For the Love of Jazz

by Shiloh Walker

  Marlie reached up, rubbed at her upper arm. An angry red handprint was forming there and she realized it ached. “Don’t you ever touch me, brother. Not ever.” Turning her dark eyes to Tate, she said, “I’ve things to get done. I’d like to get this over with, if you don’t mind.”

  Then she turned on her heel and strode down the hall. Silence had fallen over the small common room and all eyes watched as she turned the corner to Tate’s office.

  Scratching his chin, Tate muttered, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Behind him, Larry lay prone, quivering with fury and shame as blood and mucous ran down the back of his throat. “You’re gonna pay for that, Marlie Jo,” Larry whispered.

  The soles of cowboy boots clicking on the floor had him raising his eyes. Hand pressed against his bleeding mouth, Larry stared up at Tate McNeil with sullen angry eyes.

  “No, Larry. I don’t believe she will,” Tate said as he dropped down to rest on his haunches while he studied the pitiful mess of the man before him. “You see, if you so much as touch her, I’ll hunt you down, peel the skin from your bones, and watch while the rats eat you.”

  Voice dropping to a faint whisper, Tate leaned forward. “If you hurt her, that’s what I’m gonna do to you. And I mean that.”

  Tapping his pen on the completed statement, he studied Marlie’s signature. Neat and small, just like her. He lifted his head and looked across his desk at her. God, she was so pretty, he mused.

  Her slim, narrow shoulders left bare by the dress, her elegant collarbone, smooth, graceful neck, all the pale ivory skin was set off by the vivid color of her dress and by the passionate color in her face. Instead of its usual braid, her hair was free, curling around her pixie-sprite face, tumbling down her shoulders.

  The dress, cut like a lady’s slip, alternately clung to and camouflaged subtle curves. On the sides, a slit just above her knee revealed smoothly muscled, sleek calves, tiny ankles.

  To Tate’s recollection, he hadn’t ever seen Marlie in a dress. At least not in this decade. The last time had been at Alex’s funeral and her dress than had been a worn hand-me-down made for somebody thirty pounds heavier.

  Subtle color smudged her already exotic eyes, making them larger, darker. A delicate pink tinted her lips, bringing to mind strawberry ice cream. There was nothing Tate liked better at the end of a hot, summer day than a bowl of strawberry ice cream.

  He was dying to have a taste of her.

  “I’m just a bit curious, if you don’t mind, Marlie. Why are you so pretty today? Got a hot date?” he asked, forcing his tone to remain bland.

  “No.” Marlie studied her reddened knuckles as she spoke and before she met his eyes, she said, “You know, that felt very good.” She flexed her hand gingerly, smiling in satisfaction when it hurt.

  “I imagine it’s been a long time coming,” Tate replied. Even though he had wanted to cheer after she had laid Larry low, it sickened him to see any kind of mark on her. The reddened knuckles he could almost handle, but he had to smother a growl as he stared at the dark ring around her upper arm.

  After her noncommittal response, Tate sighed in aggravation. “So why are you dressed so nice?”

  Until that moment, Marlie didn’t even realize she had been thinking it. But when she raised her head and met those deep, beautiful, brown eyes, she said, “I’m going into Lexington to apply for a job.”

  “A job?” he repeated slowly, setting his pen down.

  “Yes.”

  “You have a job,” he told her. Careful, Tate. Be careful here.

  “I have a life here that I hate,” she said, her voice soft and sad. Turning her head, she stared out at the quiet street. Several doors down sat the salon where she did nails, where she managed to eke out a living. A few miles away was a run-down hovel of a home with a leaking roof and a furnace that rarely worked.

  Sitting across from her was a man she wanted with all her heart, a man who looked at her with pity in his eyes, pity and kindness.

  “Isn’t this a bit sudden?”

  “Actually, it’s something I should have done years ago.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  She shrugged restlessly, rising to move to the window. Staring out, Marlie said, “I could make better money in town, go back to school. Get away from people who only know me as a Muldoon.”

  “I only know you as Marlie,” Tate said.

  A humorless smile curved her mouth. “Really?” Turning her head, she stared at him. “And when you think of me, what is one of the first things to come into your mind?”

