CAPTURING CLEO

by Linda Winstead Jones

  “Would you?” she asked. “Would you really shoot me?”

  “I don’t want to,” he said, “but I will. If I must.” More silent minutes ticked past. With each passing one, Edgar became tighter, more on edge.

  Maybe if she could keep him talking he’d calm down. In this agitated state he was likely to do anything.

  “Did you plan it for a long time?” she asked. “Have you been planning to kill Jack for months?”

  Edgar shook his head. “No. That night was just… it was just the last straw. You tried not to let him bother you, I could see that, but you can’t hide your feelings from me. That man was ruining your life.”

  She nodded gently.

  “He needed to die.”

  Cleo shivered. Edgar’s words were so matter-of-fact. “I’m sure you meant well, but… I never wanted anyone to die.” Her words faded into nothing.

  With narrowed eyes, Edgar looked around the club. Usually it was so noisy, so full of life and people. Today it was just the two of them.

  “That cop ruined everything,” he said gruffly. “Malone—” he snorted “—it was bad enough that he started hanging around here trying to smoke out the killer, but when he started manhandling you, looking at you like he was the one who was supposed to take care of you, touching you...” Edgar worked himself up, and then quickly calmed himself with a deep breath. “I tried to throw him off the scent by stealing your fan letters. I figured if he started searching for some smitten secret admirer, he wouldn’t look too closely at your friends.”

  “You had Eric lie to support your alibi for the night Jack was killed.”

  Edgar grinned, just a little. “Yeah. After you insisted on telling Malone the truth about you not being here, I convinced Eric that if he didn’t have an alibi he’d be suspect number one. Everyone knows he has a crush on you.”

  Cleo shook her head, trying to cast off the frustration and sadness. “Why didn’t you just let it go? Henry Copeland is in custody. If no one else had been killed, no one ever would’ve known the truth.”

  The old man—her employee, her friend—reached out and stroked her cheek with one rough finger. “Malone made you cry. Am I supposed to ignore that? Am I supposed to just let him walk away after what he did?”

  “Oh, Edgar,” she whispered. “Please, please don’t hurt anyone else. Don’t… don’t hurt Luther. He was only doing his job.” She could tell he wasn’t moved by her plea. “For me. Let him go—” She almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of insistent banging on the door.

  “Cleo!” Luther shouted as he pounded. “Are you all right?”

  Edgar stood, gun in hand, and dragged Cleo from her chair. He handed her the key and instructed her to unlock the door. With shaking hands, she did as he asked.

  The door swung open, and Luther rushed inside. There was no one on the street, no police cars, no sign of Michael. Luther held his hands up to show that he was unarmed. His holster was empty, and he carried a portable cassette player, a boom box, in one hand.

  Edgar pointed his weapon at Cleo’s head. She actually felt the muzzle press lightly against her scalp, as he instructed her to re-lock the door. Luther was shooed farther into the room with a silent nod of Edgar’s head.

  When the door was securely locked, Edgar, still holding the gun to Cleo’s head, turned to face Luther. His face was harsh and solid, for a moment, and then it crumpled. “Hey!” he shouted. “That’s my stereo.”

  Luther held the boom box up. “This old thing? I would hardly call it a stereo—”

  “It’s mine,” Edgar shouted.

  Luther placed the cassette player on the nearest table. “Drop the gun,” he said hoarsely. “I’m not going to rush you.”

  “I can’t take that chance,” Edgar said. “Why do you have my stereo? Were you in my home?”

  “Drop the gun and I’ll tell you.”

  “Did you come alone?”

  “Drop the gun and I’ll tell you.”

  Edgar sputtered, frustrated by Luther’s calm responses. “You’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass since you walked through that door! Why don’t you just walk on over to the bar and drink that shot I poured out for you. I didn’t bother with the beer, this time. No need to hide what I’m doing.”

  “You want me to drink that?” Luther asked, pointing.

  “Luther, don’t,” Cleo whispered.

