Murder, Mayhem & a Fine Man

by Claudia Mair Burney

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I used to investigate cults and toxic churches.”

  Jazz laughed. “A praying forensic psychologist slash theologian slash private investigator. You’re full of surprises, Bell.”

  Then, I did it again. “I’m not a private investigator. I used to…” I decided not to get into my complicated past. Not here.

  Carly had finally finished and needed to supervise the transporting of the bodies to the morgue. She removed her gloves, came over to me, and started kneading my shoulders. “Are you feeling all right, Bell? You look a little queasy. I’m heading out, why don’t you come with me?”

  “Go ahead, Carly. I want to tell the lieutenant something else.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to come outside now?”

  I nodded, and she squeezed my shoulder. “See you outside, then.”

  I turned my attention back to Jazz. “Lieutenant…” My gag reflex reacted. I swallowed hard, trying to pull myself together, and pointed to the spiral-bound notebooks on the shelf. “Hopefully those belong to a copious notetaker. Find out who Gabriel is. He may just be your killer.” I gulped again, my stomach clenching into a tight knot. “That’s my take, Detective.” I imagined myself turning an unflattering shade of green.

  For a moment he said nothing, his expression somber. “I’d better get you outside,” he said finally, and cupped my elbow. I felt that spark once again. My stomach flip-flopped. I wondered if it was my attraction to him that was affecting me, or if I was about to be sick.

  “Is there anything else, Dr. Brown?”

  “Just one more thing.” I didn’t realize in my queasy state that I’d uttered the most famous line of my favorite television sleuth, but Jazz noticed.

  “What’s that, Columbo?”

  I answered by throwing up on his charcoal gray alligator shoes. I hoped they were fake but knew they weren’t. The pain in my gut stopped me from caring. I had a fleeting mental image of myself as the next corpse Carly would examine. Thankfully, I was wearing clean underwear and had a fresh pedicure.

  Jazz sighed, moving back from my mess. “I knew you’d contaminate my crime scene.”

  He stepped out of his shoes, peeled off his socks, and stuck them in his ruined shoes. It didn’t seem to bother him that his team of professionals could barely contain their snickers. He walked me to the door, careful to disturb as little as possible. I slithered through it, feeling every bit the slug, and moved into the yard, grateful to be outside, even though the wretched smell of death still clung to my clothing.

  To my amazement Jazz asked, “May I take you home?” He was still barefoot, looking perfectly at ease, walking to his car.

  Wild.

  “Carly will drop me off,” I said, trying to keep up with him. My cheeks burned from embarrassment. “I’m so sorry about your shoes.”

  “I keep a spare pair of kicks in my trunk.”

  He leaned against the Crown Vic, and his gaze swept over me again. “Carly will probably be busy tonight at the morgue. She got two for the price of one. Where do you live?”

  “Ann Arbor.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What brings you to the beast side of Detroit?”

  I smiled at his nickname for the eastern part of the city. “Carly and I were having dinner, and then she got the call.”

  “You finish your dinner?”

  “No, but uh, I’m not hungry anymore.”

  “You will be soon,” he said. He smiled a little. Already I missed seeing his pretty teeth when he smiled as wide as the sky.

  “I’ll take you home, if you can hang on until I’m done here.” He folded his arms across his chest in a classic defensive posture.

  I didn’t know what to make of his change in body language. After all, I didn’t ask him to take me home. Truthfully, I’d have gone with him if I had to crawl to Ann Arbor while he rode my back. So why the protective armor all of a sudden? I decided to give him a gentle reminder of whose idea it was.

  “I’ll wait for you if that’s what you want.”

  “You’d give me what I want?” He gave me a red-hot gaze.

  That sounded pretty enthusiastic for a person just giving me a ride.

  “Are we still talking about you giving me a ride home?”

  He paused, opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it. We stood there staring at each other until he crossed his legs, his body language shouting, Don’t get too close. Finally, he broke the silence. “I have no idea what made me say that.”

