Capturing Cleo

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.