by Hank Edwards
He smiled and stepped closer to link arms with Jazz. “Yes, thank you, Madam Mayor.”
“Call me Trish. And you’re welcome, Michael. It’s nice to see you taking part in the town festivities.” She winked at Jazz. “Enjoy the music.” She leaned in close and lowered her voice. “But you might need to use all of those tickets to do that, if you know what I mean. It is a third-tier festival, you know. You didn’t hear that from me.”
With that, Trish walked off, calling out to someone else she had spotted in the crowd.
“Everyone loves you,” Michael said. “You’ve really made an impact on this town since you moved in.”
“Oh? Just the town?” Jazz arched an eyebrow. “No one in particular?”
Michael grinned down at his handsome boyfriend, his heart swelling with love at the teasing smile Jazz wore. If only Jazz knew how much impact he’d truly had on Michael’s life, and how madly he’d fallen in love with him. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell him something to that effect, but his response was drowned out by a screech of violin strings. The sound put Michael’s teeth on edge, and a group standing nearby jumped and gave shouts of surprise. A young woman stood on the stage, sawing frantically on a violin.
Michael exchanged an alarmed look with Jazz, who held up the tickets. “Shall we?”
“Most definitely.”
They got in line just before a crush of people who apparently realized they would need a lot more alcohol to handle the wide-ranging talent on display. A few minutes later, they each carried two clear plastic glasses of pinot grigio into the crowd.
“Mikey!”
Michael turned as his grandfather, Joel Fleishman—the only one in existence who called him Mikey—hurried over to them, his lady friend Mona on his left arm. In his right hand, to Michael’s shock, he had a white plastic cup with Great Lakes Brewing Co. emblazoned on the side.
“Are you drinking beer, Grandpa?” Michael asked in surprise. His grandfather only drank manhattans, as far as Michael knew.
“Hell no,” Grandpa said with a laugh. “Not that it’ll convince you two lovebirds to switch teams, but one of the best things about dating a lady is that she never leaves the house without her handbag.”
Mona had a clear plastic cup similar to Jazz’s and Michael’s, only filled with red wine. With an impish giggle, she showed them the contents of her purse. There was a whisky bottle—Grandpa’s brand—and a jar of maraschino cherries inside. “I mixed Joel up a fresh batch of manhattans before we headed out.”
Jazz laughed loudly, his mood obviously lightening.
“I think you’re a keeper, my precious puddin’ pop,” Grandpa said, smooching the delighted woman on the cheek.
Though Michael was grinning, he said, “And I hope the two of you plan to call an Uber.”
“Nah.” Grandpa waved that off. “Deputy Tanner is working security tonight and promised to take us home. Even said Mona could blow the siren if she wanted.”
“Oh dear,” Michael said.
Then Grandpa grew serious. “Now, Mikey, why in the heck didn’t you call me this afternoon? I had to hear it all from Tanner. Who the hell put a body in our Caddy?”
A few faces turned their way, and Michael quickly guided their group toward the quieter side of the park, where the local gossips had less chance to overhear. At least that horrendous violin shrieking would drown out their words.
Hillbilly torture techniques, indeed.
They found a newly vacated picnic table and sat.
“Firstly, it’s my Caddy, and you’re not the coroner anymore. It would’ve broken protocol to call you,” Michael said.
“Protocol shmotocol.” Grandpa blew a raspberry. “You were gonna tell your boyfriend, why not me too?”
Jazz gave Michael an encouraging smile. “Yeah, sweetie. Tell us what happened.”
“Who found the body?” Grandpa asked.
“It wasn’t your creep-tern, was it?” Jazz said with a sniff before drinking his wine. “Because if it was, you might want to have the sheriff give him a more rigorous questioning.”
“He’s not an intern—”
“Creep-tern,” Jazz corrected gently. “It’s a Jazz-ism.”
“He’s an apprentice,” Michael continued patiently. “I really don’t know why you and Kitty don’t like Ezra.”
“He’s a fine young Jewish boy,” Grandpa said, and Michael smiled in thanks. “Not creepy, just awkward like Mikey used to be. He’ll find his groove one day. Look at our Mikey now.”
