by Hank Edwards
As they tucked into their ice cream, the jingling bells above the door announced a new patron. A young woman swept in, wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat and oversized sunglasses that hid most of her face. The only other customers in the place was an elderly couple silently smiling at each other as they shared a cup of ice cream.
Jazz watched Michael looking at the older couple and grinned. “That’s sweet. I bet they’re thinking about the woman they picked up at the bar last night and shared back at their room at the Bluffs.”
Michael stared with his mouth hanging open. Then a loud, short laugh that sounded more like a bark escaped him, attracting the attention of everyone in the ice cream shop, including the elderly couple.
“You are a very bad person,” Michael whispered.
Jazz smirked and slowly sucked ice cream off his plastic spoon. “Just the way you like them.”
“Yes, well, I….” He glanced at the elderly couple again but had to quickly look away for fear of laughing too loud once more. “I will never be able to look at another senior couple the same way again.”
“Hey, they can be kinky even though they’re older.” Jazz shot him another wink, grinning playfully. “What will you be like at that age?”
“Hopefully hopped up on Viagra and ready to party.” Michael took another bite of his sundae, eyeing Jazz boldly.
“There you go. I like the sound of that. Hey, maybe they’ll have Viagra and Cialis gelatin and pudding once we reach that age. That would be a bestseller.”
“You have an unusual mind.”
“Says the mortician with a few private kinks of his own.”
Michael looked around and thought he caught the young woman with the hat and sunglasses eavesdropping, but he couldn’t be sure. Either way, he leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “Be careful how you phrase things like that. I wouldn’t want people in town to get the wrong impression.”
Jazz made an apologetic face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean… you know.”
“I know you didn’t, but things can be taken out of context so easily.”
“I agree. And I’m sorry again.”
“No worries.”
A slightly strained silence fell over them, and Michael cursed himself for calling Jazz out like that. He could have let the comment go. There really wasn’t anyone around who was listening to them. The elderly couple at the other table probably couldn’t hear each other, let alone the two of them. The girl with the hat was paying for her ice cream, and most likely Michael had imagined her eavesdropping.
“How’s Mr. Pickles doing?” Jazz asked, and Michael was grateful for the change in topic.
“I think he’s recovering well after the attempted break-in. Cats are very sensitive, but also quite resilient.”
“Did you pamper him last night?”
“A bit. I gave him a bit of pickle juice and an extra helping of his favorite flavor this morning.”
“Pickle juice?” Jazz said.
Michael nodded. “He loves it. That’s what convinced me to name him Mr. Pickles.”
“I see. And what flavor of food turns Mr. Pickles’s crank?”
“Chicken and herring.”
Jazz made a face. “That’s an actual flavor?”
Michael laughed. “It is. And he devours it.”
“Pickle juice and chicken and herring? Cats are gross.”
“Everybody’s got their thing.”
“Yes, we do, don’t we?”
Jazz’s lascivious grin left no doubt as to what kind of “thing” he was referring to. Michael swallowed the cool creamy strawberry dessert, his groin warming from Jazz’s flirting and his own vivid imagination.
Michael flinched when the young woman with the hat and sunglasses swept by their table without a glance at them. She hurried out of the shop and off along the sidewalk.
Jazz watched her go. “She looked like she was in disguise or something.”
“If this was a bad movie, I would have to agree with you.”
Jazz tipped his head and smiled. “So you’re saying this is a good movie?”
Michael smiled. “The best.”
He took another bite of ice cream and had to look away from Jazz to collect himself. The strawberry sundae wasn’t helping his composure. He should’ve gotten his usual cherry fudge. But Jazz’s very presence had Michael wanting to step out of his comfort zone.
People passed by on the sidewalk outside, and Michael watched them go. Then frantic movement across the street caught his eye.
Russell Withingham stood on the sidewalk, trying to calm down a short, stocky, and very upset man. The shorter man waved his arms as he talked, pausing now and then to jab a finger in Russell’s face.
