Murder Most Deserving

by Hank Edwards

  Michael hadn’t been worried, but he didn’t argue. It wasn’t easy. “I’ll make sure that Sheriff Musgrave is here to inform you of all the details thus far.”

  After hasty goodbyes, Michael hung up the phone with Trevino—that ass. Jazz would probably come up with some hilarious but apropos nickname for the man, but idiot, ass, and bastard were as original as Michael could get at the moment.

  I need to talk to Jazz.

  Michael had his cell phone out and his texts open before he thought better of it. Jazz was at work. He shouldn’t bother him. This was a conversation best had in person—if Jazz hadn’t heard the gossip already.

  With slow movements he scrolled through their recent text messages, smiling as he remembered the moments.

  Early in the week, Jazz had sent: How’s my mortician on a hot tin roof 2day?

  And later that same day: Having inappropriate thoughts about u while working on my clients. Hopefully ur not doing the same!

  Just seeing those texts and all the playful emojis Jazz added soothed some of the disquiet niggling at the back of Michael’s mind.

  No, he would tell Jazz about everything tonight.

  Fingers itching to get to work on the mystery, Michael fired up his laptop. He might not be able to perform the autopsy, but his hands weren’t tied.

  An ID on the man would be an excellent place to start. He pulled up the Lacetown website and found a list of festivals on the city’s activities and events page. Michael looked over the band names for the current festival, hoping something jumped out at him so they could piece together who might’ve wanted the man dead and why.

  And more importantly, why they would leave the body in his Caddy.

  Dammit, Musgrave is going to have to impound my hearse!

  As he scrolled, a name on the weekend schedule popped out to him—The Lanky Balladeers!

  “That’s it!” Michael said with a rush of excitement.

  He clicked on the band’s links and was led over to a Facebook page. He read their bio.

  The Lanky Balladeers is a folk-punk band from Chicago….

  Michael read on, scrolling through pics and posts.

  Bill Denton, that was their victim’s name.

  With a wan smile, Michael clicked on his picture.

  “Why were you left in my hearse?” Michael asked the image.

  Denton was on stage with his guitar and the photographer had caught him with a huge smile that made him look very handsome. It seemed he’d really loved playing music. Sad he’d never get another chance.

  Michael surfed the page and found the other bandmates.

  Sonya Metcalf and Ally Roberts. All of their personal profiles were private, and the images they used in their profile pics and banners didn’t provide much information. It did seem that Ally had joined the band recently. The Lanky Balladeers had a string of recent guitarists, actually.

  Michael supposed in and of itself that wasn’t fishy.

  How many musicians would really want to stay with a folk-punk band?

  Michael clicked on a link to the song Denton had mentioned last night, “Skinflint Norbie and His Walkabout Shoes.”

  What an absurd way of getting even with an old lover.

  The slash of electric guitar cut through the twang of a harmonica, and a strumming banjo kept the beat. Michael cringed as a crooning male bluegrass voice began to sing:

  “You played the part, you broke my heart… all with those walkabout shoes… I was a boy, it was your ploy… all with those walkabout shoes….”

  “What in the name of Glen Campbell’s ghost are you listening to?”

  Michael looked up and found Kitty standing in his office doorway, face scrunched up like someone had tracked dog poop across the carpet.

  He turned the volume off. “Just some investigating.”

  “On what?” she asked seriously. “Hillbilly torture techniques?”

  That made him laugh. “No, but I found the name of our victim.” He quickly scratched the names of the three bandmates down for Musgrave, along with the link to the Facebook page.

  “How are you holding up?” Kitty asked.

  Michael looked up at her, noting the perfect red lips and flawless blonde hair. She was the picture of beauty and true concern.

  “I’m okay,” he assured her.

  She arched one brow like a knowing mother whose son was withholding that he ate the last of the cookies.

  Chuckling, he raised his hands. “Okay, I’m still in shock, but now I’m more curious about why a body was left here, in my hearse.”

  “I’m totally freaked out about it,” she admitted. “Those beer tents at the festival can’t pour me one fast enough.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Are you and Jazz going tonight?” she asked, then waved airily in the direction of the garage. “Despite all this.”