Michael frowned at Grandpa’s unnecessary overshare. He knew he’d been awkward most of his life, but did it bear constant repeating?
“Mr. Pickles doesn’t like him either.” Flashing a saucy smile, Jazz sipped his wine with his pinky out. “But that’s beside the point. Tell us about the body.”
Michael described the discovery, and Grandpa had a dozen questions. Michael sort of wished he had called him to the parlor that afternoon, if only for efficiency. Finally he wrapped it all up by telling them Parker Trevino would perform the autopsy.
“Wait.” Jazz made a face. “Parker Trevino as in Trevino Funeral Parlor and Crematorium in Bridlestop?”
“That’s right.”
“Your sworn nemesis?”
Michael chuckled, gaze darting around before he took a drink. “Well, you make it sound like some kind of superhero movie or something….”
Jazz reached across the table and took Michael’s free hand. “To me, you are a superhero. And he’s obviously a nemesis. I mean, he’s totally jealous that you have an elevator and three display rooms, right? And your hearse is a newer Cadillac with a fancier coach package—so you’ve reminded me more than once. I never knew the funeral parlor biz was so cutthroat,” he said in an aside to Mona before he squeezed Michael’s hand and smiled at him. “Trevino is obviously your nemesis. And I’m sure he’s jealous of how hot you are too.”
“You’re sweet,” Michael said, feeling the warmth of a blush even through his irritation. He really disliked Trevino, and now he’d be in the parlor tonight, and possibly tomorrow.
“This is true.” Jazz grinned. “I’m cavity-inducingly sweet. Just don’t tell anyone. Don’t wanna lose my street cred.”
“Gotta maintain the street cred,” Mona quipped. She and Jazz toasted their wine.
Grandpa frowned at Michael. “Do you trust that putz to do a good job? Look what he did to Mr. Jones.”
“Who’s Mr. Jones?” Jazz cocked his head curiously.
Knowing his boyfriend had a twisted sense of humor, and seeing as his sarcasm bordered a nine out of ten tonight, Michael grew serious. “Now, Jazz, don’t laugh.”
Jazz cracked a smile. “Okay?” he ventured.
“Now, I know you’re going to want to laugh, but it’s not funny. Not one bit.” Michael took a breath and let it out. “Mr. Jones had a heart attack and died recently.”
Jazz furrowed his brow. “That’s not funny.”
“Yes, well,” Michael hedged, knowing his beau’s dark sense of humor too well. “You should know that Mr. Jones was a very large man. Almost five hundred pounds probably. Once he and his equally large wife had to be de-wedged from the tub by the friendly Bridlestop volunteer fire department when they decided to share a common bathing experience.”
Jazz let out a bark of laughter.
“Now don’t laugh, Jazz,” Michael admonished, feeling like he should’ve known not to add that last detail. “Apparently, when Trevino put Mr. Jones in the cremation oven, the buffoon miscalculated his body mass ratios. He was so tightly lodged in the oven that he clogged the flue to the crematorium chimney. The smoke and heat caused part of the funeral parlor to catch on fire. They managed to turn the burner off, but—now don’t laugh—but they couldn’t get him out of the oven because he was stuck.”
Brows raised, Jazz covered his lips with his fingers. “Oh my God! Are you serious? That’s awful!” Mona didn’t bother to hide her giggles.
“Jazz. Mona,” Mic
hael warned them. “There’s more, and remember, I told you not to laugh.”
“No! There’s more?” He schooled his features, but a snicker escaped him. “How did I not hear about this?”
“No idea, but the whole town turned out to watch the firemen put out the blaze. After the fire was extinguished, Mr. Jones’s remains were still intact, but….”
Grandpa rapped his knuckles on the table. “They had to cut poor Mr. Jones in half and cremate him a second time!”
Michael scowled when Jazz and Mona burst with laughter. “It’s not funny. At all. Come now, be serious.”
Wiping a tear of laughter from his eye, Jazz patted Michael’s arm. “No, it isn’t funny, sweetie. It’s awful. But you can’t tell a story like that, telling us not to laugh, and then expect us to keep a straight face. That’s not fair.”
