by Hank Edwards
“It’s been a few years since we did the festival circuit, Sones,” Bill had said. “We’re a trio again. Let’s get out on the road and let our folk-punk flag fly. Come on, what do you say?”
Sonya had taken more convincing, a lot more, but in the end she’d relented to Bill’s enthusiasm, and they’d packed up Bill’s old Subaru and headed for Michigan.
The closer they got to the state line, the more snappish and irritable Ally had become. She needed to see Norbert face-to-face, finally confront the scumbag who had helped Russell take her cousin from her, and nearly took her father as well.
When she’d come out, she’d lost everything. She had been living with her mother at the time, and Mom shoved her out the door without so much as a toothbrush. She hadn’t even been able to take her cell phone with her since her mom paid the bill and snatched it from her hand before slamming the door in her face.
For a few nights, she’d stayed at a shelter for LGBT youth, until she’d talked her way into a ride with a lady trucker to Chicago, damn close to where Dad lived. She’d walked the rest of the way, flipping off carloads of guys hollering at her out windows as they passed, and running through the woods to escape those who pulled over. When she arrived at her dad’s place in Gary, Indiana, he’d welcomed her with a hug and a hot meal. He’d loaned her a pair of sweats as he washed her filthy clothes, and then let her sleep in his bed as he took the couch.
Things with Dad had been good for a while. She and Dylan chatted more often, and Dad kept her fed and clothed and got her a cell phone and a new guitar. She’d met Rae at a bar near the college, and they’d hit it off.
Then Dylan had been murdered, and her world went gray. Sweet, wonderful, and talented Dylan, suddenly gone. And in such a horrible way.
And then Dad had nearly met the same fate.
Norbert Farthington might as well have held both of them under that tub faucet, the simpering idiot.
From what Dylan used to tell her during their chats, and what her father had seen when he’d gone to Lacetown to look for Dylan, Norbert had been obsessed with Russell and would have done anything for him. Hell, Dad said that Norbert had offered to help Russell get rid of all the witnesses when that hairdresser and mortician had caught him.
Those two weren’t very high on Ally’s list either. While they had saved Dad, they shouldered blame for Dylan’s death too. Dylan had called Ally shortly after the hairdresser had caused a big scene at Russell’s book signing. The incident had embarrassed Russell, and Dylan as well.
That could have set Russell off, since he had killed Dylan that same night.
And the body count was still rising.
Ally knew deep down that Bill had met up with Norbert last night. She’d argued with him about it as he got ready to head out the door, and then he was found dead. And in the mortician’s hearse, no less. Norbert had the heart of a killer. Even if he hadn’t actively murdered Dylan and mutilated his corpse, he’d intended to help Russell kill Dad and the rest of them. Norbert was an accomplice then and a murderer now.
If the fuckwad sheriff of Lametown couldn’t figure that out, Ally would see that he paid the price.
But Rae’s father being the fuckwad sheriff put a real crimp in Ally’s plans. Why hadn’t Rae said anything about it on any of their dates? Things here in Lacetown had already spun out of control. All she’d wanted was to destroy Norbert, then Bill had to get in the way and mess it all up.
Ally sat up and angrily swiped away tears. She sniffled and snuffled a bit before getting up and stomping into the bathroom, where she blew her nose on a mound of rough motel toilet paper. Jesus Christ, how much wood pulp is in this stuff?
After splashing cold water on her face, Ally sat on the foot of her bed and swiped through photos of Rae. Her hair had been so long and beautiful when they’d met, she couldn’t believe Rae had cut it all off. Ally had loved running her fingers through those long, soft waves. Such a waste to lose all that beautiful hair.
That’s what she got for dating a newly out lesbian. She should have known better.
She closed the photos app and set her phone aside. Her stuff with Rae would have to wait. Sonya’s absence couldn’t have come at a better time. It wouldn’t take Sonya long to put all the pieces together, and then Ally would have a shitload more to explain than she did already. And Ally didn’t think Sonya would like what she had to say.