  “We planned to.”

  “Good. I like the two of you together,” she decided, as if she had been the matchmaker. “He’s loosened you up.”

  It was Michael’s turn to raise his brows. “And I was so uptight before?”

  Kitty made a very unladylike snort, then opened the adjoining door between their offices and sauntered to her desk. “Shouldn’t you be preparing for the autopsy?”

  Michael’s amusement faded as he realized he’d have to tell Kitty about Trevino. She wasn’t going to be happy about having her space invaded. Trevino really had a way of getting under people’s skin.

  Michael pushed to his feet, the names of the victim and his bandmates clutched in his hand. He headed for his office door, calling out behind him, “Trevino will be conducting the autopsy. He’ll be here tonight at seven.”

  “What!”

  Michael hurried to the back entrance, knowing he was taking the chicken’s way out, but not wanting to hear a Trevino-tirade from Kitty.

  He slipped out the door, only marginally guilty for dropping that bomb on Kitty.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A NIGHT out with Jazz is exactly what I need after today.

  Michael could have waited to greet Trevino personally—maybe should have—but he had plans with Jazz. Besides, Ezra had been more than excited to show Trevino where he’d be working—no doubt hoping to assist in the autopsy in some way. Michael didn’t want to hang around while Trevino was in his business, doing his job for him. He knew it couldn’t be helped, given the situation, but that didn’t mean he needed to witness it.

  After a much needed brisk walk, Michael arrived at Misty’s Makeover Palace to pick up Jazz for the festival. Smiling and eager to see his boyfriend, he stepped inside, only to discover Jazz pacing laps in the center of the salon. Misty was there too, applying lipstick to a woman while another looked on. An unusual tension hung in the air.

  “Hi?” Michael gave a tentative smile. “Everything okay?”

  “Oh, it’s fine,” Jazz said and flapped a hand as he made another lap. “Just, you know, great. No worries. All good. At least, it will be. Once it all gets figured out. It’s a start. That’s a good way to say it, right?” Jazz looked over at Misty.

  “That’s right, Jazz. It’s one step closer to freedom.” She smiled at Michael. “It’s okay. Things are fine. He’ll be right as rain once he gets something to drink.”

  “I see.” But Michael didn’t.

  “Jazz, go ahead to the festival, and I’ll meet you there after I finish up with Dottie,” Misty said. “Oh, Michael. How rude of me.” She spun her chair so her client faced him. “Michael Fleishman, this is Dorothy Rafferty. She’s my first cousin on my mother’s side. And her daughter, Beatrice, who turned sixteen last month. Dottie, Bea, this is Michael, Jazz’s boyfriend.”

  Though they had on makeup and their hair was more stylish now, and maybe even different colors, Michael recognized both women. The sister wives of the Bible-tract-distributing preacher.

  Oh my, these were the relatives they were supposed to watch perform tonight? At least they didn’t have to talk to them while they
were on stage. But if Misty’s relatives would be at her cookout Sunday, things might be awkward.

  But more used to being awkward than not, Michael gave her a polite tip of his head and said, “Hello, Dottie. Nice to meet you.” He nodded at her daughter. “Bea.”

  Dottie shook her head at her daughter, and the girl immediately stared at her hands flat on her lap, saying nothing. Long auburn curls hid most of her sad face. She seemed older and broken somehow, out of place in her bland brown dress and sensible black shoes. The only thing to indicate that she was a teenager was her sparkly blue nail polish.

  Apparently satisfied her daughter wouldn’t communicate with a gay, Dottie pursed her glossy pink lips and gave Michael a single nod. Perhaps she had recognized him too. “Hello. You can call me Dorothy.”

  Dorothy it is!

  The atmosphere in the shop grew even more chilly, and Michael could think of nothing else to say, so he turned toward Jazz. Something was definitely bothering his boyfriend. Could it be the presence of these two women? “Ready to go?”

  “More than you’ll ever know.” Jazz walked past Michael and opened the door before waving goodbye to Misty. “See you down there.”

  “Save some wine for me,” Misty said.

  “No guarantees,” Jazz said and walked out.