  “Faeries.”

  “Excuse me?” When he didn’t respond, just stared down at his notepad, Marlie laughed. “Faeries. Well, that is certainly better than ‘That no good Muldoon clan sprung out another loser’.”

  “You’re not a loser, Marlie,” Tate growled. “Don’t talk about yourself like you are.”

  “That’s kind of you, Tate. It really is. But you can’t change what is.”

  Staring into her eyes, helplessness welling in him, Tate said, “This is your home, Marlie.”

  Her gaze fell away. Crossing her arms around her, hugging herself against a chill, she said, “I can’t stay here anymore, Tate. I have to make a life for myself.”

  “Why can’t you do it here?” he persisted, shoving back from his desk.

  She turned her head, staring at him over her smooth shoulder, naked save for a skinny strap of silky, indigo material. Her eyes were dark and sad and far older than they should have been. “Because there is nothing here for me,” she finally told him, a somber smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

  Silently, she took her purse from the chair and left.

  Leaving.

  No way in hell, Tate thought, stomping back to his chair and throwing himself into it.

  There is nothing here for me.

  “Well, Marlie Jo. I’ll just have to change that, won’t I?” he said to himself.

  When he breathed in, the lingering scent of her filled his lungs, his head, his heart.

  Like hell she was leaving.

  Hands clamped around the porcelain mug, Ella McNeil stared into the distance. “I feel so guilty,” she whispered for the hundredth time. “If I had made it around the bend, she would have seen me and had a chance to slow down.”

  “Mama,” Tate sighed, stroking his hand down her frosted blonde hair. “Now you and I both know if Maribeth hadn’t been driving like a bat out of hell, she wouldn’t have hit your car.” Hugging her against him briefly, he said, “I’m just so relieved you had already gotten out of the car.”

  “Still, if I had gone and had that tune-up, maybe whatever made my car die could have been fixed…” She pressed her hand against her lips to muffle her sob. “Oh, that poor girl. She was always so unhappy.”

  Tate said nothing. He had recently returned from sharing the news with Jazz and learned that Maribeth had indeed been out to see Jazz, and summarily sent along her way when Anne-Marie arrived. His cousin had gotten himself into a world of trouble—the question was, who in the hell was behind it?

  “She didn’t suffer any, did she?”

  “No, Mama. She died instantly,” he assured her as she moved away, smoothing her suit. He didn’t mention that crashing into a still car while driving seventy miles an hour did nasty things to a body. Particularly nasty things when that body wasn’t buckled in. Nasty things that still loomed in his mind.

  A fast death had been the only death possible in such an accident.

  “Well.” Passing a hand over her hair, smoothing it down, she paced the small confines of Tate’s office. “That is some comfort. How…how is her mama handling this?”

  “Poorly.” She had already insisted Jazz be arrested. He killed her. I know it, just like he killed Alex. Hell, what a mess. Scrubbing his hands over his face, Tate leaned back in his chair. “Mama, this is going to take some time. I’ll have Darla run you home.”

  Several hours later, the fretful voice of his
mother finally ceased, Tate studied the hastily finished report.

  What in the hell were you doing at Jazz’s, Maribeth?

  What had she hoped to do?

  Coffee long since gone cold, Tate pushed the report aside. It was nearing twilight outside; the dusky hue of the eastern sky reminded him of the deep blue of the dress Marlie had worn.

  Had she been to Lexington?

  “She can’t actually want to leave,” he muttered. But he knew there was really nothing here for her. This town held no happy memories for her. Tate doubted she had many happy memories period.

  But he’d be damned if she would just up and leave. Lexington was only thirty miles away, but Tate couldn’t just let go. What if she met somebody?

  Not many people came to Maribeth’s funeral. The small scattering of people standing at the graveside was almost pathetic. Her mother, alone, of course. Her present boyfriend was home sleeping off a drunk. A few of Maribeth’s coworkers, but not many. A few men had awkwardly ducked in and out of the funeral home visitation, but none were here now.

