Murder Most Lovely

by Hank Edwards

  Just go in there and get this over with. You’ve done nothing wrong. And once you’re done, you can go out with Michael.

  Jazz squared his shoulders, clenched and released his fists, then climbed the three steps to the entrance. The lobby was a long, narrow space with walls done in shiplap, a design trend that Jazz really hoped passed soon. A padded bench sat against the wall, directly across from a glassed-in counter manned by a female officer with an athletic build and dark hair in a bun so tight it looked painful. She snapped her head up as he entered the building and watched his approach with narrowed eyes.

  “Help you?” Her tone conveyed suspicion right off the bat. Jazz hoped he never got pulled over by her.

  “I think so. I mean, yes, you may.” He chuckled and flashed his best smile. “Sorry, I’m a little nervous.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?” She took her right hand off the countertop and dropped it to her side, and Jazz’s heart rate sped up as he imagined her drawing a weapon and aiming it at him beneath the counter. She glanced to her left, where Jazz could see a closed door with a thick pane of wire-reinforced glass in it. It was almost like she was sitting in a booth selling tickets for admission to the rest of the station.

  “I need to speak to the sheriff. At least I’m pretty sure he’ll want to speak with me. About the murder.”

  “Murder?” She fixed him with a glare. “Are you confessing to murder?”

  “What? No! I didn’t kill him. They found him today, out on the beach. But I know who he is, and I wanted to talk with the sheriff and tell him what I know.”

  “So you know something about the murder?”

  Jazz thought his heart was going to explode. “No! I just figured he would want to talk with me about the victim and hear my side of it.”

  “Your side?” She slowly shook her head. “Sounds an awful lot like you’ve got a guilty conscience.”

  “Look, I don’t know how things got so twisted and turned around—”

  “Don’t look at me. I’m going off what you’re saying.”

  “Okay. That’s fair. I get that. I just want to speak to the sheriff and tell him everything I know about the victim found today so he can have all the information for his investigation.”

  “Don’t move.” She picked up the phone, cradled the receiver between her ear and her shoulder, then dialed an extension, all while keeping her gaze locked on Jazz and her right hand out of sight. “Hi, yeah, it’s Tompkins at the desk. No, the other Tompkins. Right. I’ve got a gentleman up here asking to speak to you regarding the victim discovered on the beach today. No, sir, I did not get his name. I apologize.” She winced and shook her head. “One moment, please.” She angled the receiver away from her mouth and asked, “What is your name, please, sir?”

  “Jazz…. Sorry. Jasper Dilworth.”

  Tompkins moved the receiver back to her thin-lipped mouth. “His name is Jasper Dilworth, sir. I understand. Yes, sir. Very good.”

  She hung up the phone and pointed toward a door at the far end of the lobby. “Proceed through that door, and the sheriff will meet you on the other side. Is that understood, Mr. Dilworth?”

  Jazz nodded, afraid to speak for fear of getting himself into more trouble with Officer Tompkins. Though not especially large, she looked like she could kick Jazz’s ass with both hands tied behind her back.

  “Very good. I will buzz you through.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jazz walked toward the door, and when he was a step away, heard the buzz and click of the lock releasing. He stepped through and stopped as he found a number of officers sitting behind desks and staring at him. Plainclothes people walked around too, doing something Jazz’s taxes paid for, probably, but he couldn’t imagine what.

  “Oh.” Jazz swallowed the lump in his throat. “Hello. Sorry to disturb you all.”

  “Dilworth?”

  The deep voice just to his right made him jump, and he turned to find Sheriff Musgrave standing a foot away. Jazz barely managed not to stumble backward with a yelp. The sheriff’s huge arms were crossed, and he stared down at Jazz with an unreadable blank expression.

  Swallowing hard, Jazz told himself to be cool. “Yes. I go by Jazz.”

  “Good for you. I hate jazz. Follow me.”

  Jazz followed the sheriff down the hall and into a good-sized office. A series of windows in one wall provided a view of Lake Michigan at the end of Main Street. A massive oak desk was wedged in a corner, with uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs huddled in front of it.

