Murder Most Deserving

by Hank Edwards

  “Not through any fault of my own,” Michael said, then noticed over Jazz’s shoulder someone waving to him from a very long line at the beer vendor. “Oh, there’s Kitty and Marty.”

  “Oh?” Jazz turned to look. “I should give them some tickets. Are you getting another wine too?”

  Michael hesitated, then remembered Trevino was currently using his equipment. “Sure, why not?”

  Jazz tore off the correct amount of tickets for Michael to pay for their drinks, then hurried over to Kitty and Marty, calling out, “Hey, Kitty Litter!”

  Michael smiled. Kitty and Jazz got along famously and liked to give each other amusing nicknames. Jazzercize was Michael’s favorite of Kitty’s creations. Jazz had run the gamut of cat-related names such as Kitty Litter and Kitty Kat. Michael had gotten a good laugh when Jazz had come up with Itty Bitty Gritty Kitty.

  Michael let his gaze rove the length of Jazz’s body as he walked away, focusing on the lovely swell of his ass. Desire burned through him as he thought about spreading those firm, hairy cheeks and feasting on Jazz’s hole. Michael wouldn’t press him for sex, but he sincerely hoped Jazz had meant his sexy innuendo earlier. After he’d received that paperwork, sex might be just what Jazz needed. Hell, what they both needed. Michael could remind Jazz how much better off he was with Michael than Russell. And also that he’d substantially traded up in the length and girth department as well.

  A familiar figure cut across Michael’s line of sight, startling him out of his thoughts.

  Norbert!

  Michael’s heart pounded.

  Per their last conversation, Musgrave and his deputies hadn’t located Norbert yet. Should Michael follow Norbert?

  Norbert stopped and looked around, completely blocking Jazz from Michael’s view. It seemed almost intentional. The line Michael stood in moved a few feet closer to the wine booth, and he shifted position. From his new spot, Michael lost sight of Norbert behind a group of loud, and clearly drunk, young men. Anxiety tingled in the center of his chest. What if Michael lost Norbert and he left town before Musgrave could question him?

  With a glance at the wine booth, followed by a long look at Jazz, standing yards away talking and laughing with Kitty and Marty, Michael pocketed the tickets clutched in his now sweating hand and stepped out of line. He dodged around the group of loud young men, some wearing fraternity letters on their shirts, others designer clothes, and all of them half in the bag on craft beers. Their cocky attitudes and brash laughter ignited a fear-based flinch he hadn’t experienced since his school days.

  Must be cellular memory. The instinct to avoid pain and stay alive, learned in the halls of Lacetown middle and high schools.

  Once he’d left the drunk college guys behind, Michael spied Norbert striding across the park. He wasn’t very far ahead, his tall, thin frame shrouded in a leather duster coat too heavy for the hot summer air. His glossy black-and-yellow hair made him stand out as he slipped through the crowd.

  Michael hung back a bit. Pulling his phone out, he sent a quick text to Musgrave. Spotted Norbert in park at the festival. Have you questioned him yet?

  Musgrave’s response was nearly immediate: No! Keep him in sight, but do not engage. I’m on my way.

  Excitement joined with Michael’s anxiety, and his hand trembled slightly as he sent okay back to Musgrave.

  Michael was involved in another murder mystery. He was following a suspect. It was so much like a scene from a Brock Hammer novel, Michael wanted to stop and shout with giddy glee.

  But he needed to remain cool and focus on not letting Norbert give him the slip.

  When Norbert stopped to talk to a man sitting in a camping chair and tuning a guitar, Michael took the opportunity to text Jazz: Over near the staging area. Norbert is here, so I’m keeping an eye on him until Musgrave arrives.

  Jazz wrote back: OMG! Stay right there. I’m on my way!

  CHAPTER NINE

  JAZZ COULDN’T help grinning as he made his way through the crowd. More clue hunting with Michael. Clue hunting that might land good ol’ Norbie in the slammer, or at the very least questioned rigorously by Musgrave.

  He shouldn’t be delighted by that notion, but he couldn’t help it.

  Jazz met up with Michael quickly, surprised to realize he was slightly out of breath. Was he really that out of shape or just that excited to trail another suspect with his boyfriend?

