by Hank Edwards
Whatever Jazz wanted, Michael was game.
“This is delicious,” Jazz said, crunching a chip heaped in guac. The chip broke and he caught the broken piece before it fell into his lap.
Michael took a sample, then agreed with a mm-mm around a mouthful.
“Mikey?”
He almost choked on his chip at the sound of his childhood nickname being shouted across the restaurant. Chewing, he turned to see Grandpa waving at him. He wore a seersucker suit and a wicker hat. He had one of his ever-present manhattans in one hand and a woman who may or may not be named Molly holding on to the other.
“That’s your grandpa,” Jazz said. “I thought I knew him. I was right. That’s Mona with him, one of our salon clients.”
“Mona, not Molly, I was close.”
“What?”
But Michael was pushing to his feet, penis blessedly shriveled back to normal due to the arrival of family. “Grandpa,” he said as the man joined them. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Grandpa made a face, then exchanged a look and a burst of laughter with Mona. “Where else would I be? Joe’s is the only place with a Sunday happy hour.”
“Of course,” Michael said. Grandpa loved his cocktails. Michael gestured to Jazz. “Grandpa this is—”
“I know you,” Grandpa interrupted, pointing at Jazz with a cocktail glass he miraculously didn’t lose a drop from.
“He works for Misty,” Mona said. “She does my hair.”
Grandpa shook his head. “Nope, I know you from Kelsey’s.”
Jazz laughed and extended a hand. They shook like old pals. “Yes, St. Patrick’s Day. You got all of us drunk buying Irish car bombs.”
Grandpa cackled. “You youngsters are such lightweights.”
Michael wasn’t sure which man he was jealous of all of a sudden, Grandpa or Jazz. Michael hadn’t been invited to do anything on St. Patrick’s Day since college, least of all by Grandpa.
“Youngster? Hardly.” Jazz chuckled.
Grandpa pointed at their guacamole. “Oh, you got the fancy tableside kind. Maybe Mona and I should join you.”
Before Michael could protest, Grandpa was orchestrating the borrowing of unused chairs from other tables, forcing Jazz and Michael to scoot their chairs closer to the rail so Grandpa and Mona could squeeze in at the two-person table.
“Sorry,” Michael mouthed to Jazz.
But Jazz was smiling at Grandpa, and he gave Michael a “no worries” hand gesture, which left Michael wondering if Jazz was glad they weren’t alone anymore.
But didn’t he just talk about the two of them getting “spicy”?
Maybe that was Michael’s imagination.
“Why are you making that face, Mikey?”
Michael flinched. “I’m not making a face.”
Grandpa looked back and forth between him and Jazz. Then he gave Mona a wry smile. She was already munching on a chip. “Mona, darling, I think we just crashed a date.” He addressed Michael with a “Sorry, Mikey.”
Before Michael could say a word, a kerfuffle of cawing overhead drew everyone’s attention upward. A flock of seagulls were fighting midair over something.
“Is that a hot dog?” Jazz shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked up. The birds were snatching something oblong back and forth from beaks to talons.
A seagull dropped the fought-over object, and Michael watched it fall toward their table. It landed in their guacamole with a splat and several gulls screeched.
“Holy sheep shit, Mikey,” Grandpa cried, pointing at the object lodged upright in chunks of avocado. “That’s a human finger!”
Chapter Thirteen
“DICKWORTH,” SHERIFF Musgrave sneered. “Like a bad penny. Should’ve known you’d be here.”
“I think you can cease with the childish name-calling, Hilton,” Michael said, his entire body bristling with indignation, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You know his last name is Dilworth.”
The sheriff looked at Michael like a cow looking at a new gate. Must not be used to getting any lip from his subordinates. And if Jazz had to guess, everyone in Lacetown fell under Sheriff Musgrave’s list of subordinates. Jazz looked the sheriff’s outfit over, taking in the dirt-smeared cargo shorts, sweat-stained T-shirt, and baseball hat with Lacetown Pirates across the front. He’d obviously been interrupted doing yard work.