  I knew what made him say it. Shoot. I had high hopes for the night myself.

  Where did that thought come from?

  Sometimes I hate my inner voice that reveals all kinds of unsavory motivations.

  Fatigue settled on me, though I tried to rub it out of my eyes. I thought about Jazz and his heat-seeking eyes—but closed body language—and realized my own arms had crossed. For a professional people-reader, I wasn’t altogether sure what was going on between us.

  We couldn’t very well stand there all night emotionally shielding ourselves. Jazz moved first, guiding me to where Carly stood by her SUV. I tried to relax as he placed his hand at the small of my back, but honestly, the man made me tingle all over. I could read my sister’s smirk as she spotted him leading me. She might as well have given me a high five and shouted, “You go, girl!” She eyed the detective. “Those guys might be dead, but chivalry is not, is it, Jazzy?”

  “Not tonight.”

  Carly grasped my hand. “Sorry for the sucky birthday, sis.”

  “It’s okay. You owe me. By the way, Jazz offered to take me home.”

  She looked at us and smiled broadly. “Then, you owe me one.” She released my hand and gave Jazz a playful nudge. “She could stand a good bodice ripping tonight.”

  “Is that what she’s wearing?” he asked innocently.

  Carly laughed in that sultry way of hers. “No, so it should be easy.”

  “Can we keep things professional here?” I said, louder than I intended.

  “Tell that to your sister,” Jazz said.

  She leaned over so she could whisper in my ear, “Look at him. Haven’t I taught you anything?” With that she kissed my cheek and glided away.

  I looked at the handsome man in front of me. Maybe I should borrow a few truths from the gospel according to Carly: Thou shalt have a good birthday. No matter who is dead.

  I didn’t know if I should say, “Amen, sister,” or pray for divine protection.

  Chapter

  Four

  I DEFINITELY SHOULD HAVE PRAYED for divine protection.

  Actually, Jazz needed the heavenly bodyguard, not me.

  I have to give it to the brother. His mama must have raised him right. Despite my daring banter and freshened breath, Jazz was a perfect gentleman. When we got to my place, he parked in the lot behind my apartment building, stepped out of the Crown Vic, and whisked the door open for me. I felt like a princess in my fancy red gown, taking the hand of the prince.

  Only, in fairy tales you don’t trip on your high-heeled sandals when you step out of the carriage or crash your head into the prince’s chest with the kind of force that could cause heart failure.

  Jazz definitely needed protection and maybe a chest X-ray. He laughed a robust boy-next-door kind of laugh. “You don’t get out much do you?” he said after he’d caught his breath.

  I didn’t answer. Did I really need to proclaim my utter nerdiness? Of course I didn’t get out much, but did he have to notice?

  He walked me to the main entrance.

  When I could look at him again, I managed to say, “Thank you for an interesting evening, Lieutenant Brown.”

  “Thank you for your input—before you hurled on my feet.”

  He thanked me. I liked him a little more for that.

  “I’ll pay for your shoes,” I said. As if I could.

  “No need. I’m just sorry you had to see that scene on
your special night.”

  “I’m sorry for those poor men. I can’t stop thinking about them.”

  “Me, too. But you’re a nice diversion.”

  “Uh. Thanks.” So now he’s brazenly flirting?

  “Don’t worry. I’ll find the bad guy and put him away. It’s what I do.”

  “That’s a tough job. I’ll say some prayers for you.”

  “You do that, Bell.” He shoved a hand toward me.

  I stuck out my hand to shake his and realized the top of my head was still stinging from my forceful plunge into his chest. I wondered if I hadn’t given myself a concussion and hoped I hadn’t broken a few of his ribs. His left hand still rested on the spot where I’d slammed into him.

  “My mother would never forgive me if I didn’t see you to your door,” he said. “Besides…” He gave me that full, amazing smile again. “You seem to be having a hard time with shoes tonight. May I?”

  “May you what?”

  “Help you?”

  “Sure,” I said, not knowing how he intended to help.

