Murder Most Deserving

by Hank Edwards

  Jazz forced a chuckle. Since when did Tanner actually act like a real cop? “Why would I leave him at my place of employment if I killed him? And second, what about Bill Denton? Do you think I killed him too? Then left him at my boyfriend’s house? I never met that guy. Obviously the same person killed them both.”

  They didn’t actually think Jazz did this, did they?

  “True,” Tanner said, nodding slowly. “The murders are too similar to be coincidence.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Two murders less than a day apart.” Tanner finished writing and then furrowed his brow. “There’s been a lot of that kind of thing happening around town this year.”

  “You never know what kind of people these festivals will bring in,” Jazz said. “Speaking of which, when I came home last night, I saw someone loitering by the back door of the salon.”

  Tanner sat up straighter. “Who was it?”

  Jazz hesitated, then said, “It was the young woman fighting with Norbert at the festival, Ally Roberts.”

  Tanner’s eyes widened, and he nodded. “The girl with the slicked-back hair, related to our last vic, Dylan Roberts. Yeah, I remember her. She’s pretty tough.” He started to make a note, then stopped and slowly raised his head, eyes wide. “Isn’t she dating the sheriff’s daughter?”

  “Yep,” Jazz said with a nod.

  “Oh balls.”

  “Yep,” Jazz said again.

  “Oh balls,” Tanner repeated. “This is going to cause a pretty big scene.”

  “I know.” And Jazz felt only a teensy-weensy bit guilty that Tanner would be the one to tell Musgrave about Ally. Better him than me.

  “Oh balls.”

  Jazz nodded. “You said that already.”

  “Okay, yeah, you’re right. Okay, I’ve got this. Anything else?”

  Jazz shrugged. “Not really. I had a glass of wine, then went to bed and was asleep before my head hit the pillow. When I got to the salon this morning, I found the body in my chair.”

  The body.

  The words seemed to echo around his brain.

  It wasn’t just a body, though.

  It was the body of Norbert, someone he had known—and, yes, not really liked—for years. The man had been infuriating, annoying, and downright terrible for as long as Jazz remembered. He’d done everything he could to undermine Jazz’s relationship with Russell, and had even offered to help Russell kill Jazz, Michael, and Musgrave and cover up the murders.

  But he’d been living and breathing and thinking and talking yesterday, and now he was dead. Granted, he’d been talking shit, like usual, but still, he’d been alive and aware, and now he was… gone. And his exit from this world had not been easy, it appeared.

  Things had definitely gotten much darker in Lacetown lately, and Jazz couldn’t help but feel more than a little responsible.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “I CAN’T believe this,” Musgrave mumbled to Michael.

  “Indeed.” Weary, Michael sighed as he looked at the gruesome scene, the tiny yellow markers for the photographs littering the floor. Michael was assisting Musgrave by taking pictures with the camera Ezra had brought him, until Trevino arrived to officially collect the body. Michael hated being on the outside, especially when this seemed like a personal attack on himself and his boyfriend, but he knew it was the right thing to do.

  “He was my prime suspect, and now he’s dead.”

  “No other leads?” Michael asked casually.

  “Your friend is looking awfully suspicious,” Musgrave grumbled.

  “Jazz?” Michael couldn’t contain his nervous chuckle. “Surely you must be kidding. Jazz could never do this.”

  “Everyone’s a suspect until—”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Michael said dismissively, not in the mood for Hilton’s third-person dramatics. While Michael had entertained notions of Jazz’s guilt when Dylan’s body washed up on Hardscrabble Beach, even then, before they’d gotten to know each other, he’d dismissed Jazz as a suspect. And now? “You must know Jazz had nothing to do with any of this.”

  “He threatened the vic.”

  “And he had never even met the first vic,” Michael countered.

  Musgrave seemed to be in actual pain as he admitted, “That’s true.”

  “There’s a killer on the loose in Lacetown,” Michael said, a shiver working down his spine at the words. “Was Norbert the only lead on Denton’s death?”

  “Yeah.” Musgrave sniffed. “Was hoping it was a crime of passion, as you suggested. Guess he hooked up with Denton at HPP the night of his murder on some phone app called Grind Him.”

  Michael had lived in Lacetown pretty much all his life, and had only learned about Heavy Petting Point—or HPP to those in the know—back in May. He was, however, a second away from asking what sort of app that was, when he recognized the sheriff’s gaffe. He buried a laugh and reminded himself to tell Jazz. “I believe you mean Grindr.”

  Face wrinkled, Musgrave shot Michael a look. “That makes no sense. Farthington said it was a gay hookup app. Why would you guys use an app called Grind Her?”

  Oh, Jazz would have a field day with this!

  A sneeze cut off Michael’s reply.