Clearing his throat, the sheriff shook his head. “Show us the finger, Fleishman.”
Jazz’s hope that Michael would simply flip the sheriff off was dashed when Michael gave a nod and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Right this way,” Michael said.
Accompanied by a patio full of excitable whispers, Michael walked back to the table with Musgrave and Deputy Tanner in tow. Standing guard over the evidence, Michael’s grandpa, Joel, was excitedly telling the restaurant manager what had happened.
“Just dropped right into the guac, fancy as you please,” Joel was saying. “You think you’ll have to throw out all the dishes on that table now?”
Pleased that Michael stood up to Musgrave for him, Jazz couldn’t hold back a smile as he followed. Maybe Michael and Jazz should’ve posed for the romance novel book cover, because Michael was surprisingly brave—confronting burglars to protect Mr. Pickles, and now defending Jazz’s honor.
I feel a swoon coming on!
Where was a fainting couch when he needed one?
“That looks like a bad Halloween joke,” the sheriff said, face scrunched in disgust as he examined the finger jutting upright in their guacamole.
“You think that’s part of our victim?” Tanner asked.
“I hope so,” Michael said. “Otherwise we have another body out there.”
Musgrave shot him a horrified look. “Don’t even say that.”
So Sheriff Meathead was more concerned than he let on. Small blessings. Maybe he wasn’t a total prick.
“Did you bring evidence bags and gloves?” Michael asked.
Wordlessly, Musgrave held out his hand and Tanner produced a plastic evidence bag and gloves from his shirt pocket and gave them to him. The sheriff held the items out, his head tilted at a funny angle as he stared at the finger. “How do you think the finger got separated from the hand? Did the birds do it, or our perp?”
“You know exactly what I know.” Michael donned the gloves and with one confident move, plucked up the finger and dropped it into the bag.
“Lemme have a gander at that, Mikey.” Joel rubbernecked around his grandson’s shoulder. Mona had wandered off to freshen up Joel’s manhattan.
“This is police business. No gandering,” Musgrave said.
“Can it, hotel boy.” Joel waved a dismissive hand at the sheriff and then pulled out a pair of readers.
Tanner barely suppressed a snicker but quickly schooled his features when Musgrave gave him a withering glare.
Hotel boy? Jazz was confused at first, but then realized Joel was playing off the sheriff’s first name of Hilton. Michael’s grandfather was hilarious, and better yet, had managed to get the sheriff to shut his trap.
“What does the severed end look like?” Joel peered through his readers, examining the finger. “There’s lots of guac on it, but it doesn’t look like a clean cut, does it, Mikey?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
Jazz looked at Michael, surprised by the faraway sound of his voice.
“Whachya thinking?” Jazz asked.
But Michael was staring at the marina, not the finger. They all followed the direction of Michael’s gaze.
Slapping the evidence bag against Musgrave’s barrel chest, Michael said, “I hope you brought more bags.”
Musgrave fumbled not to drop it, cursing under his breath as Michael walked toward the stairs down to the beach.
“Where are you going?” Musgrave demanded. Before following Michael, he pointed at his startled deputy. “Don’t let anyone touch that guacamole. Take this finger and get me more evidence bags from my cruiser
.”
Tanner took the bag, his face suddenly gray and sweating as he gaped at the bloated grayish finger. His neck convulsed and he made a very wet gagging sound.
“Don’t you fucking puke, Tanner,” Musgrave shouted without turning back.
Jazz and Joel exchanged startled looks.
“Well, c’mon.” Joel grabbed Jazz by the arm. “This is gonna be good.”
They made it two steps before Mona called out behind them, “Joel, where are you going?”
Joel spun on his heels, dropping Jazz’s arm and hurrying back to Mona. “Quick! Bring the cocktails. We’re going on an adventure.”
Mona giggled with excitement as she passed Joel his manhattan. She had a glass of red wine and didn’t seem as disturbed as Jazz felt after the digital interruption of his date with Michael.
Seagulls just dropped a human finger into their lunch, but only Jazz and the nauseated deputy seemed affected.
Go figure.