  Jazz’s palms were sweating, and he blotted them on his pants as he stood in front of the sheriff’s big desk. The man rounded it, and the old desk chair squealed and squeaked as the sheriff settled his considerable bulk into it. Then he waved to one of two chairs next to Jazz.

  “Take a seat.”

  “Thanks.” Jazz’s ass and back both seemed to groan as he sat in the sparsely padded and horribly contoured chair. Was this some kind of interview technique designed to get people to confess? Because Jazz might consider saying he’d murdered Dylan just to get out of that chair.

  “First things, first. Can I see your driver’s license?”

  Jazz pulled out his wallet, fumbled it, and dropped it on the floor. He picked it up, slid out his license, and handed it to the sheriff. Musgrave looked at it, looked at him, and then made a note of his address on a yellow Post-it and stuck it on the edge of his computer monitor.

  That wasn’t unsettling at all. Nope, not one bit.

  The sheriff returned his driver’s license and sat back in his chair—more groaning and squeaking—then fixed him with a cool look. Jazz shifted in the terrible chair and drew in a deep breath, then slid out his other license and handed it over. “That’s my Concealed Pistol License. And I do own a gun, a Colt 1911.”

  Musgrave blinked several times, then leaned forward in his chair to take the license. “Are you carrying your weapon right now?”

  “No way,” he said, shocked. “I know it’s against the law to carry in a police station. I was just being upfront. I haven’t even carried since I moved to Lacetown.”

  But with people getting their hands chopped off, maybe Jazz would have to rethink that.

  The sheriff nodded but looked perplexed. He was quiet for a few seconds, then asked, “You have a CPL and you shoot a .45 semi-auto? Really?”

  Jazz fought hard not to feel offended, but no matter what his brain wanted him to say, his lips seemed to have their own agenda. “You look surprised. You think just because I suck dick I can’t handle a firearm?”

  “What? No! And there’s no call for that kind of talk.”

  “Fine. But just so you know, I grew up in rural Missouri and my grandpa taught me all about guns. When I moved into a sketchy part of Detroit, I decided to get my license.”

  “Ever have a need to use it?”

  “Not yet.” Jazz fixed the sheriff with a cool look, hoping he’d get the unspoken desire for the man to give him a reason.

  It might have gone unnoticed while the sheriff scribbled on a second Post-it and added it to the monitor. Then he handed him back his CPL, and reclined in his chair once again. “Fine. Now that that’s out in the open, tell me how you heard about the victim.”

  Jazz focused on returning his license to his wallet. “I, um, got a call.”

  “Yeah? From who?” The sheriff closed one eye in a squint and pointed at Jazz. “From Fleishman, right? You’re the one he called?”

  Jazz let out a quiet breath. “Yes. That was me.”

  “Why’d he call you?”

  “Because I know the victim.”

  “Yeah? How well?” The chair squeaked as the sheriff leaned farther back in it, as if to put distance between himself and what he suspected Jazz’s answer might be.

  “Not very well. Dylan Roberts was involved with the man I was… sorry, am, married to.”

  “Oh, really?” The sheriff sat up and pulled a pad of paper and a pen from his desk drawer. “So you broke them up
?”

  “No, other way around. I’m technically married to Russell Withingham, but I left him when he started seeing Dylan behind my back.”

  “So Dylan’s the reason your relationship fell apart?”

  “Oh, no. I mean, not completely. Russell was…. Well, he’s a serial cheater.”

  “He cheats on you with cereal?” the sheriff sneered and looked confused.

  “No. He cheated on me with a lot of different men. Serial, as in a series.”

  “Okay. That makes more sense.”

  As if thinking cereal would have made any sense whatsoever, Jazz thought. But if anybody could think of a way to have sex with Raisin Bran, it would be Russell.

  “So the victim was one of the reasons you’re now separated from your… from your husband.”

  Jazz took note of the sheriff’s hesitation before he replied, “Yes, that would be true.”

  “You harbored ill intent for the victim?”

