Murder Most Lovely

by Hank Edwards

  He applied a collagen hydrator, then took his phone off speaker. Pressing it to his ear, he walked over to the toilet to empty his bladder, hoping Russell didn’t hear.

  “So what do the police know?” Russell asked.

  “I have no idea,” Jazz told him, watching his piss stream and holding back a sigh. “Do you think this might have something to do with drugs?”

  “Drugs?” Russell cried. “Oh, my. Oh no. No, not drugs.”

  Jazz’s brows shot up and he gave his dick one last shake before tucking it away. If he wasn’t mistaken, Russell had hesitated just a bit.

  Interesting….

  “Seems like you might be hiding something,” Jazz said.

  “What? I don’t know what you might be implying.”

  “Really? Seems like there’s something you’re not saying.”

  Russell sighed. “You know me too well, Jasper. My love does have a sordid past, but he’s not been involved with any of those untoward connections since we’ve been together. And I would know if he had.”

  “Okay, well that’s good.” Jazz shook his head. “Did you tell the sheriff Dylan used to have untoward connections?” He opted not to flush the toilet because he didn’t want to hear Russell bitch that he was as gauche as his awesome couches.

  “No, why? Do the authorities think there is a drug connection?”

  “No clue, I was just spitballing,” Jazz said without skipping a beat. He wasn’t even supposed to know about the heroin, so he couldn’t risk telling Russell and having it get back to Musgrave that he’d overheard him.

  “Such a gauche phrase, Jasper,” he scolded effortlessly before sighing. “I feel so helpless. I tried to offer my expertise, but the sheriff was very uncooperative with any information about Dylan’s death. He brazenly treated me like a suspect. Me? Can you even fathom something so utterly absurd?”

  “No,” Jazz admitted because he actually couldn’t.

  “Have you learned anything at all? Do they have a suspect yet?”

  “Besides me and you, no, I don’t think so.”

  “Tell me you weren’t involved with this, Jasper.”

  “What the fuck, Russell?” Jazz demanded, shocked by his serious tone. “Why would you think that?”

  “Jealousy,” he said simply.

  Before Jazz could tell Russell to stick it up his ass like a circus peanut, Russell let out another wail.

  “This is the worst day of my life!” Russell declared. “My one true love has been murdered and that imbecile of a lawman isn’t looking in the most obvious of places. We’re on Lake Michigan. Everyone knows drugs travel back and forth across the lake. I wrote about it in the Sea of Discontent, remember?”

  “Haven’t read that one yet.” Jazz hadn’t read past book eleven because Norbert and the publisher were so busy sucking Russell’s money cock that they let him get away with bad writing and poor editing. Wasn’t like Jazz could tell Russell that, however, not while he was grieving.

  “Well.” Russell sounded piqued. “That sheriff should be looking at every possible lead. Perhaps someone from Dylan’s past is involved. All I know is that we each took a sleeping pill, and when I woke up, my sweet Dylan was dead.”

  Sniffle, sniffle.

  Before the waterworks started again, Jazz said soothingly, “I’m really sorry, Russell. He sounds like he meant a lot to you.”

  “Yes, well,” Russell said with airy indifference. “I have to let you go. I can’t keep having this conversation and maintain my composure. You will let me know if that coroner tells you anything, won’t you, Jasper dear?”

  “Sure,” Jazz lied.

  When Jazz hung up the phone, that unsettled feeling in his stomach returned. So Dylan had a shady past. Not that Jazz should be surprised. The club Dylan had worked at was notorious for drugs, but Russell swore Dylan wasn’t involved in that life anymore. Jazz had caught Russell in enough lies over the years to know when the man was full of shit, and just now, he’d been telling the truth. At least from his point of view.

  The heroin Dylan had on him told another story.

  Jazz needed to tell Michael what Russell said so Michael could tell the sheriff. If there were drug dealers coming across the lake, then the sheriff probably had leads already.

  Who was Jazz kidding? Musgrave couldn’t find his own ass with two hands and a map.

  As he prepared to send Michael a text, he hesitated. Jazz didn’t want Michael to meet him simply because he had information. He wanted Michael to want to see him—any information about Russell might be one of many conversations they could have as they got to know each other better.