“Oh, no, look.” Michael pointed across the street with his spoon.
“Now there’s a bad penny that keeps turning up,” Jazz scoffed.
“They look like they’re fighting,” Michael said, concerned.
The stranger was pointing in Russell’s face again, clearly agitated. Russell threw up both hands, a show of surrender or defense, Michael couldn’t be sure. “I think Mr. Withingham might be in trouble. Do you know him?”
“The guy with eyebrows in serious need of deforestation? No idea who he is. But he was arguing with Russell last night too,” Jazz said. “At the festival.”
Michael shot Jazz a look. “I didn’t see them.”
“Because I made sure you didn’t,” he said wryly. “I’m tired of Russell and his drama interrupting our time together.”
Michael thought of his brief run-in with Norbert and couldn’t agree with Jazz’s statement more. He smiled. “I agree, but Russell is the very reason we met.”
That got a begrudging sniff of agreement out of Jazz. “I’ll be sure to send him a candy-gram.”
Pleased Jazz was protective of their time together, Michael looked across the street again. The stocky man with the bushy eyebrows and Russell were still arguing. “What do you think they’re arguing about?”
“No clue, but….” Jazz leaned across the table and whispered, “Russell called me earlier today.”
The suddenly serious tone of voice startled Michael. “About what?”
“He flat-out told me Dylan used to have untoward connections”—he did air quotes—“and implied that Dylan either used drugs or delivered them.”
Michael surveyed across the street again. Eyebrow Man stormed off, leaving Russell looking distressed. When Michael looked back at Jazz, it was obvious Jazz fought against any empathy for Russell. “Do you think that man just threatened Russell? Maybe he’s after the drugs?”
“Nothing would surprise me at this point.”
“Well, Norbert threatened me earlier. I ran into him in the street on my way here, and he told me to avoid you because you meant Russell harm and I wouldn’t want to go down with the ship.”
Jazz scoffed. “That pantywaist probably stole that threat from one of Russell’s books.”
“Actually he did.”
“Weirdo. He’s got a boner for Russell and hates me because I’m not going quietly into the night. His threats are as empty as his life.”
Michael absorbed that, pleased Jazz seemed to be on the same wavelength. Norbert might be harmless, but the whole situation was starting to make Michael suspect it was all connected to Dylan’s death.
But how?
“You should go talk to him,” Michael suggested. Though it went against everything he wanted, if Eyebrow Man provided a lead to solving Dylan’s murder, their date would just have to suffer.
Again.
“Who, Norbert?”
“No, Russell.”
Jazz shook his head sharply. “No, I’m with you.”
The band tightening on his chest disappeared and his heart skipped with a sudden idea. Grinning, he set his empty cup on the table and righted his glasses on his nose. “Dare?”
“Sure.”
“Shall we follow him?”
Brows furrowed, Jazz asked, “W
ho? Russell?”
“No, our potential suspect.”
“That angry guy?” Jazz pointed at the man who just turned right onto Trout Avenue. “The one who may or may not be connected to heroin and murder?”
He nodded, feeling a rush of adrenaline. “Yes. Twice he’s been seen arguing with our victim’s lover, which is a good bit suspicious. You said yourself, Russell wouldn’t be involved in the drugs, but he did know Dylan was connected to them. Norbert was acting strange too. Perhaps something more sinister is afoot.”
Jazz put his cup down and chewed his lip nervously. “And that guy was suspicious.”
“And he’s getting away.”
“The things you talk me into.”
Chapter Sixteen
MICHAEL AND Jazz stood up at the same time, the feet of their chairs scraping across the tile floor and startling the elderly couple into quiet huffs of indignation. Michael grabbed their trash from the table and tossed it in the can by the door before they left the parlor.
“I’m not sure I can run in these pants after eating ice cream,” Jazz said with a moan.
“Don’t tell me you’re lactose intolerant,” Michael said over his shoulder as he walked quickly to the corner and darted around it.
“Say it just a little louder. I don’t think they heard you down by the marina.”