Come to think of it, the fuckwad sheriff probably wouldn’t either.
But fuck them.
Ally grabbed her phone and wallet and left the motel room.
Bill was already dead, and while regrettable, it couldn’t be undone. The plan had to carry on. She was meeting with someone tonight who would solve all her problems. And after that, she had something important to take care of. Ally had always been good at lying, so she didn’t think Sonya would be too much trouble. But she wasn’t in the mood right then for lies. First, it was time to get everything in motion. Then she’d deal with Sonya… carefully of course. Bill’s murder had put the town on edge, so people would be extra cautious. She couldn’t afford to screw up now after all the work she’d done to get here.
Ally slipped off into the night.
The rendezvous was in twenty minutes. If she’d been stuck at the sheriff’s station any longer, she would have missed it. She had a lot to do tonight before she met up with Rae again, and she couldn’t make any mistakes.
Ally couldn’t take the car, so she walked fast. The Lacetown Light had seemed as good a place as any for a clandestine meeting to plot revenge.
The lighthouse grounds were closed to automobile traffic, but Ally easily slipped between the padlocked gates. Shallow woods surrounded it, and a paved path snaked through them. When she stepped out of the trees and into a patch of moonlight, she looked up the side of the tall concrete lighthouse. It had recently been painted and stood with a pale glow on a point of land. The light on top moved in a 180 degree arc, keeping the bright beam from shining in the windows of nearby homes.
“Are you Ally Roberts?”
The man’s voice made her jump, and she took a step back as a tall man in a hawaiian shirt stepped out from behind the building.
“Whoa, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He held up his hands.
Ally’s pulse calmed. “You didn’t,” she snapped.
“So, I did what you asked,” the man said. “Now what?”
Ally punched her fist into her palm. “Now we finish what we started. Norbert is next.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AFTER A night of fitful sleep, Jazz barely managed to make it downstairs and let himself in the back door of the salon on time. He was the first one in, as usual on Saturday, and he headed down the short hallway for the break room to start a pot of coffee. The sun had been up for an hour or so, and sunlight lit his way, allowing him to keep from turning on the lights. Once the coffee was brewing, Jazz stretched the fingers of his right hand, still a little sore from the punch, but better than last night. As he waited for the coffee to finish, he spent a few minutes inventorying the hair color in his locker, making a note in his phone about any supplies he needed to order.
As he looked at the boxes, Jazz became aware of a lingering odor even the fresh-brewed coffee couldn’t mask. It was strange and unsettling, and he wondered if some rodent had gotten into the walls and died there. Or perhaps someone had dumped out food in the trash.
He peered into the trash can but discovered the bag was clean and empty. Most likely Misty had taken it out the night before prior to leaving for the festival.
Thoughts of the festival made him think of Norbert, and he sneered and made a fist, flinching a bit at the ache that produced. But then he thought about Michael caring for him, icing his hand, doting on him. And then opening up even more and showing his dominant side with some of the hottest sex Jazz had ever experienced. His sweet mortician was a bundle of surprises, with a lot of pent-up sexual energy waiting to be released.
Too bad Jazz had brough
t so many strange threats to Michael’s life. He was afraid to ask what more could happen, because he might just find out.
The coffeepot gave a long final burble, and Jazz poured himself a cup. He added sugar and sipped it as he left the break room and walked into the salon.
The bad smell was stronger in here.
He stopped and sniffed as he made a face. What is that?
Something else was off, and Jazz stood in place as he looked around. His salon chair was turned away from him, and from where he stood, he could see the back of someone’s head.
Somebody was sitting in his chair!
The chair was facing the front of the salon, so all Jazz could see was a shadowy silhouette. A cold shiver went through him as he stared at the back of the person’s head.
“Who’s there?” he called, then cursed himself for acting like every dimwit character in a two-bit horror movie.