  Jazz stood at the graveside, ignoring the accusing stare from Eleanor Parks. At his side, Anne-Marie kept her eyes fastened on the minister. “…guide this tortured soul as she leaves our world for Yours…”

  It’ll take more than that, he thought darkly. What a waste.

  Naturally beautiful, canny, intelligent—and none of it had added up to jack, because she had a heart of stone. Now she lay cold in a grave, her body so devastated by the crash, an open casket hadn’t been possible. All that beauty gone in a second.

  “This isn’t your fault, Jazz.”

  Glancing down at the slight figure next to him, he thought back to another funeral. Sighing, he dragged a hand through his rain-damp hair and said, “I know. I feel bad for Ella, though. She’s blaming herself.”

  Silence fell as the short ceremony concluded. Jazz led Anne-Marie back to the car, glancing over his shoulder. Eleanor Park was still glaring daggers at him, standing there clutching a white rose in one thin, pale hand.

  He opened the door to his dark blue Escalade, standing aside so Anne-Marie could slide into the passenger seat. She paused, laying one hand on his arm, resting her head on his chest. “We’ve been to too many of these things together, Jazz, haven’t we?”

  Cupping the back of her head in his hand, he lowered his, pressing his lips to the soft cloud of her ebony hair. “Yeah, too many.” Grief flickered in his eyes as he stared ahead. Some thirty yards away was a simple monument of marble inscribed with the words, “Alexander D. Kincaid, Beloved Son, Brother and Friend”.

  Raising her head, she looked up, following the line of his gaze. Stepping away from the door, she held out her hand. “Let’s go see him, Jazz,” she said.

  “I can’t,” he said tightly, shaking his head.

  “Yes, you can.” She reached for his hand, gently tugging him along with her. “Do you remember that summer you two started hanging out together? You both lied to your mom and my dad, saying you were going camping in the woods. What you really did was come here.”

  “We didn’t sleep a wink,” he whispered, remembering. “We both jumped at every little sound, then bragged to each other how brave we were.”

  “The next summer, you two started noticing girls.”

  He slowed in his steps, pulling her to a halt. “I’d already noticed one.” He pressed his thumb against her mouth, shadows in his eyes. “It was always you, Anne-Marie. I want you to know that.”

  “I was always so jealous of Sandy Pritchard,” she told him, pressing a kiss to his hand. “I wanted so badly to be tall and sleek, just like her, with straight brown hair and big boobs.”

  Stroking her silky, black curls from her face, he said, “I’ve always thought you were perfect.”

  She laughed, once more taking his hand. “Not always,” she refuted, leading him once more in the direction of Alex’s grave. “Remember when I told Dad I saw you two smoking cigarettes? I never could understand why he didn’t punish the both of you.”

  “I wasn’t his to punish,” Jazz said wryly, no longer resisting her silent urging. His eyes focused on the gray marble as it drew closer.

  Casting him a slight smile, she said, “You were always his. It just took ya’ll a while to find each other. Anyway, when I was sixteen, I tried once puffing on a cigarette butt. I was so sick, and all of a sudden, I knew why he hadn’t punished you.”

  “We got sick right there behind the barn,” Jazz remembered. “He found us lying on our backs, green around the gills, and he offered us another cigarette. I started puking again, but Alex just looked miserable.”

  Their steps slowed, halted, as they came to the elegant, gray memorial.

  June 5, 1966 to July 13, 1984.

  Such a short period of time.

  “God, I miss him so much,” Jazz rasped, holding Anne-Marie’s hand in a vice grip. “He was the best friend I ever had. And I killed him.”

  “Just like you killed my daughter.”

  They both turned at the dry, brittle voice. The wind whipping her tangled hair around her face, Eleanor stood in her worn, black dress, glaring at Jazz with hatred burning in her eyes.

  “Ms. Park, I know you have suffered these past few days,” Anne-Marie said diplomatically. “But Jazz had nothing to do with Maribeth’s accident. He was with me.”

  Anne-Marie may as well not have spoken for all the attention Eleanor paid her.

  “You’ve got the blood of two on your hands now, more like three. You’re the reason the old Doc Kincaid got shot.”

  Jazz remained silent as he urged Anne-Marie to the car once more.