  “Where is he?” Jazz asked.

  Michael jerked his head, and Jazz looked that direction in time to see Norbert put his nose in the air and stomp away from a seated man tuning a guitar. Shaking his head, the musician frowned at Norbert’s back.

  “I wonder what transpired there?” Michael mused.

  “Let’s find out.”

  They shared a grin, then walked toward the guitarist.

  “This reminds me of our first date,” Jazz said fondly. “Though last time, I was avoiding the hell out of Norbert, not following him.”

  “Well, we didn’t know what a snake in the grass he was then.”

  “I did,” Jazz countered. “Speaking of a snake in the grass, I can’t sleep over tonight—got an 8:00 a.m. client—but I would be open to some snakes playing in the grass after we’re done doing Musgrave’s job for him again.”

  Michael chuckled. “You’re bad.”

  “The worst,” he quipped as they neared the guitarist. Maybe Michael would dole out some of that decadent punishment he’d showered Jazz with last night in his apartment. That blowie had really gotten his creative juices flowing when he went back to work.

  Norbert was still in sight up ahead. What the hell was he doing back in Lacetown? Had he just come for the Deliverance-esque, squeal-like-a-pig music, or was he up to something? Jazz never would’ve pegged Norbert for a killer—a conniving sleazeball, yes. Murderer, no. But after his actions in the cottage, Jazz wouldn’t put anything past him. But if he did kill Denton, why leave the body at Michael’s? What the hell was his angle?

  “We’ll have to be subtle,” Michael whispered, a gleam of excitement in his eyes.

  Jazz smirked as he studied his boyfriend. “You’re all lit up with the thrill of this. You look really sexy.” Jazz licked his lips suggestively, delighting in Michael’s resulting blush.

  “Focus.” Michael nudged him gently with his shoulder. “How should we handle this?”

  Though the phrase he’d overheard a man say once—“find yourself a living room lady who’s a bedroom slut”—flitted through his mind about Michael, they needed to focus on the situation at hand. “Looks like the guy wasn’t too impressed with Norbie. Let’s play to that.”

  “Good idea. Which of us talks to him first?”

  Jazz grinned. “You started this mystery-novel-role-play game, you take the lead.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Michael moved toward the man, who still glared at Norbert’s back, and Jazz followed. They only had a few minutes before they would lose sight of Norbie, so they would need to work fast.

  “That guy, huh?” Michael said and followed it up with a quiet, rueful laugh.

  “What?” The man stopped tuning his guitar and frowned up at Michael and Jazz.

  “That guy you were talking with. He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?”

  The man huffed a laugh. “Yeah. He thinks so. He hit you up too?”

  Hit him up? Like for sex? Eew!

  Jazz and Michael shared a look, and Michael shrugged, obviously not knowing what the guy meant either.

  Michael cleared his throat nervously and continued. “Oh, yeah,” he said noncommittally. “You know how it is.”

  “Yeah,” Jazz agreed. “Totally.”

  “Yeah, guys like him are all over these festivals.” The man plucked a string and winced, continuing to talk as he tuned his instrument. “They keep promising more than the last one, but when it comes right down to it, all they want is a cut of whatever you’re getting paid.”

  Jazz’s brows shot up knowingly, and he saw Mic
hael’s do the same. So Norbert was in town trying to find someone to sign with him. Obviously the publishing world had booted his scrawny ass out for hiding Russell’s plagiarism, and apparently Norbert was now trying to slither into PR for musicians. At least something was starting to make sense.

  “Well, you can’t be too careful,” Michael said.

  Jazz looked around. Shit! They’d lost sight of Norbert. He tugged on Michael’s shirt and then smiled down at the musician. “Good talking with you. Good luck up there.”

  They hurried off through the crowd, Jazz in the lead, until they spotted their quarry once again. After that they slowed down, careful to keep out of sight. Norbert led Michael and Jazz on a full circuit of the festival, finally stopping in front of the stage to watch the performers.

  Michael passed over the last of his wine to Jazz so he could text their location to Musgrave. Jazz wondered what Musgrave would have to say about the two of them following a suspect again. Most likely it would have a low number of syllables.

