Capturing Cleo

Luther stared, over heads and past hanging silk ferns, at the singer whose warm, husky voice had captivated the crowd. And him. It wasn’t just the voice that fascinated him, it was the whole, luscious package. Damn. Now, this was a woman. Grace was always trying to set him up with one sweet thing or another, certain he was not yet past saving, sure that he, too, could be as disgustingly happy as she and Ray were. But she’d never offered up anything like this woman.

Long, wildly curling black hair fell past the singer’s shoulders; her lips were red and lush; her eyes slightly slanted and rimmed with dark lashes, giving her an exotic air. She perched on that stool, back straight and yet perfectly relaxed, shapely legs crossed at the knee. The body beneath her slinky black dress was rounded and curved, soft in all the right places and begging to be…

Luther shook off his daze and headed for the bar and the bartender. It really had been a long day.

The surly bartender was an older man—late fifties, early sixties, Luther guessed. He was built like a fireplug, short and solid, and had a thick head of silver-gray hair and a flat face only a mother could love. And he was offended that a potential customer took his attention from the woman on stage. He looked Luther up and down, scowled, and asked what he wanted to drink, in a gruff voice that matched his craggy face.

“Nothing,” Luther said. “I need to speak to the owner. Cleo Tanner.”

“I know who owns the place,” the bartender snapped. “Wait around. She’s kinda busy right now. You can talk to her in about twenty minutes.”

Annoyed, Luther lifted his jacket to show the fireplug his badge, and to offer a glimpse of the snub-nosed revolver he carried in a shoulder holster. “Tell her Detective Malone from HPD is here and has a few questions for her,” he said.

The bartender didn’t budge. “I tell you what. You go up on stage and flash that badge and gun at her. Maybe, and I ain’t promising anything, that’ll get her to end her set early.”

Luther cut his eyes toward the stage. “That’s Cleo Tanner?” Surprise.

“Yep.”

He should’ve known. Cleo Tanner was a singer, he already knew that. Her one recorded hit, popular almost eight years ago, had been the sappy country love song, “Come Morning.” He glanced around the club, taking it all in while he waited. The small crowd was mesmerized, as he had been when he’d first seen her. They ate and drank, and smiled serenely. If she pulled in a good crowd like this on a Monday, the weekends were probably really busy. She was doing all right.

But from what he’d learned today, Cleo Tanner could make a real killing in the business if she went back to using her married name and sang country music. She could pack a much larger place than this and make a small fortune. Hearing her now, watching her, he knew she had the talent and the presence to make something like that work.

Luther took a deep breath. “Coffee,” he said, taking a stool and leaning on the bar. “Black.” He stared at the singer, but she was as oblivious to his presence as she was to everyone else’s. She didn’t look at the crowd, she didn’t sing to a lover at a table close to the stage. She sang with her eyes fixed above the crowd, a satisfied smile on her face, an evident contentment in her eyes.

She finished the song to enthusiastic applause, and after flashing a small smile she almost immediately went into the next number: “Someone To Watch Over Me.”

Cleo Tanner was gifted, beautiful and incredibly sexy, but like it or not she was still suspect number one. His day wasn’t getting any better.

Cleo left the stage with a smile on her face. No matter what happened during the day, when she sang everything got better.

“Good set,” Eric said, coming up behind her. “How about a late dinner to celebrate?”

Cleo smiled over her shoulder. Eric was a great piano player, he was cute and he was extremely talented, but he was too young for her, and besides…she didn’t need any man looking at her this way, with adoring and hopeful eyes and a wicked come-hither smile. Not now. Maybe not ever. “No, thanks.”

“One day you’ll say yes,” he said, shaking a long finger.

“Don’t hold your breath, piano man.” Their banter was lighthearted, without passion or vigor. But she did wish he would quit asking her out and find a nice girl close to his own age. With his thick, pale brown hair, blue eyes and that baby face, he should have no problem finding willing women. And yet he persisted in asking her out. Seven years wasn’t a huge difference, but Eric was such a kid and she was such a jaded old woman. Too jaded for thirty-two, maybe—but there was no going back.

Sometimes she wondered if Eric was the secret admirer who’d been sending her flowers and romantic notes over the past four months. She’d considered it, but really didn’t think it was Eric’s style. He’d be more likely to show up with flowers in hand, get down on bended knee and expect his due appreciation for the gesture.

She planned to head to her office to catch up on a little paperwork before going home, but Edgar lifted his hand and waved her over to the bar. He looked none too happy, and the tall, dark-haired man leaning against the bar wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine, either.

The man in the black suit was trouble, and she knew it at first glance. He was too tall and stood with his spine too rigid, even as he went for that casual pose against the bar. But it was the way his eyes bored into hers that said trouble, the way his mouth thinned. Heavens, he had a hard face. No softness muted the cut of his jaw, the sharpness of his cheekbones and the line of his nose. Sharp or not, he was a very nice-looking man. He was definitely too good-looking to be so openly sour. Men who looked like this, with nicely even features and unbroken noses, solid bodies and killer eyes, smiled and got what they wanted. They didn’t do glum the way this guy did.