“I suppose not,” he admitted. “But it truly was a tragedy.”
Jazz did an admirable job of faking a somber expression. “Yes, a tragedy.”
“Poor Mr. Jones.” Mona giggled.
“That’s why I said Trevino’s a putz,” Grandpa declared, polishing off the last of his cocktail and handing the decoy beer cup to Mona. “Shoddy workmanship all around. And now he’s in our parlor.”
Mona slipped the cup and her purse under the picnic table, then she glanced around very suspiciously as she refreshed Grandpa’s manhattan. Michael was glad Tanner would be watching over the two of them later.
Jazz released Michael’s hand, and Michael wished he’d held it a little bit longer. Jazz finished his first cup of wine and gave Michael’s practically full cup a critical look. “Don’t let me be the only giddy drunk one, sweetie.”
“Want a topper?” Mona asked, holding up her purse. “We’ll just have to get you a beer cup and dump it out so the popo doesn’t know what you’re up to.”
“I’ll stick to my vino.” Jazz chuckled, and Michael took a healthy swallow of his wine, relishing how it smoothed over some of the rougher edges left by the stress of his day.
“Very good,” Jazz said to Michael as he started on his second cup of wine. “So, Nemesis Trevino will obviously need to use your examination room since his joint burned down. How do you feel about him traipsing around your place and touching your things?”
“That’s fine. It’s fine.” Michael heard the lie in his voice even as Jazz made a face. “Okay, so I’m a bit agitated by it. But there’s not much I can do for it.”
Jazz lifted his cup in a toast. “There’s wine.”
Michael chuckled and lifted his first cup. “Yes, there is that.”
“L’chayim,” Grandpa said, and they all took a drink.
“I think I better unexpectedly”—Grandpa did air quotes—“stop by and make sure that sticky-fingered putz doesn’t steal any of our good equipment.”
“Trevino’s an ass but not a thief,” Michael countered.
Grandpa mumbled something in Yiddish around his cocktail.
When Jazz and Mona finished their wine, the group headed to the nearest vendor. Michael polished off the rest of his second cup while they waited in line.
“So when does he arrive?” Jazz asked.
Michael glanced at his watch. “He’s probably there right now. He said he’d be over at seven.”
“He’s there unattended?” Grandpa cried, drawing a few looks from a couple walking by.
Michael gave his exuberant grandfather a shushing gesture. “Ezra is there. And the sheriff is meeting him too.”
That seemed to appease Grandpa. “Oh, well, that’s good. Ezra’s a good boy.”
Jazz rolled his eyes at that but stayed silent. He used their tickets to get three wines, two white and one red. They wandered back into the festival, and Jazz coiled his arm with Michael’s, leaning closer than necessary.
Michael fought a shiver. He’d never been one for PDAs, though in all reality he hadn’t had much opportunity. But being with Jazz melted away some of the walls Michael had spent years building.
In many ways, Michael was envious of his boyfriend. Jazz was social and outgoing and seemed to know the right thing to say in every situation. Everyone was happy to see Jazz—who didn’t love their hairstylist? And Jazz was adept at making small talk that didn’t feel small. He managed to finesse tiny personal tidbits from each of his clients and send them off not only looking beautiful, but feeling refreshed and good about themselves.
As a child and through the majority of his adulthood, Michael had always been quiet and more of a loner. He’d never excelled at sports, he wasn’t musically inclined, and he seemed to have the perfect thing to say to bring any conversation to a lurching halt. Many of the kids in school had avoided him, too creeped out by his family’s business to risk picking on him. There had been some nasty bullies, as would be expected in Michael’s situation, but for the most part he was left alone. A couple of the more macabre kids tried to establish a connection, but Michael had seen through their intentions pretty quick and put an end to it.
He’d spent a lot of his younger years alone, and that had carried over into his adult years as well.
Until he’d met Jazz.
For some reason, Jazz had taken a shine to him. And it seemed that shine might have been just the thing to pull Michael out of his shell, making him a bit more outgoing and socially adept. It would never change the way people viewed him or felt around him—that was a natural byproduct of his business. But Jazz’s interest and attraction had boosted Michael’s confidence, and he felt more secure and less self-conscious.