  He scooped me into his arms as if I were a bride about to be carried over the threshold. “Where to?” he asked. Those brown eyes of his held such a playful twinkle that I laughed.

  For the second time that night, words escaped me. Lord, have mercy on my man-deprived soul. His arms felt so good around me I forgot to protest. I forgot everything. “What did you just ask me?”

  “I asked where I could deposit you.”

  “Apartment 3B. That’s the third floor, Hercules.”

  “Relax and enjoy the ride.”

  So I did.

  Hercules did just fine carting my size-ten rear end up the stairs. What a perfect finish to the night’s trauma, even if he did start to strain a bit by the time he got to the second floor. I didn’t begrudge him that.

  I wasn’t mad at myself for enjoying his attention, either. Being held by him felt like a little bit of magic, and magic had been missing in action for a long time. I closed my eyes and felt the acrobatics in my stomach rival a Ringling Bros. Circus act. Inside me trapeze artists flew, feathers floated, and animals roared. A beautiful woman in a red dress grinned. She must have been the clown. It didn’t matter. A heady rush of adrenaline whooshed through me, and I opened my eyes to take a good look at the man causing all the commotion.

  Perspiration beaded on his forehead. Both of us still smelled like death, but I’d never, ever, seen a more beautiful man.

  When we got to 3B he set me down.

  “Happy thirty-fifth birthday.” He looked at me with his soft, wonderfully kind eyes, and I decided right then and there to fall in love with him.

  “How old are you?” I asked, feeling flirtatious and bold.

  “I’m thirty-seven.”

  “Do you believe in magic?”

  “I’m a homicide detective.”

  “It’s a yes-or-no question.”

  He gave me one of those sexy Denzel Washington glances. “Most of the time, no. Right at this moment, yes.”

  “What’s different about this moment?”

  “You.”

  I did what any woman in the throes of magic would.

  I kissed him.

  I think I surprised him. His hands found mine, and we en-twined them as if they belonged together. We kissed and kissed—standing at my door—acting like a couple of kids. God knows, in that moment my heart bloomed like the last rose of summer. I wished it would never end.

  He pulled himself away and stared at me for a moment. The sadness in his eyes nearly toppled me over. I shouldn’t have kissed him.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry about that, Lieutenant Brown.”

  He nodded but didn’t speak.

  “I just wanted to be in love—if only for a minute.” A flood of embarrassment washed over me, and I covered my face with my hands. “I can’t believe I said that to you.” I peeked at him through my splayed fingers.

  He took my hands in his again. “Don’t cover your face. I wanted to be in love for a minute, too.” He rubbed circles with his thumbs on the back of my hands. “I’m the one who should apologize, Bell.”

  This kind of thing had happened before. I knew what would come next. “We’re not going to see each other again, are we?”

  “No, beautiful. We’re not.”

  “You’re not wearing a ring. Are you married?”

  “No more questions, Ms. Detective,” he said, releasing my hands. “Let’s just enjoy the rest of our minute.”

  I shrugged and thought I’d tease him. “Since that’s all we have, I love you.”

  He surprised me. “I love you, too.”

  “How much time do we have left?”

  He checked his watch. “About ten seconds.”

  “I have endometriosis. Wanna get married and have a baby right quick?”

  “Can we accomplish that in seven seconds?”

  We could, but we shouldn’t. That didn’t stop me from talking trash. “The doctor says I need to do it fast.”

  He laughed. “If it’s doctor’s orders…” He pulled me into a tight hug, then sighed. His warm breath tickled my hair. “Our time is up.”

  I tried to pull away, but the man was strong. “Are you going to let me go?” I mumbled to his chest.

  “When I have to.” He held me, resting his head on top of mine and rubbing my back. We embraced each other for a long time. Finally, he pulled away from me. He touched my sassy, close-cropped hair. “Sexy haircut.”

  “My mother hates it. She said I look like a truck driver.”

  “My mother would like it.”

  We stood there, looking at our shoes, at the wall, at anything but each other. Finally, I put us out of our misery. “Good-bye, Jazz.” Again, I held out my hand to shake his. This time he shook it.