  Misty laughed and spun her cousin back around to face the mirror. Michael could see Dorothy’s face in the reflection, and she had fixed him with a hard stare. Beatrice was looking at her nails, smiling softly. Michael felt a pang of empathy for her, but he hurried after Jazz and closed the salon door behind him, glad to be out of Dorothy’s presence.

  “What’s going on?” Michael asked as he hurried to catch up.

  Jazz whirled, and Michael drew up short, his stomach dropping at the fury in Jazz’s cognac-colored eyes.

  “That fucking fucker served me fucking divorce papers!” Jazz shouted. “Can you believe it?”

  It took a moment for Michael to process that Jazz’s fury was not aimed at him. For two terrifying heartbeats Michael had feared he had done something to anger Jazz. But no. This was about Russell, Jazz’s murderous husband. Or apparently, soon-to-be ex-husband.

  Michael took a fortifying breath and glanced around. Several people had turned to stare at Jazz’s outburst, but Jazz didn’t seem to care as he paced a small section of sidewalk.

  “You fucking believe that shit?” Jazz snarled. “Fucker’s in jail and he serves me! I’m gonna take his ass to the cleaners for this. Fucking fuck!”

  Michael placed a comforting hand on Jazz’s arm. “How about we find some vino, eh? I’ll tell you about my nightmarish day, and you can tell me about yours.”

  Jazz’s eyes widened, and concern crossed his face. “What do you mean nightmarish day? Did something happen? Are you all right? Oh my God, is Mr. Pickles okay?”

  “He’s fine,” Michael assured him, linking an arm with Jazz and leading him toward the festival. “The same cannot be said for the murder victim Steve found in the driver’s seat of my hearse this afternoon.”

  Jazz stopped dead. “What did you say?”

  “Yeah.” Michael sighed. “I’m surprised the gossip hasn’t circulated to your chair yet.”

  “It could have,” Jazz admitted. “I wasn’t even listening to my clients with half an ear after I got served. My tips are probably shit.”

  “I hope not. Remember the man Norbert was arguing with at Gruff’s?”

  “Bill, right? Ol’ Norbie’s ex-boyfriend.”

  “Right. Bill Denton.” Michael smiled. “You have a great memory. I couldn’t recall his name and had to find it on the band’s Facebook page.”

  “People still have Facebook pages?”

  Michael frowned. “I have one for the funeral home. Kitty actually fields a number of questions and inquiries from it.”

  “That makes sense, I guess, seeing as how most people coming to your business are older.”

  “Hmm,” Michael said. “We’ve gotten off topic.”

  Jazz made a face. “Sorry. My fault. My head is all over the place today. Tell me about this body.”

  “Not certain of the cause of death, but I would say strangulation from a first look. The body was placed inside my hearse, propped up like he was driving. I don’t know exactly how he got there or why. Since he was found on my property, I recused myself from processing the body.”

  “Oh my God, are you a suspect?”

  “According to Musgrave, everyone is a suspect until Sheriff Musgrave says they’re not.”

  “Ugh, I hate when people talk in third person.”

  “Indeed,” Michael agreed. Mention of the sheriff sparked a memory, and he pulled cash from his pocket. “Musgrave came by to talk to me about the scene he caused in the salon this morning over Amanda… oops, she wants to be called Rae now. That’ll take some getting used to. Anyway, he wanted me to give you this.”

  Jazz accepted the money and pocketed it without counting. “That was big of him. Too scared to come see me himself, I assume.”

  “Most likely,” Michael said.

  “So are you a suspect?”

  “Oh, you know how Hilton is. He talks a big game, but I know he doesn’t believe I did it.”

  At least Michael hoped not.

  “I don’t even know if my brain can process what you just told me,” Jazz said, sounding blown away. “C’mon. Let’s walk some more. I really need wine now.”

  They continued on to the festival in silence, only a couple of blocks away. Across Lake Shore Drive, to the west, beautiful Lake Michigan churned big waves up and over their rocky bit of coastline, splashing across the boardwalk that stretched the length of town. A cool breeze off the lake kept the air from being too muggy.

  “Norbert is our main POI,” Michael said after a time.

