Capturing Cleo. Linda Winstead Jones
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“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.
“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