“I’ve been neck deep in my own drama today, sorry,” Jazz said, and squeezed Michael’s biceps. Every touch from Jazz sent a gentle spark straight to Michael’s groin. “How are you doing with what happened to you, sweetie? Are you holding up okay?”
“It’s upsetting for a number of reasons, and troubling as well. I can’t help but feel like I’ve been targeted in some way, but I’ve no idea why or by whom.” He shook his head as he thought about Bill Denton sitting behind the wheel of the hearse. He agreed with Musgrave that Norbert should be a suspect, but would Norbert really have murdered Denton and left him there to taunt Michael? Why?
“Is Trevino staying with you?” Jazz asked after he put a big dent in his third drink. “Like sleeping in your guest room?”
Michael choked on his own wine. “Good Lord, no. It will be hard enough to have him in the funeral parlor, let alone sleeping in my home.”
Jazz smirked. “There’s an honest look into how you really feel about all this.”
“Yes, well, like I said, there’s not much I can do about it. And he needs to be here so Bill Denton’s companions can identify his body.”
“You think they’ll do that tonight?” Jazz asked.
“The sheriff had Tanner out tracking them down this afternoon, so it’s very possible.”
Jazz gave him a skeptical look. “You’re talking about the same deputy who worked on Dylan’s case? And when Mr. Pickles was abducted? Tanner’s nice but such a mimbo.”
Grandpa laughed and slapped his knee. “He is!”
Michael cocked his head and frowned. “A what?”
“Mimbo, a male bimbo,” Jazz explained. “Remember that Seinfeld episode?”
“I loved that show,” Mona said. “Jewish boys have the best sense of humor.”
“That’s not all they got, bubbeleh.” Grandpa winked, and they both giggled.
Michael chuckled as he remembered the episode where George had a man-crush on Elaine’s gorgeous but dimwitted boyfriend. “Ah, yes.”
Jazz waved his almost empty wine in an airy gesture. “And Tanner thought Mr. Pickles was a person when he went missing. His detective skills are about as fine-tuned as our Sheriff Motel 6.”
While Grandpa and Mona laughed, Michael didn’t join in. Jazz’s joke on Musgrave’s first name was a norm, but the comments about Tanner felt a tad meaner than Michael was used to from his boyfriend. Jazz was still on edge from the divorce papers, seeing as his sarcasm
had been amped up to a new level, and that worried Michael a little bit.
“I need more wine,” Jazz announced, upending his cup and making a sad face as two drops trickled from the rim and onto the grass.
“We’ll catch you boys later,” Grandpa announced suddenly. “I see Trish. There’s some parking tickets I need her to fix for me, and her husband owes me a favor. She does too, for that matter.”
Mona and Grandpa laughed conspiratorially at some inside joke, and then Grandpa all but dragged a tipsy Mona away as he flagged down the mayor.
Jazz smiled after them. “I love your grandpa.”
“Everyone does,” Michael agreed as they got in line again. At this rate Jazz was going to burn through their tickets in no time. He was obviously upset, and Michael wanted to help with more than just wine. “So now it’s your turn. Tell me about these divorce papers.”
Jazz’s expression clouded. “I want a divorce, you know that. But with all the media attention Russell’s attracted, I was hoping to wrap it up quietly. Maybe make an agreement privately, then have lawyers make it official.” He sighed. “Of course, I’d have to answer his calls if I wanted to do that.”
Michael’s brows shot up at that aside. “He’s called you?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I never accepted the charges.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Michael assured him but wondered why Jazz had kept that detail from him.
“I think that’s why he served me papers like I’m the bad guy in all this. That’s what pisses me off. I know he did it on purpose just to get to me.”
“He being Russell.”
“Yes, your favorite author.”
A thread of guilt stitched through Michael’s gut, and he couldn’t help looking away. Jazz will understand why I’m rereading Russell’s books, right?
But now was not the time for that conversation.
“He’s not my favorite author….”
Jazz waved his words away. “Oh, it’s fine. I get it. You like his mysteries and his stocky, macho private investigator character. Which I guess is a good thing, since you seem to have gotten yourself involved in another murder.”