“Sorry.” He stepped out into the middle of the road and scanned both sides of the street for any sign of the angry man.
Jazz came up beside him. “Do you see him?”
“Yes, there he is,” he whispered, grabbing Jazz excitedly. “He’s getting into that car!”
Halfway down the block, a bluish gray car started up.
“I wonder if that’s the getaway car from the break-in?” Michael said. “What do you think?”
“No way to know, but if this guy is connected to Dylan’s drugs, a little B&E to try and get them back wouldn’t be a stretch.”
“Indeed.”
“C’mon!” Jazz grabbed his hand, and Michael’s heart skipped with the thrill of the chase and the feel of Jazz’s hand in his. “My ride’s right over there!”
Jazz hurried toward a scooter—cream with blue hibiscus panels—parked by the curb. He threw his leg over the side and turned the key still left in the ignition. Standing on his feet and straddling the scooter, he looked at Michael. “Get on. I think we can catch him.”
Only hesitating a moment, Michael hopped on the tiny seat behind him. They barely fit, and Michael had to press tightly against Jazz’s warm back and clutch him around his waist to not fly off the back when he took off. The distinct buzz of the engine whirred into the quiet evening.
Though it wasn’t a big rumbling Harley, the bike was fast as it raced up Trout Avenue, the bluish gray car still in sight. Michael’s pulse raced, and the vibration of the engine, coupled with being wrapped around Jazz so tight, gave him an erection. He shifted a bit to get more comfortable, careful not to upset their balance.
Jazz’s soft chuckle reached his ears over the sound of the scooter. “Having fun back there?”
He was grateful for the wind in his face to cool his heated cheeks. Jazz felt Michael’s hard-on. Boldly, Michael tightened his arms around Jazz’s waist and pressed his hips closer. He was bigger than Jazz, his arms longer, and he leaned in to whisper, “Seat’s small, don’t wanna fall off.”
Perched on the very front of the seat, Jazz threw a glance over his shoulder, and they shared a grin, but then his eyes were back on the road. “This was my plan all along, to get you in this position.”
Michael shuddered as a surge of precum leaked from his dick. The heart-stopping thrill of following a potential suspect and the illicit promise of fucking Jazz made it difficult to concentrate. But he blinked a few times and took a deep breath so he could fix his attention on the taillights slowly getting smaller up ahead.
“He’s getting away,” Michael said.
“I’m trying not to look like I’m following him. I’ve done this before.”
“You have?”
Jazz shrugged. “I’ve been a crazy ex-boyfriend once or twice.”
Unsure what to say to that, he pointed at the car with the mysterious man. “He just took a left down Bluebird Lane. Looks like he’s headed to Lake Shore, which could take him to one of the marinas.”
Jazz gunned it, and the flowered scooter surged forward. Michael grabbed him tighter as they blew through a stop sign.
“Beulah isn’t stock. The guy I bought her from said he had a big-bore kit installed to make her faster,” Jazz called back, the wind and engine louder than before. “Don’t know what that means, but Beulah is speedy.”
“Beulah?”
“Beulah Balbricker from Porky’s,” he explained. “If I take her on a bumpy road, she can be ball breaking on the boys, if you get my drift.”
Michael threw back his head and laughed.
“Look! The car is pulling into the marina,” Jazz said, suddenly serious. Indeed the sedan turned into Christy’s Marina, a place where locals preferred to dock but still had plenty of public slips to rent.
The plot thickens.
Before Michael could say a word, red-and-blue lights danced in the side mirror, followed by the familiar and dreaded sound of a police siren.
“Fuck a duck,” Jazz cursed, slowing the scooter and pulling over to the side of the road. “I cannot get any more points on my license or I’ll be screwed.”
Pulse pounding and dick still at full-mast, Michael looked over his shoulder as a cruiser pulled up behind them. Brock’s line from A Good Man is Hard to Kill flitted through his mind: Danger, sex, and the fuzz hot on a man’s tail made one helluva aphrodisiac cocktail.