Shaking his head at the unflappable, tipsy seniors, Jazz gave Tanner a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, then hastened after them.
Michael was halfway to the breaker rocks separating Hardscrabble Beach from Christy’s Marina, the sheriff hot on his heels. Musgrave was shouting something, but his words were drowned out by the loud crash of Lake Michigan’s waves. Hand in hand, Joel and Mona chased behind, like two drunken toddlers mincing over the sand.
“Damn, mortician,” Jazz cursed as his flip-flops caught in the sand, then snapped back to smack the soles of his feet, slowing his progress.
But just like last night, when Jazz had told Michael not to confront the burglar outside his funeral home, Michael was a man on a mission. Jazz wasn’t sure if he was stubborn or a fool. And he couldn’t decide if Michael’s bold determination was sexy or frustrating.
As he stumbled in the sand once more, Jazz decided it was both.
Definitely both.
By the time Jazz caught up to the rest, Michael was already climbing on the rocks.
“What wild hair did you catch up your ass, Fleishman?” Musgrave pulled off his baseball hat and shielded his eyes with it.
“What is it, Mikey?” Joel took a sip of his cocktail, his tone curious and excited.
Wind tousling his normally groomed dark hair, Michael stood on one of the highest rocks and looked down at them, smiling like a boy playing on the beach, carefree and wild.
Jazz’s heart skipped.
Definitely sexy, not frustrating.
Maybe Michael was more adventurous than Jazz had first assumed.
“The gulls.” Michael pointed near the shore where a cawing, screeching flock of birds fought and dove around the rocks on the marina-side of the breaker barrier rocks. “Something has captured their unwavering attention, haven’t you noticed?”
Without another word, Michael began picking his way closer to the spot he’d indicated.
Joel and Mona shared excited looks and toasted their glasses. “To a far more interesting Sunday afternoon than expected, eh, my dear?”
“Indeed,” she said.
“Dammit,” Musgrave muttered.
A moment later, after dodging an avian assault of Hitchcock proportions, Michael called out, “Sheriff, I’m going to need those bags.”
Chapter Fourteen
JAZZ PARKED his Mazda MX-5 Miata behind the apartment building and killed the engine. Keys in hand, he sat and thought about the day’s events.
And Michael.
Lately, almost every train of thought he had seemed to arrive in a station named “Michael.”
And yet, for all the thinking Jazz had been doing about Michael, it seemed that every time they tried to fit in some time to get to know each other, something came up. And not the good kind of something, either.
If it wasn’t a dead body, it was parts of a dead body.
Or an unknown gunman.
A shudder surprised him, and before he had a chance to freak himself out over everything that had happened, he climbed out of the car and took the steps to his apartment door.
Jazz took an easy breath when he stepped inside and tossed his keys on a small table in the little foyer.
He always loved walking in the door.
Decorated in what he liked to think of as “retro-antique chic,” Jazz’s loft had the original redbrick walls exposed, industrial lighting, and was crammed happily with all of his favorite things. Russell had hated Jazz’s furniture, not wanting much of it in “their” house. He’d called the set of comfy purple velvet couches “gauche,” though they’d cost a small fortune. Jazz had reupholstered several unique ottomans from antique shops with fun colorful prints, mingling those in with throw pillows, tall chrome lamps and a few plants for a “jazzy” look, if he did say so himself. The tall ceilings gave the illusion of more space, even with all his bookshelves crammed with paperbacks and collectible figurines. The kitchen was open to the main living area, not gourmet, but new and serviceable, with just enough counter space to host a party.
He loved his place, but damn, he’d kill for a kitchen like Michael’s.
When he’d left Michael and Sheriff Musgrave at Joe’s Fishery, Jazz hadn’t known where he was going. It seemed he’d come directly home by instinct, his brain otherwise occupied by the gruesome finger that had landed in their guacamole, as well as the pair of hands Michael had located soon after. There was nowhere else he wanted to be at the moment. A crowded bar or noisy restaurant wouldn’t have fit his mood. No, he needed some quiet and time to think.
And maybe a bit of mud.