  Jazz shook his head. He’d known this would be a difficult conversation, but he wasn’t quite prepared for it. Maybe he should have waited for the sheriff to come to him, give himself some time to get his thoughts sorted.

  Forcing a calming breath, Jazz answered, “You could say that, but I didn’t. I wasn’t a very big fan of Dylan’s, but I never wanted to hurt him, let alone murder him.”

  “I see.”

  Jazz took another slow breath and cleared his throat. Just get it over with. Like ripping wax off an eyebrow. “I did see both Dylan and Russell yesterday afternoon.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “Well, I knew Russell was in town for the Literary Fest, and I wanted to confront him face-to-face about why he hadn’t been keeping up on the car payments he promised to cover for me.”

  “He’s still paying for your car?”

  “It is a mutually agreed upon arrangement. He kept the house in Bloomfield Hills, and in exchange he pays for my car until I get back what I contributed to our down payment on the house.”

  His brows shot up in accusation. “So he owes you money? Money is a powerful motive.”

  Jazz tried not to get annoyed or flustered even more than he was. “No, not a motive, just me being nice. Russell didn’t want to sell the house, so I agreed to let him repay me with my car payments. There are only two more years of payments left on it, and he’s missed the last couple of months.”

  “That’ll show up on your credit report.”

  “Exactly!” Jazz relaxed a bit, then got nervous once again. Maybe him being relaxed was just what the sheriff wanted before he sprang a surprise question on him or something. “Anyway, Dylan was at the signing as well when Russell and I went off into a corner and had words.”

  “What kind of words?”

  “Angry ones, as you can imagine. I told him to get off his ass and make the damn car payments.”

  “Or else?”

  “No ‘or else,’ just make the payments.”

  “Did you talk to the victim?”

  “No. I walked right past Dylan without saying a word.”

  “And there are witnesses who can back up your claims?”

  “Quite a few, yes, sir.”

  “And where were you last night between 8:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m.?”

  “I went out with the girls at Misty’s Makeover Palace, where I work as a stylist.”

  “How long were you out with them?”

  “From about forty-five minutes after the shop closed, which is 7:00 p.m., until I left them at the bar after eleven.”

  “And they can corroborate these times?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Before the sheriff could ask another question, they heard a commotion from down the hall. It sounded at first like a baby wailing, and then Officer Tompkins started asking questions in a sharp tone that went up in volume until she was practically shouting.

  Jazz cocked his head and frowned. The crying sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. And he really didn’t have much experience with babies, so he wasn’t sure how he knew it.

  “What in the name of all that’s hot and holy is going on out there?”

  The sheriff pushed to his feet—the chair practically screamed in protest—and Jazz waited until he had stomped past before he got up. He followed the sheriff down the hall to the door leading to the lobby. Other officers had opened the door to the intake area—what Jazz thought of as the ticket booth—and had gathered behind Officer Tompkins, craning their necks to see over and around her.

  Just as the sheriff opened the door to the lobby, everything clicked into place, and Jazz knew who he would see on the other side.

  Russell knelt in the middle of the lobby, fists on his thighs and tear-drenched face turned up to the ceiling as he wailed in grief. Norbert crouched behind him, arms tight around Russell’s torso, as if to anchor him to this world and keep him from launching into space.

  “Why Dylan? Why him? Oh, God, why? Oh why? He was so young, so beautiful! So full of life and love! Oh, why?”

  “It’s all right, Russell,” Norbert cooed as he stroked Russell’s hair.

  “Oh, please,” Jazz whispered as he stepped into the lobby behind the sheriff.

  “Sir, please calm yourself,” Officer Tompkins said, still at her station behind the counter. And still with her right hand at her side and out of sight.

  “Enough!” Sheriff Musgrave shouted.

  Everyone jumped and then fell silent. Russell peered up at the sheriff, eyes filled with tears. Then his eyes shifted, and he met Jazz’s gaze over the sheriff’s shoulder.

  “Jasper?” Russell said. “What are you doing here? Surely you’re not a suspect… are you?”

  “Everyone is a suspect until Sheriff Musgrave says they’re not,” Sheriff Musgrave declared.