He puffed out his chest and set his coffee on a nearby counter. Pulling his cell phone from his back pocket, he moved slowly toward his chair. Obviously Misty had forgotten to lock the front door and Kevin had let himself in.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were here, Kevin?” Jazz asked, mentally adding, instead of sitting here all quiet and creepy in the dark.
Intending to text Misty and tell her about the unlocked door, Jazz gave his chair a wide berth as he moved around to face the intruder, putting his back to the windows. His arm holding up the cell phone dropped, and he drew up short when he recognized the man.
He snorted with disgust. “Norbert, what the…?”
The words died in his throat.
“Oh…,” Jazz breathed with shock and sudden understanding.
Norbert still wore the clothes he’d been in the night before, hands resting casually on the arms of the chair, and his legs splayed open. His head tipped back as he stared sightlessly at the ceiling, his mouth gaping and his pale skin putting the injuries he’d received during the fight the night before into stark relief.
A runner of blood had dried from a long, gruesome cut across his throat.
“Oh fuck. Well… fuck.”
Jazz took a couple of steps back and jumped when he brushed Misty’s chair. He dropped down into it and stared at Norbert’s body.
Someone had murdered Norbert.
Someone had murdered Norbert and left his body in Jazz’s salon chair.
What the actual fuck?
Sounds at the front door brought him to his feet. His heart pounded, and his brain locked up, sending out questions but no answers.
Who was here? Was it a client? Was it Jazz’s client? Wait… who was his first client again? Why couldn’t he think of a name?
Some kind of reasoning kicked in then, and he realized that no one should see Norbert’s body, but he didn’t know what to do. Should he cover him? Should he move him?
No, I need to call the cops.
He squinted at the figure outside the door. Correction, two figures, both in silhouette. One was short with hair piled atop her head, so it had to be Misty, but the figure behind her was tall and broad-shouldered. Who could that be?
Jazz heard a high-pitched giggle and recognized it as Misty’s flirty come-on laugh.
“Oh, bother with this lock,” she said and giggled again.
“Here, let me try,” her companion said, his voice deep, sultry. And oddly familiar.
Jazz’s logic and mobilization centers had shut down, so he turned away from the door and simply stood and stared at Norbert’s body, cell phone in hand at his side. There was nothing left for him to do. And even if there was, he didn’t think he’d have the energy to get it done.
He suddenly felt very, very tired.
The door finally opened, and from the corner of his eye, Jazz watched Misty glide into the salon. Her head was turned away as she smiled at the man following close on her heels.
The new arrivals saw Jazz, and both gave a start.
“Dilworth? What the fuck?” the man said, and Jazz realized why his voice had sounded so familiar, and also why he hadn’t recognized it.
Misty’s male companion was Sheriff Hilton Musgrave. And the only tones of voice Jazz had heard the sheriff use were gruff, impatient, or mocking, never flirting and kind.
“Jazz?” Misty asked. “What’s—oh my God! Oh dear God.” Her keys clattered to the floor.
“What the fuck? Is that Norbert Farthington? Is he dead? What the fuck did you do, Dilworth?” Musgrave was next to him, grabbing him by the arm and giving him a shake.
That snapped him out of his daze.
Jazz yanked his arm free and turned on the sheriff. “I didn’t do this! I just found him like this.” He held up his phone and pointed it at Musgrave. “I was about to call you when you happened to show up here.” Jazz looked at Misty, who was staring wide-eyed at Norbert’s body, and then back to Musgrave. “What are you doing here so early?”
“I’m going to give him a haircut,” Misty said in a dull, flat voice. “He and I talked about it last night at the festival.”
Musgrave waved toward Norbert’s body. “You’ve been found at the scene of a murder. Focus on what’s important.”
“I-I….” Jazz had no words to argue.