  “Then drop the gun,” he finished with clenched teeth. Edgar sidled away from the door. His grip on Cleo was tight, the hand that held the revolver to her head was rock steady.

  Luther didn’t move, but stood in the middle of the room and stared at Edgar with cold, expressionless eyes. “Do you think you love her? Is that why you’re doing this?”

  “I do love her.”

  Luther shook his head. “No, you don’t. If you loved her, you wouldn’t be able to point that gun at her head. I know, because just seeing it makes me hurt. Physically, sharply, hurt.”

  “I have to be sure you’ll do what I say.”

  “Then, point the damn gun at me,” Luther growled. “You coward.”

  “Luther, no...” Cleo began. Edgar was much more likely to pull the trigger if Luther was in his sights.

  “At me!” he insisted, pointing at his own chest and taking a single step forward.

  Edgar finally complied. The weapon snapped around and pointed at Luther.

  Luther visibly relaxed. “That’s better.”

  “My stereo,” Edgar prodded.

  “I was in your apartment,” Luther confessed. “I found your shrine.”

  Edgar shook with anger. “That special place was for me, and me alone. You had no right!”

  Luther shrugged.

  “Were you alone?” Edgar whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you come here alone?”

  “Just as you instructed,” Luther answered. “It’s just you and me, now. Why don’t you let Cleo go, while we settle this between us?”

  Edgar shook his head. “I can’t let her go. Once you’re dead, she’s coming with me.”

  “Running away together, huh?” Luther asked.

  “Yes.”

  “The two of you are going to live happily ever after, is that it?”

  Edgar shook his head. “You don’t understand anything.”

  “What makes you think she’ll stay with you,” Luther asked, “after you’ve hurt her?”

  “I would never hurt her!”

  Luther nodded at them. “You’re holding her too tight,” he said. “She’ll probably have bruises on her arms tomorrow.”

  Edgar loosened his grip. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  “I know you didn’t,” Luther said casually. “But scaring her is just as bad. Why did you scare her?” he asked, making it sound like Edgar had committed the greatest of sins in doing such a thing. “The note that said Boom, the white roses. How did you know the white roses would affect her that way? Did she confide something personal to you one night, something a woman might tell someone she trusts? She opened up her heart to you, and then you used it against her.” Luther shook his head as if in dismay.

  Edgar took a deep, ragged breath. “I wanted Cleo to know that you can’t protect her. Only I can do that. Only me.”

  “Now what?” Luther asked, all business.

  “You drink.” Edgar nodded toward the bar.

  “Don’t I get a last wish?” Luther asked, without making a move toward the lone shot glass on the long bar.

  “Why should I grant you a wish?” Edgar snapped.

  “It’ll make you look magnanimous in front of the lady,” Luther said evenly. “Might go a long way toward making her forgive you for killing three people.”

  Three people. Jack. The heckler. Luther.

  Edgar was silent for a moment as he considered this possibility. Luther looked at Cleo, hard and deep.

  “He’s right,” she said, finally experiencing a hint of calm. “It would be a generous thing to do, and you’ve
always been such a generous person. It’s one of the things I like best about you, Edgar.”

  “It is?”

  She nodded, her eyes on Luther. She didn’t know what he had planned, but she did know that he wasn’t going to drink that poison and willingly die, leaving her in Edgar’s hands.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Edgar shook the gun at Luther. “What do you want?”

  “One last dance with Cleo.”

  Cleo’s heart skipped a beat, and Edgar’s grip went tight again.

  “No,” her captor said. “I have to keep her away from men like you.”

  Luther smiled crookedly. “Come on, one last dance for a dying man. She’s going to be yours for a very long time, right?”

  “Right,” the husky voice behind her said. “But you have it all wrong. Cleo is like a daughter to me. The child Susan and I never had. It’s my mission in life to watch over her, to make sure no one hurts her ever again.”

  Luther nodded. “I understand that, Edgar, I really do. What will one last dance with me matter? A few weeks from now, she’ll probably barely remember me, anyway.”

  “That’s right enough, I reckon.”