  “It’s fun playing private dicks with you again,” Jazz said, then sipped Michael’s wine.

  Michael chuckled. “Later I’ll show you my telescope I use for spying.”

  Smiling, Jazz people-watched as they kept Norbert in view. The crowd consisted of a wide variety of people, so he had a lot to occupy him. A bright yellow hawaiian shirt in the crowd caught Jazz’s eye, and he frowned. The man was tall and stood looking over the heads of those in front of him, watching the performers. Though he drank from a beer now and then, he didn’t move at all to the music like the rest of the crowd. He just stood and stared at the stage, intently watching the performers. He looked familiar, but Jazz couldn’t place where he’d seen him before.

  “We really need to ride your scooter more often,” Michael said out of the blue.

  “That’s random, sweetie,” Jazz said. “You must really be feeling horny. Imagining yourself as Brock Hammer, are we?”

  Michael’s blush gave him away, even as he said, “Hardly. More like remembering riding behind you the last time we tailed a suspect.”

  Placing a hand on the small of Michael’s back, Jazz let out a little grunt that sent a shiver he could feel down Michael’s spine. “I’ve never wanted to see Musgrave so badly in all my life.”

  “Why?”

  “The sooner he gets Norbie in custody, the sooner I can be in your custody.”

  Michael let out a bark of laughter, then slapped a hand over his mouth. They both looked toward Norbert, but the weasel’s attention was riveted on the stage as he bobbed his head. Jazz checked out the band flailing on their stringed instruments.

  “No accounting for tastes,” Jazz remarked.

  “Indeed,” Michael said with a nod. “But this group is at least playing in the same key.”

  A flash of red hair by the stage caught Jazz’s eye, and he smiled. Misty. Then he studied the performers and realized the two musicians in the back were Dorothy and Beatrice.

  “Misty’s up there,” Jazz said.

  “Where?” Michael asked, looking around.

  Jazz pointed to the stage. “Her cousins are playing right now. I wonder if they call themselves the Ancestry Website Relatives,” he said dryly. “Remind me never to do that. If sister wives afraid of brooms and Bible-thumpers who play the squeak-box might be on my tree, I’d have to shoot myself.”

  “We wouldn’t want that.”

  “No, that would put the cherry on top of this shitty day.”

  That came out harsher than he’d intended, and by Michael’s expression, it had caught him off guard. Jazz was joking around, but the resentment he harbored for Russell and his crony Norbert was seeping in. Though very justified in nursing his bitterness for them, Jazz didn’t want that negativity to bleed over into his current relationship. Michael was far and above a better person than Russell could ever hope to be, and Jazz didn’t want his attitude toward his ex to send his current boyfriend running for the hills.

  Maybe following Norbert hadn’t been such a great idea.

  A cursory glance back at the stage showed the old fart who’d given them the Bible pamphlet standing stage left, playing a stand-up bass. Dorothy and Beatrice looked like they had wiped their makeup off already. Figures. Daddy Dearest probably didn’t like it. The teenage son was center stage, sawing away on a violin with apparent dexterity and skill—if the happy audience was any indicator. Strings flew from his bow, and people actually cheered.

  “I’m not a fan of country music,” Michael said, “but you have to admit he’s quite gifted.”

  Jazz snorted. “I guess, sure.” His gaze drifted away from Misty’s relations and back to Norbert. Why are you really here, Norbie?

  A thought zinged through his mind with breathtaking speed.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence that ol’ Norbie was in town at the same time Russell served Jazz papers, could it?

  Shit! Was Russell at the heart of all of this?

  It wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility for Russell to have convinced Norbert to come back to Lacetown and clean up any witnesses to Russell’s murderous plagiarism. Did the dead guy in Michael’s hearse know something Russell needed to remain hidden? But what?

  Jazz let out a frustrated sigh. None of it made any sense!

  Michael turned to study him, brows raised in concern. “Everything all right?”

  “Sunshine and roses.” Jazz forced a smile and sipped Michael’s wine.