He shifted in his seat.
Truer words….
That was the novel where Michael began to suspect Brock was bisexual, but unfortunately, no man-on-man action had ever happened on-page.
A car door opened and shut.
“You two?”
The familiar voice dampened Michael’s erection rather quickly after that.
“Shit, fuckity fuck,” Jazz murmured.
“I thought you were two teenage girls on this scooter,” Sheriff Musgrave sneered. “Where the blazes are you two headed in such a hurry?”
Michael was half tempted to tell the sheriff about the bushy-eyebrowed man arguing with Russell, but the teenage girl comment pissed him off. Musgrave was still that petty dick he’d been in high school. A coroner had every right to investigate their own leads, so Michael didn’t need to involve the sheriff. Maybe he’d blow this case wide open. That’d show Musgrave.
Teenage girls… what an ass.
Through clenched teeth, he managed a polite reply. “We were just driving up the coast. It’s a beautiful afternoon.”
“Is there a reason you pulled us over, sheriff?” Jazz asked, his voice the epitome of politeness.
“Yeah,” Musgrave snapped, hands on his hips. “You drove this rice-burner right through that stop sign back there.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see it.”
“Bullshit, Dillbreath,” the sheriff said. Then he threw up his hands in disgust. “You know what? I don’t even care. I don’t want to waste the time or paperwork on the two of you. I have real crimes to solve. Just take this flowered monstrosity and get out of my sight.”
With that, Musgrave stomped back to his cruiser.
Michael stared at Jazz, the red-and-blue lights flashing across his handsome face. “So we can go?”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, babe.” Jazz leaned toward the road to check for traffic, then turned his blinker on and drove away before Musgrave changed his mind. “Well, he kind of ruined the mood, didn’t he?”
“Yes. I should’ve warned you. He hides behind that billboard to catch people speeding.”
“Or he hides back there and jerks off in his cruiser as he looks at his state champion sign.”
“Do you really think he does that?” Michael asked, i
ntrigued.
“Why? Do you want to get a look at his dash-cam?”
“No,” he said a bit too quickly. Though Musgrave was a dick, he probably had a nice dick—his hands were huge enough to wrap three-quarters of the way around a football. Or so Michael had heard local sports enthusiasts say. So if there was dash-cam footage of Hilton jerking off, Michael would watch it.
Probably twice.
Jazz slowed the scooter as they approached the entrance to Christy’s Marina. “Wanna take a look still?”
Though the thrill of investigation had lost some of its excitement, Michael answered, “Yeah, let’s take a loop around.”
Two turns around the crowded, winding parking lot produced two gray-blue sedans that could’ve been the car. Neither of them could decide which one their bushy-eyebrowed mystery man had been driving.
Not that it mattered.
They were both empty, and there was no sign of the man.
“Stupid sheriff,” Jazz said as they puttered out of the marina and headed back into Lacetown.
He stopped at the stop sign this time.
“Did you see the plate?” Jazz asked, revving through the intersection after a full three-second stop.
“No. Did you?”
“No. I was too busy trying not to look like I was following him.”
“This never happens to Brock Hammer,” Michael said and sighed heavily.
“You know, continually bringing up the fictional character my soon-to-be ex-husband loved more than me is not winning you points,” Jazz said, accelerating his scooter at a less attention-getting pace.
Michael scrunched up his face. “Sorry. Have I done it too much?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll work on it. You have to admit, though, those are great books.”
Jazz sniffed. “Some of them. The last book I read, Taken to Task, Brock started acting like hotel boy back there.”
He laughed over the buzz of the engine. “Do you know why Grandpa called him that?”
“Because his name’s Hilton.”
“Yes, and his brother is Marty, as in Marriott. Their little sister is Holiday, like the inn. They were all named after the hotels they were conceived in.”
Jazz let out a bark of laughter, his body shaking in Michael’s arms. “Maybe I’ll accidentally forget his name next time and call him Sheriff Motel 6.”