A short time later, Jazz hummed as he moved around his apartment. A set of big living room windows let in a lot of light and a view of some downtown shops and businesses. Lake Shore Drive ran up the coastline with the boardwalk on the other side, and finally, the sun-dappled expanse of Lake Michigan.
He never tired of that view.
And the lease was surprisingly low.
Enjoying the sunshine, Jazz had changed into an old pair of sweat shorts and a muscle shirt faded from countless washings. His hair was held back from his face with a headband and he’d applied a thick layer of Organic Soil’s Natural Beauty Mud Masque. Using a feather duster, he dusted around his ceramic and porcelain figurines displayed on his bookshelves. Then he sorted through the junk mail on his shabby-chic dining table and tossed a few things. The set of table and chairs had come from an estate sale in Vermont. When Jazz had repainted them a creamy white, Russell had cried, “Oh the horror of painting antiques!”
Just about the time Jazz started to feel relaxed after the insanity of the day and was thinking about putting on a James Taylor CD and indulging in his latest celebrity gossip rag, the phone rang.
Though nothing good usually came from answering the phone or the door, Jazz hurried over to his cell, hoping it was Michael. He frowned and the tightening of his clay mask cracked a little bit.
He swiped open his phone. “Hello, Russell.”
“I just don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Jazz restrained himself from rolling his eyes, lest his facial mask crack further. “About what?”
“Are you serious?” Russell cried like a hysterical diva. “Dylan, of course!”
“Yes, I know and I’m sorry. You caught me off guard with the question.” Jazz fought the impulse to ask why Dylan had drugs up his butt and who would’ve wanted to cut his hands off. It wasn’t Jazz’s information to share, but he might be able to get some more information out of Russell. He just needed to remember that Russell had to be handled as delicately as a soufflé if Jazz wanted him to talk.
“I loved him so,” Russell said wistfully. “We were soul mates, you know?”
This time Jazz couldn’t stop the frown, and bits of his clay mask crumbled from his cheek. “Soul mates?” Couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his tone either.
“Oh, Jasper dear, don’t be jealous. What you and I had was lovely, but Dylan….” He sighed dramatically. “We were so sexually compatible. It was as if we
were made for each other. He wanted to be a writer, did you know that?”
The kid was probably into all of Russell’s kinks because Russell footed the bills. But if they shared a passion for writing, Jazz could concede a bigger connection than sex. Frankly, all Jazz and Russell ever had was sex and Jazz being a fan of Russell’s books. Once the fangirl realized what a phony his favorite author really was, their relationship became cohabitation and Jazz doing free haircuts and highlights.
Jazz wondered who was coloring Russell’s hair now, because it was über ashy and not in a good way.
Dismissing shitty color jobs, Jazz decided he would give their peculiar romance the benefit of the doubt. “What do you think happened?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Russell said. “I heard you’re becoming friendly with the coroner.” There was a shuffling on the phone and a hiccupping sob followed.
The timer dinged for Jazz to wash off his mask. He put Russell on speaker while the man had another cry, and set his phone on the bathroom counter.
This might take a while.
The bathroom had a nice linen closet with plenty of storage for all his products, and new subway tile on the walls. Instead of a shower, there was a giant claw-foot tub in the corner. The moment Jazz saw the tub, he’d signed on the dotted line. He turned the faucet on in the pedestal sink, and used a washcloth to cleanse the mask from his face, only half-listening to Russell cry.
Suddenly the phone went silent.
“Jasper, are you urinating while you’re on the phone with me?”
“No, I was washing my face.” But now that he mentioned it, Jazz could take a piss.
“Did the coroner tell you anything about Dylan’s murder? I heard gossip in the local bar and grill that my poor dear’s hands were discovered. Eaten by seagulls!”
Jazz gave his reflection in the mirror a silent giggle at Russell’s histrionics. “Yeah, it was pretty gruesome.” He dried his face and hung up the towel, proud of himself for sounding compassionate. Maybe it was because he was starting to feel bad for Russell. The guy was a jerk, but if he loved Dylan, how horrible to lose him in such a way.