  Michael had been asking Jazz a lot lately how he was doing, and Jazz had been responding with jokes, quick barbs, and pithy sayings like, “I’m right as rain, baby.” Though they had not been together long, Michael and Jazz were in tune with each other—both in bed and in life—and Jazz knew Michael suspected he wasn’t really okay.

  But now was not the time for that conversation.

  Michael’s phone pinged, and Michael rolled his eyes when he read the text.

  Jazz chuckled. “What’s the good sheriff telling you to do?”

  Michael shook his head. “Three exclamation points. Really?”

  He held his phone out to show Jazz the text: DO NOT approach the suspect!!! I sent Tanner to question him. Be there ASAP.

  “What a dumbass,” Jazz said with a snort.

  “Well, we’re almost through.”

  Offering a tender smile, Michael caressed Jazz’s back. It felt good, comforting, and before Jazz realized it, he was smiling.

  “This can’t be fun for you, stalking Norbert, but thank you for joining me.”

  “And let you have all the fun,” Jazz said, trying for a joke but hearing how flat and hard his voice sounded.

  Misty’s relatives came to a rousing finish, and Jazz looked back at the stage as they all took a bow. Norbert and the rest of the audience cheered and whistled. The tall man in the yellow shirt only stared at the stage. Curious.

  Jazz noticed Michael looking over his shoulder, frowning as he scanned the crowd.

  “Who do you see?” Jazz asked.

  “It’s who I don’t see,” Michael replied. “Where the hell is Tanner?”

  “Probably trying to figure out his right from his left,” Jazz said, then made a face and took another swallow of Michael’s wine. “That sounded mean as fuck. Sorry. I’m in a mood.”

  Before Michael could reply, they were both startled to hear Dorothy’s husband at the microphone.

  “Acts 3:19 reads thus.” The man removed a leather Bible from his coat and opened it. The passage was marked with a long, brown, and mottled bookmark that looked like braided rope. He spoke in a loud, resonant voice that had no need of the microphone before him. “Repent ye therefore, and be converted, that your sins may be blotted out, when the times of refreshing shall come from the presence of the Lord.”

  His preaching almost drowned out the crash and fold of the lake’s big waves, and a grumble of discontent filtered through the crowd.

  “Oh, just when I thought this festival couldn’t suck any worse,” Jazz muttered
.

  Michael pointed ahead of them. “Norbert seems to agree with you.”

  Norbert gave an elaborate eye roll, then turned away to slink into the crowd.

  “Suspect is on the move.” Michael hastened forward and Jazz hurried to keep up. Damn, his boyfriend really did love a mystery. And Jazz had to admit Michael’s excitement was contagious—and sexy as hell.

  They skirted the stage, neither keen to catch the preacher’s eye. Misty’s cousins were fricking weird. The whole time Misty had been coloring their hair, Dorothy had been quizzing Beatrice with Bible trivia, oblivious to the awkward glances they received from other customers.

  Jazz pointed at the son picking up violin bow strings from the floor as the old man droned on with another scripture. “He sawed on that squeak-box so hard he broke all his strings. I don’t know who to feel sorrier for, my ears or that bow, ya know—”

  “You motherfucker!”

  Jazz was cut off midsnark by the outburst, and he wasn’t sure which was more shocking, the words themselves or the vicious tone of voice. He and Michael drew up short.

  Norbert jumped a bit and turned to look back. Jazz tugged Michael out of Norbert’s sightline and craned his neck to see who had shouted.

  “What’s going on?” Michael asked.

  The crowd parted for two figures, and Dorothy’s husband went silent as everyone stared.

  “Shit,” Jazz said. “That’s Bill’s band members, Ally and Sonya, right?”

  “This won’t be good,” Michael muttered.

  Ally stomped toward Norbert, her short hair combed back like Danny Zuko from Grease. Trailing behind her was Sonya, wearing an expression of concern as tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “You killed him!” Ally shouted.

  “What are you—”

  Norbert was unable to finish. Ally planted both hands on his chest and shoved him hard. The force sent Norbert stumbling backward, and he fell into the midst of a group of loud frat boys.

  “Oh no,” Michael said in a low voice. “I saw those guys earlier. They look even more drunk now.”