  Parker Trevino strode into the salon, blotchy and red, and appearing to be in a foul mood. “Sheriff, are you divulging information?”

  “I’m not divulging shit, Trevino. Fleishman and I work together.”

  Trevino walked up to them, his dark, almost black hair slicked back from his low forehead. Ordinarily so impeccable, today his eyes were watery and red, and little hives peppered his neck.

  Musgrave sneered as he took in Trevino’s appearance. “What the hell happened to your face? You look like a pimple cream commercial.”

  Trevino blustered. “I seem to have come down with an allergic reaction. Probably the soap at the inn.”

  Michael had managed to avoid Trevino last night while the man had performed Bill Denton’s autopsy, and it had felt like a feast of the proverbial crow when he’d had to call the man back to another murder scene.

  “Hello, Parker,” Michael said. “Thanks for coming over so quickly.”

  “Well, it doesn’t take long to get from one end of your quaint little town to the other, now does it?” Parker gave him a cool smile as he inspected the salon with barely disguised distaste and approached Norbert. Just like Denton had been staged to appear driving, Norbert’s feet and hands were deliberately placed so he appeared to be waiting for a haircut in the chair.

  Jazz’s chair, Michael thought. Where his boyfriend—lover, his mind corrected—stood all day and talked to people and made them look good. Because that’s what Jazz did. He talked with people and helped them become the best they could be.

  He’d even helped Michael come out of his shell, and Michael longed to return that kindness by being there for him now. He should have hugged Jazz earlier, Musgrave be damned.

  “Well, you’ve gotten yourself into quite the pickle here.” Parker’s voice broke into Michael’s vortex of thoughts as he looked Norbert’s body over. “This appears to be the same handiwork we saw in the body found in your hearse.” Parker frowned at Michael. “Shame about that nice upholstery. And that it’s impounded as evidence.”

  “Yes, a shame,” Michael agreed, bristling.

  “There are larger contusions, blood this time. This victim must’ve struggled more.” Trevino straightened up, eyes still on Norbert. “It would seem our killer has a bit of a sense of humor, staging the bodies.”

  “Not very funny,” Musgrave muttered.

  Smirking, Trevino gave Michael a sideways glance. “And it appears someone is targeting you and your lover, eh?”

  Musgrave made a sound of agreement and Michael found himself at a loss for words. He had no clue how Trevino even knew of his relationship with Jazz, but he was more annoyed by the astute observation, which mirrored his own worries.

  But who would target them and why?

  R
ussell.

  The name popped immediately into his head, but after what they’d all witnessed at the festival the night before, Ally Roberts couldn’t be ruled out. In light of the revelations about her familial connections, she had an obvious motive, and the most passionate reaction to Norbert.

  Whoever the killer was—be it Ally, or someone Norbert had possibly offended at the festival—the macabre mystery of it all seemed like something from a fictional world.

  “Didn’t your lover have an altercation with our victim last night?” Trevino asked.

  Michael stiffened. How the hell did Trevino know that? Jazz’s violent and swift reaction coming to Michael’s defense had roused primal lust within Michael. But now, in light of this, Michael wished the whole thing had never happened. And why did it make his skin crawl the way Trevino said the word lover?

  “My deputy is questioning Dilworth right now,” Musgrave said.

  Michael frowned at both men, but directed his words to Musgrave. “I imagine Ally Roberts is on your list to question, then,” he said, confident in Jazz’s innocence.

  Musgrave looked like he’d just tasted something gross. “She is.”

  “The cousin to your previous murder victim,” Trevino stated rather than asked. “How intriguing.”

  Although Michael had a lot of questions about the murder, his thoughts pinged about his brain like a frantic game of pinball. He couldn’t seem to focus on anything at the moment. All he could think about was Jazz. What was happening with the man in his life? Was someone targeting him in some way? Was Jazz in danger?

  Jazz, Jazz, Jazz. It was like the name was a song on repeat in the back of Michael’s mind, echoing among his every thought and lying unspoken but intermixed with everything he said. Last night, Michael had worried about Jazz’s distant behavior, fearing his own actions had upset his boyfriend. And now this?

  Needing to talk to him, Michael glanced toward the back of the salon, where Deputy Tanner stood in the hallway outside of Misty’s office. Where was Jazz?

  When he realized Trevino was still smirking at him, Michael frowned. “Could you please just process the scene and take the body back to my funeral home for the autopsy?” Michael said. “Ezra and Steve will help you with the transportation.”

  “Yes, very good. I’m already familiar with your simple facility. Once they deliver the body, I will no longer require their services.” Trevino gave them all a dismissive wave, his focus on Norbert.

  I wasn’t going to allow you to use their services whether you wanted them or not, Michael thought irritably but wisely didn’t say aloud.