  After some deliberation, Jazz sent, Any chance you’d like to finish the rest of our date?

  Chapter Fifteen

  MICHAEL WASHED his hands, mentally exhausted.

  The examination of the hands proved they did, in fact, belong to Dylan, so that was good. Just the one finger was missing, and thankfully the seagulls hadn’t done too much damage and the hands had only begun the stages of water decay. There hadn’t been much to learn overall, but the severed hands corroborated his earlier findings: The postmortem cuts to the victim’s wrists are sharp and clean, done with one sweeping cut. Weapon could have been any number of industrial cutting blades.

  But no magical new evidence to provide a clue as to who killed poor Dylan.

  On the desk, his cell buzzed. Since he was in the middle of a murder investigation, he’d opted to keep it on him at all times, just in case a new lead was discovered.

  A revitalizing shimmer went through Michael when he saw Jazz’s name on the screen.

  After drying his hands quickly, Michael read Jazz’s text: Any chance you’d like to finish the rest of our date?

  They’d had a hasty and far too Rated-G goodbye after Michael found Dylan’s hands wedged between the rocks. Not that it could be helped with Grandpa, Mona, Sheriff Musgrave, and his puking deputy looking on.

  Michael wanted another chance to see Jazz, but there was a murderer running loose in Lacetown. However, Jazz had posed an interesting theory at lunch about Russell Withingham’s possible involvement with the heroin.

  Spelunking.

  An undeniable surge of lust swept over Michael, recalling his lunchtime wicked fantasies of a strawberry, whipped cream, and cherry-covered naked Jazz…. No, he needed to think about the case.

  Though Jazz was convinced Russell hadn’t murdered Dylan—and Michael hoped he hadn’t—his unique fetish hinted otherwise.

  And all the murderers Brock Hammer discovered were the least likely suspects.

  But if that were the case, wouldn’t Jazz be the least likely suspect? Thoughts and questions danced through Michael’s mind. What if Jazz was planting false clues to frame Russell because Jazz killed Dylan? What if he was only flirting with Michael to get information about the case?

  No!

  He just couldn’t believe Jazz was capable of anything as cruel and violent as Dylan’s murder. Michael had seen genuine honesty in his warm brown eyes when Jazz had said he wasn’t uncomfortable with Michael’s profession.

  No, Jazz was not a killer.

  The phone buzzed again.

  Jazz: It’s okay if you’d rather pass. I understand.

  A huge grin stretched across Michael’s face.

  Jazz had been as worried as Michael about their lunch date falling through. Had Michael’s woolgathering about the case instead of answering the text made Jazz nervous again?

  With a boost of confidence, Michael texted back: I could go for that ice cream you mentioned. The Dairy Clipper in an hour?

  Then he added a few smiling and ice cream emojis.

  The reply came in so quick, Michael wondered if Jazz had been staring at his phone, anxiously waiting for a reply.

  Sounds perfect! See you soon!

  Michael couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. He hurried up the steps and walked through the first floor of the funeral home, checking that windows and doors were locked. It
was Sunday, but he’d managed to get a glass repair company to come by that morning and fix the broken window. There were no funerals scheduled, so Kitty had the day off. A call had come in from the Bluffs at Lake View senior complex an hour ago that Rachel Atwood had died. It was sad that two women from there had died in less than a week. Grandpa had been sweet on the widowed Mrs. Atwood at one time, so Michael made a note to call him later. Michael had sent Ezra and Steve to collect her because he’d been examining Dylan’s hands and finishing his reports. After setting the alarm, he left by the back door and crossed the parking lot to his house.

  Inside the kitchen, Mr. Pickles hurried across the tile floor, low-hanging belly swinging with each step. He greeted Michael with plaintive meows and rubbed against his legs.

  “Hey, boy, you doing well? Feeling better after the break-in? Looks like you’ve got your appetite back, so that’s good. Come here, I’ll feed you.”