  Luther lifted one hand and offered it to Cleo. Slowly, still not sure that this was the right thing to do, Edgar released his prisoner.

  Cleo ran to Luther. He took her hand, pulled her close and glanced over her shoulder to snarl at Edgar. “Be careful where you point that gun. I’m not armed and neither is Cleo. Point it into the air or something. Even if I were to try something, and I won’t, you’ll still have the advantage.”

  Keeping one arm protectively around her, Luther reached down and hit the play button on the boom box. She recognized the way Eric played ‘Someone To Watch Over Me,’ the background noises of the club, and her own too-loud, badly recorded voice.

  “Turn it down!” Edgar shouted.

  “What?” Luther gathered her close and began to dance, spinning around so his back was presented to Edgar. “I can’t hear you.”

  “Turn around,” she whispered. “Edgar won’t shoot me but he very well might shoot you.”

  “That’s not a chance I’m willing to take,” he said. They swayed gently, and Luther’s arm drifted up her back. He glanced at his watch, hummed and leaned down to speak in her ear. “When I say now, you hit the floor. Got it?”

  “I didn’t say you could talk to her!” Edgar shouted, moving closer.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” Cleo hissed. “He’s going to kill you!”

  “Five, four, three...”

  “That’s enough dancing!” Edgar yelled.

  “Now!”

  Everything happened at once. She fell to the floor and Luther came with her, covering her body with his. The front door burst open, the lock breaking with an ear-splitting crack and the door banging against the wall as it flung inward. With the one eye that could see past Luther, she caught a glimpse of Michael Russell, bulletproof vest in place and weapon raised, rush in with a half-dozen uniformed officers behind him.

  Edgar fired, the bullet from his poorly aimed weapon going high and wide to smack into the wall behind the advancing officers. When a separate contingent of officers came bursting through the back door, Edgar dropped his revolver and raised his hands above his head.

  Luther came up off her slowly, his eyes remaining pinned to her face. The threat was over, and still it seemed he protected her with his body. He shielded her, kept the rest of the world at bay, for a moment.

  “Are you okay?”

  Unable to speak, she simply nodded.

  She turned her head to watch as they led a handcuffed Edgar out the door. He glanced back at her, a sad longing in his eyes. He looked at her as if she’d betrayed him.

  “What will happen to him?” she asked, as Luther gently assisted her to her feet.

  “He’s going to jail for a very long time,” Luther said as he drew her up against his side.

  “He’s sick,” she whispered.

  “Yep.”

  She leaned into him, her knees shaking so hard she couldn’t possibly stand on her own.

  “Don’t let them hurt him.” Her voice cracked, just a little. “It’s not his fault. I must’ve—”

  He grabbed her chin and forced her to look him in the eye. “Don’t blame yourself.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “He killed them for me. I must’ve done something to make him believe that I wanted them dead. Oh God, Luther, I didn’t want it to be Edgar.”

  The place was overrun with uniformed cops and plainclothes detectives. And still, Luther leaned down and gave her a quick, soft kiss. “I know, and I’m so sorry,” he said. “But nothing about this is even remotely your fault. Edgar built his own fantasy world where he was king and you were his little princess. You can’t hold yourself responsible for someone else’s delusions.”

  “Edgar said he loved me, that he did what he did because—”

  “No,” Luther said angrily. “He was obsessed with you, and he took a little vacation from reality. That’s not love.”

  “But...”

  “I know that’s not love, Cleo, because—”

  “Hey, everybody in here okay?” Michael sauntered into the club wearing a crooked smile.

  Cleo glared at Michael. What a time to interrupt! And then she remembered what he’d done for her. She couldn’t possibly stay mad. “Thank you,” she said. “Great plan.”

  “The plan was all his,” Michael said, nodding.

  “How’s Boone?” she asked, tightening her grip on Luther’s jacket sleeve.

  “He’s awake, very unhappy, and on his way to the hospital for observation.”

  “He’ll be okay?”