  “You’re cursed,” she rasped from behind them. “Cursed from the day you were born and will be until you die. Everybody you touch suffers. Even the golden boy couldn’t escape it, could he? Just you being in the car with him damned him.”

  Eleanor had already turned to walk away when Jazz raised his head. Each looked at the other before turning their heads to stare at Eleanor.

  Just you being in the car with him damned him.

  “Jazz?” Anne-Marie whispered softly.

  “I know, honey,” he replied. “Just get in the car and let’s go for now.”

  Just you being in the car with him damned him.

  Anne-Marie threw down her pen and pushed back from her desk. A pile of charts nearly up to her nose waited for her signature, another dozen or so were stacked out on the nurse’s station, she had a baby to check on, and she couldn’t get those words out of her mind.

  In a flurry of movement, she shed her lab coat, grabbed her purse and rushed out the door. “None of these are major emergencies, right, Marti?” she asked the young blonde sitting at the front desk.

  “Not unless you consider a case of head lice a national crisis,” Marti replied cheerfully.

  “I think I trust you to handle that on your own,” Anne-Marie said dryly. “Listen, I’ve got some things I need to do. I’m going to go check on Baby Marsden and then do some running. I’ll come back later tonight and finish those charts.”

  “You’re the boss,” Marti said, shrugging her shoulders. Propping her elbows on the desk, she looked at Anne-Marie with innocent, blue eyes. “I don’t suppose your errands have anything to do with the sexy friend of yours, do they?”

  “What sexy friend?” Jake asked, swinging through the door and sauntering over to lean against Marti’s desk.

  Fluttering long lashes at him, Marti said, “Why you, handsome. Who else?”

  Leaning down, he covered her mouth with his briefly, then drew away and looked down at her smiling face. “You’re a terrible liar, Marti. That’s one of the things I love about you.” Then he stood, stretching his hands high overhead. “Busy day, huh?”

  “Very. Jake, I need to do some errands so I’ll finish up the charts tonight or tomorrow. You don’t mind if I duck out, do you? Do we need to talk about anything?”

  He shrugged, his broad shoulders straining against the whit
e oxford he wore tucked into a faded pair of blue jeans. If it wasn’t for the stethoscope hanging around his neck, you’d take him for a farmer. “Nothing much, that I know of. Need any help?”

  Flashing him a tired smile, she shook her head. “No. Personal things, you know. You ought to take that wife of yours out. Probably going crazy from missing you, she sees you so little.”

  Chuckling, he reached out, stroking Marti’s neck in an absentminded, offhand gesture. “Yeah, she only sees me what, sixteen to eighteen hours a day?”

  Reaching up, Marti captured his hand with hers. Pressing a kiss to the back of it, she agreed, “Hmmm, twenty-four a day wouldn’t be enough.”

  Anne-Marie rolled her eyes. “Please, get me out of here before I get a cavity,” she joked, heading out the door.

  A short time later, she pulled up in front of a small, ramshackle house. This was one of the last places Alex had been at before he died. Staring at the dreary, dismal Park household, Anne-Marie reflexively closed her hands around the steering wheel, muttering, “What am I doing here?”

  Looking for answers, she told herself, reaching for the handle. Swinging out of the car, she headed up the cracked concrete sidewalk.

  Her steps slowing to a halt, Anne-Marie watched as the door flew open. Studying the drunk woman in the doorway, Anne figured she wouldn’t get any answers here.

  “Whatcha doin’, rich girl?” Eleanor asked, swiping one hand across her mouth, smearing what was left of her red lipstick.

  “What did you mean, Alex was damned just by being in the same car as Jazz?” Anne-Marie asked bluntly.

  “Boy’s dead, ain’t he? Just like my baby,” Eleanor asked coldly, smiling as Anne-Marie paled. “Dead’s dead.”

  “Do you know something about the night Alex died?”

  Cocking her head, Eleanor studied the composed woman in front of her. “Maybe. You gonna make it worth my while to remember?”

  Silently, Anne-Marie reached up and removed the gold swirls she wore at her ears. “I don’t keep much money on me. These cost nearly six hundred dollars. They’re yours, if you remember.”