  He scraped some wet food into Mr. Pickles’s dish, then dashed up the stairs two at a time. His clothes went into the hamper, and as he stepped into the walk-in, tiled shower, he already had half an erection. The mere thought of spending time with Jazz had him amped up. If he wanted to pay attention and engage in any decent conversation at all, he needed to take the edge off.

  Luckily, he had just the thing close at hand.

  His cock now at full-mast, Michael leaned out of the shower and pulled open the bottom drawer of the vanity. He lifted a large vibrating dildo from the drawer and brought it into the shower, then shut the glass door behind him. The dildo’s base had a suction cup, and he slapped it against the wall at the right height so that it stuck out, bouncing gently in the shower spray. He lathered up, taking time to caress his now throbbing dick as he kept his gaze on the long, thick dildo. It was the favorite of his collection, and even though he worried it might make him late meeting Jazz, he really needed to get off.

  After rinsing clean, Michael applied a generous amount of lube from a bottle he kept on a shower shelf, then backed up onto the dildo. The slow, stinging entry felt good and familiar. He moved off, and then slid back onto it again, taking it deeper and thinking about Jazz.

  He closed his eyes and moved faster, Jazz’s face and body in mind. It wouldn’t take him long… he was so close already.

  Moving even faster, Michael stroked his cock as he fucked himself, imagining Jazz behind and inside of him. He could almost feel Jazz’s fingers gripping his hips tight. Feel the slap of his balls with each penetration. Hear his quiet grunts of pleasure.

  He thrust back hard and gasped, “Oh, Jazz!”

  His orgasm came on fast, and he took the dildo as deep as possible, muscles clenched around its length as he shot into the spray of water. Shaking a little, he stroked his cock slowly now, savoring the way every ounce of tension seemed to disappear from his body like his cum washing down the drain.

  Fuck, that was good.

  But Jazz would have been better.

  Michael lingered only a moment, loving the fullness inside him, but eventually he eased off the dildo. Then he quickly cleaned the toy and himself up. He turned off the water, dried himself, then the dildo, and returned it to the drawer. A glance at the clock on the counter made him curse. He was late. Really late.

  Dammit!

  There was no time to waffle over what to wear, so he grabbed a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved button-down shirt. He was buttoning the shirt as he raced down the steps, then realized he’d left his phone in the bedroom and had to run back up. Sparing a minute to shoot Jazz a text that he was on his way, Michael stomped down the steps and into the kitchen. Mr. Pickles scooted out of his path, and he set his seldom used home alarm, then said a hasty farewell to the cat before running out the door.

  The hearse blocked Michael’s Camry inside the garage.

  Steve and Ezra must’ve returned with Mrs. Atwood. A light shined downstairs in the parlor basement. Ezra couldn’t be working on her without Michael—they would attend to her in the morning. He was probably cleaning the body bags and making sure everything was prepped and ready to go. He should go home and attend to those duties tomorrow. If the gunman had come tonight, and Ezra was all alone….

  Michael’s stomach dropped.

  He shook that off for now. Rather than get his keys for the hearse and move the vehicles around, Michael opted to walk the three blocks. He started down the street and sent Ezra a text: Are you prepping for Mrs. Atwood already? Please tell me you’ve locked the door and the alarm is on?

  Ezra’s response was prompt, as always. Yes, sir, I am and the alarm is on.

  Relieved, Michael shoved the phone into his pocket, trying to get back that calmness he’d attained after his pleasurable shower. The shower that made him late.

  When Michael rounded the corner by his illuminated sign, he drew up short.

  A tall skinny man with a swoop of blond bangs stood in his path.

  They both flinched, startled by each other.

  “Norbert,” Michael exclaimed.

  The man narrowed his gaze. “How do you know my name?”

  Michael fumbled for a moment, unsettled by the brusque question and the way the shadows played across Norbert’s face. “Um, Jazz told me who you were. Friday. At the signing.”

  Norbert drew his sizable nose in the air and let out a sniff of recognition. “Yes, you were with Mr. Withingham’s husband. The one with all the books.”

  Michael couldn’t be sure, but he felt like Norbert deliberately put emphasis on the word husband. Rather than play into whatever this man was up to, Michael smiled. “Yes, that was me.”