  Michael nodded. “Yeah. He’s fine. What about you? We need a statement, but it can wait until you’ve had a chance to calm down, I guess. If you’re not ready to be alone, we can get a female officer to drive you home and sit with you until you’re feeling better.”

  “I need a ride,” she said. “I’m too shaky to drive. But I’ll get Syd to come sit with me.” She glanced at Luther. Had he been about to tell her that he loved her? The moment had passed. She might never know. “I guess you guys still have lots to do.”

  Luther nodded. “I’ll drive you home first, though,” he said.

  “No.” She shook her head. “You have work to do. I’ll just... Anyone can drive me home.”

  Luther nodded, found an officer to do taxi duty, and put her in the car. The case was over, the bad guy was in custody, and she had no way of knowing if she’d ever see Luther again.

  “Thank you,” she said, as he released her hand.

  “Anytime.” He gave her what might pass as a smile, and then closed the door. She looked back just once to see Luther still there, standing on the sidewalk in front of her club, watching her ride away.

  Edgar was in custody, and it hadn’t taken much to get him to confess to killing Jack Tempest and Willie Lee Webb. Once he had no place to run, he seemed proud of his actions.

  Luther sat back in a chair and stared at the empty stage. The club was empty. Silent. He didn’t want to hang around the office any longer, he didn’t want to go home. When he’d called Cleo’s house Syd had answered and told him Cleo had just gone to bed. After what she’d been through, she needed her sleep.

  So he’d taken her keys and come here, and with half the lights on he sat and went over every aspect of the case. He’d suspected Edgar and Eric all along, but like Cleo he hadn’t wanted the killer to be one of her friends. She kept her circle of friends small. This was going to hurt for a long time.

  Sooner or later he was going to have to tell her everything. Edgar might have said his love for Cleo was fatherly, but Luther had seen the man’s home. A father figure didn’t keep a shrine to his daughter: shoes, perfume, candles, a hundred or more pictures. Eventually his fatherly affection would have turned ugly, and he would’ve hurt Cleo, just as he’d hurt Tempest and Webb. Somehow Luther had to make her see that, so she
could rest easy with the outcome. Edgar would never leave prison, and that was a right and just ending.

  The case was over, but this thing with Cleo was not. At least, he hoped not. He loved her. Big whoop. Jack had loved her, and he’d done his best to ruin her life. He’d broken her heart and made her life hell. Men like Henry Copeland had said they loved her, sent her flowers and fell head over heels for the voice and the body and the face. They didn’t know the woman inside, they didn’t care about what made her smile or laugh or sigh. Edgar had claimed he loved Cleo enough to kill for her, and he’d done just that.

  So, if Luther showed up at Cleo’s door and confessed that he loved her, would she slam the door in his face? Hell, maybe she should.

  The key in the lock was loud, rattling through the cavernous, half-lit club. For a second Luther thought, Cleo. But of course, it wasn’t her. She was home huddled beneath her quilt, warm and safe. Someone else was entering the club at well past midnight.

  He wasn’t surprised to see Eric come waltzing in. Of course the kid had his own keys. The piano player was surprised to see Luther, though. He all but jumped out of his skin.

  “What are you doing here?” the kid asked as he recovered from the shock and locked the door behind him.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Eric headed for the stage. “Cleo’s friend Syd called and said Cleo is going to close the club this week. I came by to collect some sheet music.”

  Luther nodded. Made perfect sense. “Have a seat.”

  Eric obviously didn’t like the idea, but he did sit across from Luther and place his folded arms on the table. “So, what are you going to do? Arrest me for giving Edgar an alibi for the night Tempest was killed?”

  “No,” Luther said calmly. “He explained that. Said he convinced you that if you didn’t have an alibi you’d be a suspect.”

  The kid, who seemed much more than eight years younger than Luther at the moment, blushed. “Yeah, well, I’ve never made a secret of the fact that I like Cleo.”

  “You like her,” Luther repeated. Did the kid think himself in love?

  “Very much.”

  Luther locked his eyes on the kid’s baby blues. “Why?” he whispered.