  “A what?”

  “A person of interest.”

  Jazz scoffed. “Of course he is.”

  “Musgrave sent Tanner to check local hotels and motels for him so he can be questioned. And they also need to locate the two women who were with Denton at Gruff’s. If they haven’t heard that he’s dead, they’ll be looking for him, I’m sure. Sonya Metcalf and Ally Roberts are his bandmates. They’re not listed on the festival schedule to play tonight… well, or again, so it would seem. But perhaps we can keep an eye out for them this evening. Maybe they have a clue to provide as to why Bill was murdered and left on my property.”

  “Isn’t that a job for Musgrave and his band of merry nincompoops?”

  Michael grinned and bumped Jazz’s shoulder as they got in line at the entrance to the festival. “You go from saying fucking fuck to nincompoops? I do love your range, my dear.”

  “Oh, if you like that, you’re going to love what I’ve got in mind for you later.”

  Michael’s cock took notice of the predatory tone in Jazz’s voice. “Oh? And what’s that?”

  Jazz leaned in close and whispered, “You’ll find out later.” He dabbed the tip of his tongue quickly into Michael’s ear before straightening up and turning to smile at the woman in the small ticket booth, collecting entrance fees.

  “Hi, Hilda, two please,” Jazz said.

  Hilda waved his money away and affixed paper bracelets to their wrists. “You boys have a nice time. The mayor’s making the rounds and passing out wine tickets.”

  “You’re the picture of regal poise and beauty,” Jazz said. “Thank you, my dear.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Michael said.

  Hilda’s bright smile only dimmed a touch when she met Michael’s gaze, which he had to admit was a better response than he was used to receiving at town functions. No one felt comfortable around the local mortician.

  Since he and Jazz had started seeing each other, however, Michael had noticed a subtle shift in the way people in Lacetown reacted to him. Maybe some of Jazz’s exuberant outgoing personality had rubbed off on Michael. Most likely, though, he figured that people thought if the well-liked and extroverted Jazz had found
something in Michael worth exploring, perhaps they could too.

  No matter the reason, Michael had to admit he enjoyed the change.

  The Acoustic Music Festival, like all other festivals hosted by the town, was held in Lacetown Park, a large, rectangular expanse of grass behind the police station and bordered by Main Street, Pike Street, Route 551, and Lake Shore Drive. A stage had been set up at the far end of the park, with the performers facing away from Lake Michigan. This allowed the festival attendees to enjoy the performances while observing glorious sunsets over the lake.

  “Jazz!”

  Lacetown’s mayor, Trish Johnson, grabbed Jazz in a tight hug. She wore a top hat decorated like the American flag, a star-spangled glitzy blazer, and a navy blue skirt. She carried a roll of tear-away tickets in each hand, the ends swaying along Jazz’s back as she rocked him back and forth. She might have been using some of those drink tickets for herself, if Michael wasn’t off his mark.

  “Lady Mayor,” Jazz said once he’d finally freed himself. “You’re looking fine, as always.”

  “Lady Mayor, oh you.” Trish lightly tapped his shoulder with a roll of tickets before turning to Michael. “Hello, Michael. Good to see you, as usual.”

  “Thank you. Nice to see you, as well.” So now I’m Michael, not Mr. Fleishman? How lovely…. Maybe someday I’ll receive an exuberant hug.

  Trish gave Jazz a critical once-over. “You still seem stressed.”

  “I do?”

  “I can feel it pouring off you in dark, noxious waves. I could tell you were off this afternoon when I got my haircut. I thought that….” Her gaze drifted to Michael, and then she looked a tad apologetic. “Well, never mind what I thought. I see the evening hasn’t brought your usual sparkle back. We can’t have you polluting the rest of the festival-goers, so my recommendation is wine.” She pulled a long rope of tickets off a roll and handed them to Jazz. “Lots and lots of wine.”

  “Lady Mayor, your keen sense of style is overshadowed only by your insightful study of character.” Jazz held up the tickets. “Michael and I both thank you.”

  She looked between them, and Michael could practically read her thoughts as though they were being broadcast across her forehead: I don’t get the attraction, but if it works for them….