Capturing Cleo. Linda Winstead Jones
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busy for…” He let the question die away.
“Yes,” she snapped. “Too busy for.”
He closed the notebook and returned it, and the pen, to his pocket. Very smoothly, he traded the implements of his profession for a wrapped candy, a strawberry-shaped sweet he deftly unwrapped and popped into his mouth.
“What’s with the candy, anyway?” she asked sharply. “You have a sweet tooth or something?”
“I ask the questions here.”
She ignored him. “Are you determined to buy your dentist a new car?”
He laid his dark eyes on her. “If you must know, when I quit smoking I relied on candy to help me get by. Now I have to find a way to get rid of the candy.”
Cleo smiled. “Oral fixation.”
“Excuse me?”
“You just traded one oral fixation for another.” She rather liked the fact that such a hard, seemingly perfect, man had a weakness. Even if it was for something so ordinary as hard candy.
“Thank you, Dr. Tanner,” he said dryly. “But now that we’re through analyzing me, let’s get back to—”
“So the only way to get rid of the candy,” she interrupted, “is to trade it for another oral fix. Back to cigarettes?” she teased. “Or maybe you can start sucking your thumb.”
Cleo was so sure she had the upper hand with this latest turn in the conversation, and then Malone threw her for a loop without uttering a single word.
He stared at her mouth.
“I, uh, haven’t dated in the past two years, I swear,” she said, lowering her voice. “To be honest, it’s been a lot longer than two years.”
Malone allowed his gaze to drift upward. “There must’ve been someone.”
Cleo shook her head. And felt guilty for not telling Malone the truth when he’d asked about the roses. Knowing what she knew now, she had no choice.
“I have had a secret admirer sending me notes and flowers for the past four months,” she said, trying to sound casual. “It’s the sort of thing that happens all the time when—”
“A secret admirer?” Malone asked, shooting up off the desk and standing tall, and menacing, before her. “And you just now tell me about it?”
“I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t.”
She took a deep breath to calm herself. Malone had every right to be peeved, but there was no reason for him to lose his cool. She was certain the man who had written her those innocent letters couldn’t possibly be a murderer. “The letters are very sweet, and he sends me flowers about once a month. That hardly makes him an obsessed madman.”
Should she tell him about Eric and her stray thought that he might be the man sending her notes and roses? No. Eric didn’t have a violent bone in his body. Turning Malone on him would be downright cruel. And senseless. There was no way Eric could have killed Jack. Oh, but she was going to have to talk to Eric and Edgar about lying for her! Their intentions had been good, she knew, but sooner or later the truth would have to be told. Sooner would be better.
“Tell me you kept the letters,” Malone muttered.
Cleo sighed. “Yes. They seemed more like fan letters than any kind of threat.” She slid open the bottom drawer of her desk and riffled through the small stack of bills there. She kept the notes and other fan letters she got on occasion, just beneath the bills. As she searched, a sharp discomfort grew. “They’re not here,” she said.
“What?” Malone rounded the desk and dropped down to his haunches to search the drawer himself. He pulled out his pen and used it to lift the bills and other papers in the drawer, being careful not to actually touch anything.
“I’m telling you,” Cleo said, “they’re not here.”
“When did you see them last?”
“A few days ago,” Cleo said. “Maybe last week.”
“Don’t touch anything else,” he ordered, glancing up at her. “I’m going to have the office dusted for prints.”
Cleo grinned. “Do you have any idea how many people are in and out of this place? And I haven’t polished this desk in…okay, I’ve never polished this desk. It’s got to be covered with prints.”
“It’s a long shot, I know,” Malone said as he stood. “But right now, it’s all we’ve got.” He offered his hand to help Cleo to her feet. “Except you.”
For a split second he had thought she was lying. How did a woman who looked like this one go so long without a date? He could see guys lining up to date Cleo, and he could see her going through them the way a normal woman went through tissues. Use one and toss it away. Grab another.
But that thought hadn’t lasted long. The man-eater toughness was a part of her act; it was the way she kept men away. Thanks to Jack, he imagined.
Luther sat at a table near the center of the room. From here he could see everything. Lizzy, her long brown ponytail swaying as she leaned against the bar, Edgar barely mouthing the words to the song Cleo was singing, customers scattered about the room with drinks before them and their eyes and attention on the stage.
And Mikey sitting in the corner. Once he’d come in and made himself comfortable, he’d started hitting on Lizzy. And quite successfully, too. In his jeans and denim shirt, and wearing that devil-may-care smile, Russell looked nothing like a cop.
Right this minute, Russell behaved just the way all the other customers did. He stared at Cleo and listened closely. The place was so quiet as she sang. No one so much as whispered. Luther had scanned the room for a potential obsessed secret admirer, for a potential killer, but had seen nothing suspicious. So now he listened like the others.
She sang old forties tunes, mostly, in a resonant voice that filled the room and seeped beneath his skin. Cleo Tanner was a smart-mouthed, tough broad, but when she sang…when she sang there was nothing else. He could see it in her eyes, in her relaxed posture. She didn’t care if anyone listened, if the room was full or empty. She sang from the heart.
Of course she had secret admirers. There were probably a dozen men who came to listen to her sing and dreamed of being the one to break through her tough facade to find and claim that heart she sang so beautifully from.
Was one of them a killer? Would one of them kill Cleo’s ex-husband because he was a thorn in her side? Or was someone trying to point the finger in her direction to lead Luther away from the real killer? That supposition made just as much sense as anything else.
She was singing a heartrending version of “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans,” when the couple arrived. Cretins, they talked to one another in normal voices and broke the spell that filled the room. Luther turned to watch them walk to the bar, removing their coats as they went, talking loudly even though they received a number of sharp glares.
The woman was tall, reed thin, and had her dark blond hair cut in a chin-length bob. Her coat was expensive. So were the diamonds in her ears and on her fingers. Money. The big fella who walked beside her carried himself like a man who was accustomed to being waited on. His well-cut suit downplayed his size. The watch on his wrist was gold. More money.
Edgar shushed the noisy couple when they reached the bar, and in turn they both pursed their mouths in disapproval. But they did shut up. The others in the room returned their attention to the stage.
Luther listened to Cleo, but he kept his eyes on the newly arrived couple. They didn’t belong here. They were country club people who held themselves stiffly, as if to touch anything in this place would dirty them. Eventually they laid their eyes on Cleo, and he could have sworn the woman sighed and shook her head just slightly.