Capturing Cleo

“I just have a few questions,” he said, taking a small notebook from his pocket and snapping it open. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Tempest?”

She hated tilting her head back to look him in the eye, so she stared at his chest, instead. It was a nice, broad chest in a white shirt. Still feeling fuzzy headed, she concentrated on the plain gray tie. “He was in the club last week with his bimbo of the moment,” she said, trying to keep her voice sharp.

“A Miss…” He consulted his notebook as if he didn’t remember, but she had a feeling this guy never forgot anything. “Rayner. Randi Rayner.”

“Randi with an i,” Cleo snapped, annoyed that Malone would play games with her. “Bleached hair, implants and the IQ of a chipmunk. Virtually indistinguishable from Jack’s never-ending string of women.”

Malone flipped his book shut and returned it to his pocket. “She tells me you threatened Jack last week, when they were here.”

Cleo’s head shot up, and when her eyes met the cold, cynical cop’s eyes she shot to her feet so she could look at Malone dead-on. “I did not threaten him. Dammit, the jerk is dead and he’s still trying to cause me grief.” She laughed, the sound coming out short and harsh. Momentarily, she considered telling him that Eric and Edgar had both lied, that she had been home all night. Alone, unless you counted one overly friendly mutt and a neighbor who had gone home long before Jack must have been killed. She didn’t. Such a confession would only get Eric and Edgar in trouble, and she didn’t think either of them could handle this guy. She could, though. She could handle anything.

“You haven’t told me how Jack died.”

“We’ll get to that,” Malone said calmly.

“Well, when you’ve finished grilling me, don’t forget to check with a few of his bimbos’ husbands, the long list of musicians he cheated, and…and…”

“A lot of people wanted him dead?” Malone asked, again in a voice so calm she wanted to scream.

“Just about everybody he met,” she said, trying for the same aura of tranquillity the detective possessed, but falling far short. “I’m surprised he didn’t get a bullet in the back a long time ago.” Her knees went weak again, so she sank into the chair. It swiveled slightly and squeaked.

“About this threat…” Malone began.

“I didn’t threaten him,” Cleo said through clenched teeth.

“Something to do with a grapefruit,” he said.

Cleo felt her face turn cool and most likely white as a ghost. “That wasn’t a threat,” she said. “It was a joke.”

“A joke?”

“A joke I told on stage,” she clarified. “Jack had shown up, stirring up trouble as usual, and…and I was angry. Sometimes I talk to the audience for a few minutes before I start to sing, so when I went on stage I told this joke.”

“Share it with me?” Malone asked. It wasn’t a question, though, it was an order.

Cleo lifted her eyes and bravely met his dark, intense stare. “If you drop my ex-husband and a grapefruit from the top of the tallest building in Huntsville, which one will hit the ground first?” She paused for effect. “Who cares?”

Malone nodded wisely. She did not like that nod.

“I see,” he mumbled.

“How did Jack die?” she asked again, a terrible feeling creeping slowly through her body.

“We’ll get to that—”

“Tell me,” she interrupted.

She knew he was waiting for her reaction. He was judging her, weighing her. “About two o’clock this morning, give or take an hour, your ex-husband went off the roof of the First Heritage Bank building that’s under construction four blocks from here.”

Cleo felt suddenly dizzy, but she fought the weakness back. What a horrible way to die. Even for Jack.

“It’s unclear at this time if he jumped, fell or was pushed, but since the death is suspicious, it’s under investigation as a homicide until something comes to light to prove otherwise.”

“Jack would never commit suicide,” Cleo said softly. “He loved himself too much.”

Malone nodded, as if he’d already come to this conclusion.

“But I didn’t…” she began. “I hated his guts, that’s no secret, but I would never—” She shuddered. “But it is quite a coincidence, that I told that joke and then a few days later…” She hugged her arms, suddenly cold.

“It was no coincidence, Ms. Tanner,” Malone said confidently. He stared at her thoughtfully. “You see, Mr. Tempest didn’t fall alone.”

“What do you mean?” She held her breath. Was someone else she knew dead? Who else had gone off the roof of the tallest building in Huntsville?

“A grapefruit was found beside the body,” he said, very matter-of-factly. “That detail has not been made public, so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself, for the time being.”

“A grapefruit,” Cleo said softly.

Malone caught and held her gaze. “A grapefruit.”

Chapter 2

Cleo Tanner was no longer suspect number one, which left Luther nowhere. He positively hated being left nowhere. Her alibi was iffy, at best, but it was an alibi with two witnesses.

The shaky alibi wasn’t the reason he thought she was innocent. He trusted his instincts, and his hunches were almost always right. Cleo had hated her ex-husband, and once the shock wore off she would not be sorry he was dead. But right now she was shaken. She tried to hide it, but her knees wobbled and her face had gone pale. She had expected something, some kind of trouble, when she’d seen him and recognized him as a cop, but she had not expected the news that her ex-husband was dead. There had been no tears in her fascinating amber eyes, but she hadn’t been able to disguise the shaking that had worked its way through her body. Unless she was a damn good actress….

“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.