Another glance, and she knew who he was. What he was, anyway. A cop. A tired, cynical, overworked cop, and he was here to see her.

Somehow this was Jack’s fault, she knew it. Her ex would do anything in his power to make her life more difficult.

“What’s up, Edgar?” she asked, purposely ignoring the cop.

“This detective wants to talk to you,” Edgar said, with an apologetic nod of his gray head.

“Malone,” the cop said, offering his hand. “Detective Luther Malone.”

Cleo ignored the offered hand, and eventually he dropped it. She looked him over, her eyes raking up and down the rumpled black suit, the white shirt, the slightly loosened gray tie. Either Detective Malone had had a very bad day, or he slept in his clothes.

“What can I do for you, Malone?” She imagined, in a split second, a hundred different kinds of grief Jack might’ve planned for her this time. False charges, wild stories, out-and-out lies. She wondered if she should offer her hands for the cuffs the cop no doubt carried under that suit jacket of his.

The cop leaned slightly toward her, turning those broad shoulders in her direction and bending in and over her. Eyes so dark brown and deep they looked almost black scrutinized her. “Jack Tempest,” he said, those eyes locked to hers as if he were waiting for a reaction.

He got one. She surely couldn’t hide the fury the mention of her ex-husband’s name roused within her. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks, the increase of her heartbeat, the flare of her nostrils. “What has he accused me of this time? Something’s missing and I must have it. I’ve been harassing him, I threatened him, I threatened his latest bimbo.” She kept her voice low, but Eric and Edgar were both listening intently. Cleo offered her hands, wrists together and palms up. “So arrest me, Detective Malone. Take me in, lock me up.”

Malone didn’t make a move for his cuffs. In fact, his only reaction was a slight lift of his finely shaped dark eyebrows. “Maybe we should discuss this in private,” he said in a low, calm voice.

“Maybe we should discuss this right here.”

He stared at her offered hands, his gaze lingering on her wrists in a way that made her heart beat too fast once again. “Tempest is dead,” he said softly, his gaze rising to meet hers as he awaited her reaction.

Cleo dropped her hands, and her knees unexpectedly went weak. “Dead?” she whispered. “How? When?”

The cop glanced around, obviously not comfortable with having this conversation here and now. Edgar and Eric listened in, not even trying to hide their interest, and Lizzy, the regular cocktail waitress who was here six nights a week, was doing her best to sidle closer.

“Late last night,” Malone said simply. “And it looks like a homicide.”

Eric placed a steady hand on Cleo’s shoulder. “That’s too bad,” he said. “And to think, we were here so late last night, we were probably right here when it happened.”

Malone glared over her shoulder, and Eric dropped his hand. “Is that a fact? You were here on a Sunday night? I thought the club was closed on Sunday.”

“We were rehearsing,” Eric said, and his voice only wavered a little. “Until the sun came up.”

Cleo opened her mouth to tell Eric not to lie for her! She understood immediately what he was doing. Everyone who knew her knew how much she hated Jack. She was bound to be a suspect, and he was making sure she had an alibi. But lying would only get him in trouble. Before she could say a word, Edgar spoke up, his gruff voice cutting her off.

“Yep. I was here myself, cleaning and going over the liquor order at first, and then just listening.” He gave her a smile that didn’t quite work on his wrinkled, bulldog face. “I do dearly love to listen to Cleo sing. She has a voice that will—”

The detective raised a silencing hand. “Now can we talk in private?” he asked, his voice rumbling.

Cleo nodded and turned toward the narrow hall that led to the rest rooms and her office. Her head swam, and she was suddenly and inexplicably dizzy. Dead. Jack was dead. A moment later the cop was there, taking her arm as she led the way. His hand was steady, strong and warm, and she liked it. Annoying as he was, this was the kind of man a woman could lean on. After a moment that lasted just a little too long, she shook his hand off. She didn’t lean on anyone anymore.

“I don’t need your help to make it down the hallway,” she snapped.

“Coulda fooled me,” he mumbled.

Dead, she thought again as she opened the door to her office. Somehow she just couldn’t picture Jack as being gone. Permanently.

The tiny, square room was dominated by a desk piled high with bills and correspondence, a phone and fax machine, and a couple of old coffee mugs. The chair behind the desk was fat and comfortable and swiveled with a loud squeak. The only other place in the room to sit was a battered avocado-green love seat Eric’s mother had donated last year when she’d gotten new furniture.

Cleo rounded the desk and plopped into her chair, leaving the cop the sagging love seat. Instead of taking the uncomfortable seat, he propped himself against the edge of her desk and looked down at her. Sitting that way, his jacket gaped open, and she saw the badge on his belt and the shoulder holster housing a snub-nosed revolver.