  Norbert cocked his head to the side, studying Michael like a crane stalking a fish beneath the water’s surface. “Are you close with Jasper Dilworth?”

  “He cuts my hair,” Michael lied, disliking this man immediately.

  “Hmmm.”

  What did that mean?

  Jazz had been right in his descriptions of Norbert. He reminded Michael of Rickie Durell in junior high. He’d befriended Michael only to drill him about the goings on in a funeral parlor, like embalming, what rigor mortis did to penises, and how soon bodies began to smell. Creepy kid had used Michael’s innocent and lonely personality to satisfy his sick imagination.

  Hadn’t Rickie killed his sister’s puppy?

  Pushing away those unsettling memories Norbert’s presence revived, Michael looked Norbert square in the face. They were roughly the same height, but Michael had thirty pounds or more of muscle on the peculiar man. “If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Michael glanced up and down the street, saw no cars, and crossed to the other sidewalk, wanting to distance himself from Norbert’s chilly presence.

  He hadn’t made it halfway across the street before Norbert called out, “I’d be wary of Jasper. People who threaten to hurt Russell in any way have a tendency to lose. Wouldn’t want you to go down with the ship, captain.”

  Michael froze at the familiar words Brock Hammer had used to warn the miscreant fishing boat captain in Sea of Discontent. He turned to look back at Norbert.

  Hands stuffed in the pockets of his long duster coat, Norbert was walking away already, posture smug with having the last word.

  What the heck did he mean by that?

  Probably some bizarre mind game because he didn’t like Jazz. At the signing, both Dylan and Norbert had appeared to strongly dislike Jazz, but it had seemed more protective of Russell than outright threatening. But still, Michael’s inner Brock Hammer was intrigued. Perhaps Michael would mention this weird little encounter to Musgrave when he met with him in the morning to discuss any new findings from the examination of Dylan’s hands.

  But right now, he had somewhere else to be. Norbert and Dylan might have disliked Jazz for possibly breaking Russell’s heart, but Michael was rather fond of the man and eager to spend time with him without mysteries and murder hanging over them. He glanced at his watch.

  Now he was even more lat
e.

  Double dammit.

  He tried not to walk too fast and get all sweaty, and when he arrived at the Dairy Clipper, he was thankfully only fifteen minutes late.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Michael said in a rush when he saw Jazz leaning against the parlor’s stoop, one leg bent and his foot on the wall.

  Jazz pushed off the wall, smiling wide. “No worries.”

  Unsated hunger gave Michael goose bumps when Jazz hugged him. And despite his earlier efforts, Michael’s cock hardened at the feel of Jazz’s body pressed to his own. Not wanting the hug to end too quickly, Michael tightened his arms, squeezing a little more than friendly.

  Jazz squeezed back, his head shorter than Michael’s, placing his mouth at the crook of Michael’s neck. “It’s good to see you again,” he whispered, lips tickling sensitive skin and warm breath making Michael’s goose bumps harden as tall as mountain peaks.

  “Get a room,” a passing teenage boy said with a sneer.

  Michael stepped back and cleared his throat, feeling himself blush. “Maybe we should go in and order?”

  Jazz smirked. “Think we’ll find more body parts in our food?”

  “A finger is enough for me for today.”

  Michael opened the door and waved for Jazz to precede him. As Jazz walked past, he leaned in close and whispered, “Are you telling me you can’t handle more than a finger?”

  An image of the suction-cupped dildo flashed through Michael’s mind, and his blush reignited like a forest fire.

  “Oh, that’s not what I meant at all,” Michael managed to reply, adding a wink. “Like, at all.”

  Jazz’s eyebrows went up. “That’s promising.”

  Michael followed him inside, his gaze dropping to Jazz’s high, round ass. Damn, Jazz was hot. How had he gotten so lucky?

  There was no line, and before long, Jazz had paid for the both of them and they were seated at a small café table by the window: bananas foster for Jazz and a strawberry sundae for Michael.

  “With whipped cream and a cherry,” Michael had added hastily, grateful Jazz had been too busy getting napkins for them that he hadn’t noticed Michael’s furious blush.