  “Good-bye, Bell. Tell Carly I respect you too much to go with her bodice-ripping suggestion.”

  “You know what? It would have been a wasted effort, anyway. I’ve never owned a bodice. I’m not even sure I know what that is.”

  “You should find out.”

  My inner circus packed up and left town. I felt drained and just wanted to get inside. “Tell you what, Jazz. Maybe by the time I do, you’ll actually be available to rip it.”

  Did I say that?

  I did. Worse yet, I meant it.

  “Touchá.”

  “Thanks for the minute.”

  “If it’s any consolation, we took longer than a minute.”

  “That’s not a consolation at all.” I fished in my handbag for my keys. When I found them, I turned to put my key in the door.

  “Bell.”

  I turned around to face him.

  He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out an amazing string of prayer beads. There must have been a hundred luminous red garnet stones on it, with tiny crystal seed beads as spacers. An ornate, white gold cross, as gorgeous as he was, dangled at the bottom of the strand. I could feel the weight of the cross when he placed the beads around my neck.

  “Try adding a tactile sensation to your prayers. I find it helpful to have something I can feel.”

  “But I’m not Catholic.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not a rosary. It’s along an Orthodox prayer rope, only made out of beads. The artist is my mother—and she’s a Church of God in Christ Pentecostal. My father is an Irish Catholic.” He touched the beads, still hanging on my neck.

  “You can say the Jesus prayer, the Lord’s prayer, the prayer of Jabez, the Psalms—whatever you like. I don’t even think God would mind if you used thoughtful quotes from The Purpose-Driven Life.”

  I liked that he knew these prayers, and The Purpose-Driven Life would give him bonus points in my circle of friends. But still…

  “I can’t take this; it’s too beautiful.”

  “Please. It’s yours. Don’t forget me, Bell; when you pray, that is.”

  “I won’t forget you, Jazz.”

  I hurried into my apartment and
closed the door behind me. I took a deep, cleansing breath and actually thanked the Lord. It could have been worse. At another time in my life, it would have been worse, and I’d have found myself on the altar repenting.

  We’d only had a few impulsive kisses and some silly talk about being in love for one minute—a whimsical game we’d stumbled upon. Perhaps it was like Carly said: God had smiled on me, sending a little male attention my way to show me I wasn’t completely hopeless.

  Psychologist, heal thyself. One more look, and I’ll let him go.

  The image of Jazz permeated my mind, and in that vision he flashed his wide, wonderful, “too much teeth for his lovely mouth” smile. Clenching my fist as hard as I could, I stored him in a secret place in my heart. I let a fragment of scripture, Song of Solomon 6:3, seal what I felt: “I am my beloved’s.”

  Slowly I uncurled my hand, willing myself to release Jazz Brown, while the image of his face faded away. It’s a technique I’d used in therapy sessions many times. An effective, physical symbol of letting go of something one held fast to. It was a tactile, sensory exercise. Jazz was right. Sometimes it helps to have something you can feel.

  I whispered good-bye to him, to my birthday, and to the twisted bodies demanding justice.

  Yeah, right.

  It’s amazing the lies we tell ourselves just to get a good night’s sleep.

  Chapter

  Five

  MORNING CAME TOO SOON , and I woke up foul tempered. Dreams of Jazz and the dead men tortured me all night. Upon waking I did two things I never do: I called in sick at the jail, and I went to the morgue to see Carly.

  If I thought the Washtenaw County Jail provided a dismal work environment, I only had to see the morgue to change my opinion. My heart went out to my big sister. One look and I understood her fanatical home-improvement impulses. The morgue looked every inch like what you’d see on television. The air had a stale coolness about it. The harsh fluorescent lighting would lead the majority of my clients suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder to their deaths. Someone had made a lame attempt to make the corridor more inviting by painting it a nauseating shade of green. Tacky, framed prints of outdoor scenes—designed to inspire serenity—completed the insult.