  Of course he has a third-person tagline. Jazz had to fight hard to keep from rolling his eyes at the whole situation.

  “Mr. Withingham, I take it?” the sheriff said.

  “Yes, I am. I apologize for the scene, but I just learned that my dear, sweet Dylan has been taken from this earthly realm.” Russell shrugged out of Norbert’s grasp and stood, causing the spindly-limbed man to collapse onto the tile floor.

  Jazz tried not to laugh at Norbert’s arms flailing like a stork.

  Laughing would not endear Jazz to the sheriff.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Withingham,” the sheriff said, frowning at Norbert before narrowing his eyes at Russell. “If you have a few minutes, I would like to talk with you.”

  Russell sniffed and nodded. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt as Norbert struggled to his feet behind him. “Of course. Anything to help catch whoever did this to Dylan. All I know is Dylan and I went out after the signing, and he was very agitated.” Russell glanced at Jazz before looking away. “No doubt still upset about the scene Jasper caused at my book signing.”

  “Or maybe he learned about you fucking around on him,” Jazz said, glaring at Norbert. “You look awfully friendly all of a sudden, Norbie. Russell buttering your biscuits too?”

  Norbert blustered. “There is no buttering of biscuits or anything untoward between Mr. Withingham and myself.”

  “Jasper,” Russell cried, hand on his chest in an affected affront. “Your constant jealousy is unnecessary. Dylan just died. This is not the time for your insecurities.”

  “Insecurities?” Jazz all but shouted, wishing he could punch Russell in the face.

  “All right,” the sheriff said in a booming voice, raising his big hands to end the catty back and forth. “Enough!”

  Russell took a step toward the sheriff, his face the picture of tragedy. “I came as soon as I got the call that you discovered my beloved’s body. I want to help you find out who committed this heinous act.”

  “Heinous?” the sheriff repeated, brows crinkled in suspicion. “Who said it was heinous?”

  “Every murder is heinous,” Russell declared.

  The sheriff rolled his eyes. “When was the last ti
me you saw Mr. Roberts?”

  “We were both very upset when we got home so we each took a sleep aid. When I woke up later, Dylan was gone. I went looking for him because he’s sleepwalked in the past when he’s taken it, but I couldn’t find him.”

  “You didn’t call it in?” the sheriff asked.

  “I’m well-versed in police procedural, sheriff. I have written over a dozen mystery bestsellers, after all. I know that police prefer to allow twenty-four hours to pass before filing a missing person’s report.”

  “Fine. Come into my office, and we’ll discuss this in more detail.” The sheriff turned and adjusted his gun belt as he fixed Jazz with a cool look. “We’ll continue our conversation at another time, Mr. Dilworth. Don’t leave town.”

  “I have no intention of leaving, sheriff.” After a curt nod at the man, Jazz looked at his ex and tried not to sneer. “Russell.”

  Lips pursed, Russell gave a single nod. “Jasper.”

  “Norbert. Chilling to see you, as always.” Jazz walked past them and pushed out the door into the fresh air and sunshine. He walked back to Misty’s without a backward glance, trying to feel as “I don’t give a fuck” as he’d acted in front of Russell. But his heart was racing and his hands were sweating again.

  Just how much trouble am I in?

  Chapter Seven

  HALFWAY THROUGH the examination, Michael discovered something that stopped him midsentence. He knew Kitty would give him a bit of grief about his reaction later as she transcribed his recording, but he had been caught by surprise.

  “There is evidence of anal penetration, which was to be expected, as the victim is known to be homosexual. However, an object is visible extruding from the anus. I shall attempt to remove it without causing any damage to it.”

  After taking up a slim pair of forceps, Michael leaned in close to Dylan’s perfect ass—sculpted, no doubt, by hours in the gym—and grasped the visible material. It was pliable and proved to be slippery and difficult for Michael to keep hold of. After a bit of careful negotiation, however, he managed to extract a long blue condom. The open end had been tied off and was what had been extruding from Dylan’s anus. The condom had some weight to it, and when he held it up to the light, Michael saw tiny packets stuffed inside.