick you up and we’ll go together. I want you to keep an eye out for anyone who looks familiar. Someone who shouldn’t be there.”

  She brushed her cheek against his and whispered, “Can I wear my red dress?”

  “No,” he muttered.

  Her heart lurched. “I won’t pretend to mourn him.”

  “Fine, but don’t dance on his grave, either.”

  She took a deep breath. She hadn’t been this close to a man in years. She usually took great pains not to get too close. But this was nice, so she didn’t rush to back away. She wanted to stay here for a while.

  “Did the crime techs find anything in my office?”

  “They took a bunch of prints. Nothing’s come of it yet, but that usually takes a while.” His voice was comforting, and she wanted him to whisper in her ear a little more. She didn’t care what he said. She just wanted him here.

  “Do you think they’ll find anything?”

  “It’s a long shot.”

  His head was close to hers, their bodies barely touching here and there. There was nothing sexual about the way they touched, nothing improper, and still...

  She might as well tell him now that her alibi was false. He would understand. He might be angry at first, but he’d eventually understand. “Luther—”

  “Cleo,” Eric said, sneaking up behind her. “Time.”

  She backed away from Luther slowly and turned her head to smile wanly at her surly piano player. “I’ll be right there.”

  When she faced Luther again, he reached out and cupped her chin in his hand. She could see, in his dark eyes, that he felt something of what she did. Tension. Electricity dancing in the air between them. He moved toward her slowly, his head tilting, his lips parting. “Just for show,” he whispered, right before his mouth touched hers.

  She hadn’t been kissed in so long, she’d forgotten how powerful it could be. Her eyes drifted closed as Luther’s mouth moved gently over hers. Oh, she’d never been kissed like this. It wasn’t deep, or demanding, or forceful, but was an almost sweet kiss that lasted a moment longer than a sweet kiss should. There was energy here, something beautiful and strangely elusive. It wasn’t real, it wouldn’t last, and yet she wished this kiss would go on forever. For a moment after Luther pulled his mouth from hers, she couldn’t breathe. She felt that kiss to her very bones.

  Oh, no. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t let her heart go soft. It would only get broken again, and she couldn’t survive a second time. She knew it.

  This kiss, the peephole, the way he whispered to her, it was all for show.
Luther said so, and she knew it, had known it all along. The kiss felt real, still, but when this was over Luther would walk away and not look back. She was a part of his job. Nothing more.

  It had been a long time since her heart had been endangered. She protected it faithfully, guarded it against men like this one. No one hurt her, not anymore. No one made her feel small. She was in control, always.

  “Can’t dance and can’t kiss,” she said, with a sassy smile that only hurt a little.

  Luther’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

  “Poor baby.” She patted him on the cheek and turned away, her smile fading as soon as her back was to him. Just a job, she reminded herself as she walked toward the stage. Just a part of the job.

  When he got the results of the coroner’s tests maybe he’d have something to go on. Right now, he was grasping for something, anything, that would lead him away from Cleo.

  He knew she wasn’t involved, for several substantial reasons. But that damn grapefruit... Either Cleo’s secret admirer had killed Jack for her, or someone had killed Tempest for a completely unrelated reason and the grapefruit was just a red herring.

  There was no shortage of suspects. He and Russell had carefully gone through the desk drawers of Tempest’s modest office, searching for something that would point them in the right direction. A direction that might lead away from Cleo. They’d found plenty of possibilities in business associates Jack had cheated. His little black book was full of women’s names and possible motives.

  They checked out everything, but so far they were getting nowhere. Police work was often dull as ditchwater. By the time homicide got on the job, the crime was over. It was all in the details.

  He approached the flower shop in the mall, wishing it could be simple. The man who bought Cleo flowers paid with a credit card, had a record, and confessed the moment he was confronted. Luther should be so lucky.

  The girl behind the desk was bright, more cheerful than anyone should be. The place was busy, but then Valentine’s Day was right around the corner. Next Friday, just eight days away. When the clerk was free, she turned her smile on Luther.