“And you threatened to kill him last night,” Musgrave sneered. “The whole town heard you.” He reached for his hips, frowning when no cuffs or gun met his search. He stepped forward. “Why the hell did you do it, Dilworth?”
Jazz’s mouth opened and closed a few times, again having no words to defend himself. I didn’t do it just seemed so hollow and cliché.
“Oh, Hilton, you know Jazz was only defending Michael when he said all that,” Misty said dismissively. “He didn’t do… this.”
“I don’t know anything,” Musgrave blustered.
Jazz couldn’t even muster a zinger for that.
Misty approached and stepped carefully between them, facing Jazz and putting a hand against his cheek.
“Jazz, honey,” she said in a soft voice. “Look at me.”
Jazz dropped his gaze from Musgrave’s angry expression to Misty’s one of concern.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I came in and found him there. I’ve only been here a few minutes.”
“You didn’t see him when you came in?” Musgrave said, his tone hard and dripping with doubt.
“Not from the back door,” Jazz snapped. “Then I was in the back room, making coffee, and I smelled something….” His stomach rolled, and he lost any shred of bravado he’d regained.
“Hilton, perhaps you should do something about”—Misty gestured toward the body—“that unfortunate man. Let me get Jazz settled a bit.”
“Settled a bit? What the fuck does that mean?” Musgrave said with a growl. “He’s a suspect!”
Misty shot him a look over her shoulder, and Jazz was surprised to see Musgrave take a step back. His cheeks turned pink, and he dropped his gaze to the floor.
“Fine. Get Dilworth settled a bit, and I’ll secure the scene.” He pointed at Jazz. “Don’t you dare try to flee.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
Musgrave scoffed and jabbed himself in the chest with a thumb. “Everyone’s a suspect until Sheriff Musgrave says they’re not.”
Before Misty or Jazz could reply, the front door opened, and Jazz’s client stepped inside. At the sight of him, the man’s name popped into Jazz’s mind—Kevin Raines, that’s right.
Kevin frowned at them. “Quite a gathering of people right here up front. What’s going on in here, Sheriff? I thought you—” Kevin’s eyes shifted, and he frowned at the body. “Hey, who’s that? I’m Jazz’s first appointment.”
“Never mind that, citizen,” Musgrave said, spreading his arms to keep Kevin back and block his view.
“What’s going on? Why’s there another man in Jazz’s chair?” Kevin demanded. “Wait… is that blood?”
Rather than answering, Musgrave quickly switched into sheriff mode and escorted a protesting
Kevin back outside, talking to him in a low, calming tone that Jazz knew would never be directed at him.
“Let’s get you something warm to drink,” Misty said and tugged on Jazz’s arm, leading him toward the break room.
“What the fuck is wrong with my life?” Jazz said, not really expecting an answer.
“Seems someone has their sights set on you for some reason. Come on, I’ll make you some tea.”
“I made coffee,” Jazz said.
“Thank you for doing that. But I think a soothing cup of herbal tea is just the thing you need right now.”
Misty directed Jazz to one of the cheap padded chairs at the tiny lunch table, and then she began puttering around near the sink. She fumbled one of the cups, and it broke on the tile floor. Jazz jumped and his heart pounded hard enough for him to hear the whoosh of blood in his ears.
“Well, Satan wearing a crocheted poncho, that was my favorite mug.” Misty gave a quiet, shaky laugh and glanced over her shoulder at Jazz. “That body right here in my salon has got me a bit worked up. I think we both need some herbal tea.”
Musgrave appeared at the door of the break room, his expression a concerned glare.
“What happened? What broke?” He looked between them and settled his gaze on Misty. “You okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Just broke a mug, that’s all.” Misty pushed the pieces aside with her foot. “Did you get Kevin rescheduled?”
“What?” Musgrave frowned and glanced at Jazz before looking back at her. “Well, no. I told him the shop would be closed for at least today and to call for another appointment. I don’t… I didn’t know how to reschedule him.”