  “Very good,” Michael said. “I’ll be back at the funeral home shortly.”

  “Oh? Have someplace else you need to be?” Parker asked as Michael walked toward the back of the salon.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

  Michael resisted the urge to turn around and flip the man off. Instead, he focused his energy on moving forward, moving toward Jazz. He approached the short back hallway, where Deputy Tanner was now talking quietly with Deputy Tompkins—the woman, not her twin brother.

  “Are you finished taking Jazz’s statement?” Michael asked. “Is it all right if I speak with him?”

  Deputy Tanner shifted his weight and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Oh. Um, yeah, it’s fine.”

  Michael looked around but didn’t see Jazz. Of his two employees, Ezra stood the closest, so he waved him over so as not to be overheard by Trevino. “Have you seen Jazz?”

  “Oh, he left without saying goodbye?” Ezra said. “I’m sorry.”

  The remark hit Michael like the sting of a wasp.

  “Well, I’m sure he’s just unsettled by all of this,” Michael blustered, unsure why Ezra’s words triggered such a reaction. Jazz was understandably upset, and I was busy working the crime scene.

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s all it is.”

  Michael schooled his expression to something he hoped looked relaxed and natural. “It is.”

  Michael sighed. He was allowing Trevino’s chigger-like presence to make his skin itch and his temper flare. Jazz was obviously upset about the murders. He had a personal connection to Norbert, and he was now a suspect in the man’s murder. This all had to be bringing up memories and thoughts of Russell. Michael really needed to talk with Jazz, but there hadn’t been a spare minute.

  “Are you doing all right?” Ezra prompted. “You did know the victim, after all.”

  “Yes. Well, I’m fine, thank you. Go ahead and take the body back to the funeral home when Trevino is ready. I’ll meet up with you there.”

  Ezra frowned but then offered Michael that puppy-dog smile. “Yes, of course, whatever you need, Michael. And good luck with Jazz.” Ezra hesitated, appeared to be about to say something further, but then gave a single nod and went back to work.

  Michael was about to say something too, but Parker Trevino was looking at him with a smug expression. There really would be no getting past the man without hearing a cutting comment.

  And Michael wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold back from returning a Jazz-worthy comment of his own. Which would not help the strained situation he was already embroiled in. He’d be working in close quarters with Trevino for a couple more days. At least with Trevino working the scene, Michael had the time to check on Jazz.

  He faced the deputies once again. “May I use the back door?”

  Deputy Tompkins shook her head. “Nope, the techs are checking for prints now.”

  Great, he would have to go past Trevino and through all the gawkers out front.

  Michael nodded his thanks before he left the salon, not meeting Parker Trevino’s keen eyes. Trevino was complaining to Steve how cold Lacetown was with the “biting wind off the lake.” Michael barely suppressed an eye roll.

  Cold? It was supposed to be ninety degrees today.

  The sun was high and baked the asphalt street, two of the angled parking spaces outside of the salon taken up by police cruisers with light bars flashing. The other Tompkins twin had set up yellow tape, and he was currently trying to keep gawkers back. Greg Tompkins shouted out to two deputies several feet away, “Hey, make sure mine is a double shot!”

  The deputies Michael recognized by face only waved to Greg in acknowledgment, then headed to the coffeehouse across the street.

  Coffee! Jazz mentioned he hadn’t had any coffee yet, and seeing as Jazz lived off caffeine like manna, Michael would get his lover a latte before he went to his loft to check on him.

  A flash of orange caught Michael’s attention in the crowd. Tall and familiar, a man in an orange hawaiian shirt typed frantically on his cell phone and then quickly followed the officers.

  It was the same man he’d seen eyeing the scene at his funeral parlor yesterday.

  Michael’s heart skipped.

  When their eyes met, the man flinched and looked away.

  Suspicious.

  More than curious, Michael crossed the street as inconspicuously as possible and entered the coffeehouse behind the two officers and the mystery man. Inside Coffee, Tea, and Thee, the officers waited in line, laughing about some show on Netflix. The suspicious man had taken a seat at an empty table and picked up a discarded newspaper. Michael got in line and watched the whole situation for clues.

  This man had been at both crime scenes, yet Michael was sure he’d never seen him in Lacetown before.

  While sitting in a coffeehouse and reading a newspaper without ordering anything was no more illegal than being a gawker, it was definitely fishy. And Michael wasn’t mistaken—the man had definitely followed the deputies.

  What for? Hoping to hear a clue about the murder? Or was he the murderer, satisfying his ego by watching his crimes be discovered?

  Michael scolded himself. He really shouldn’t be listening to that podcast about unsolved crimes or fixating so much on Brock Hammer novels. His imagination was really going wild.

  The deputies’ conversation moved onto the weather
, and then they paid for their tray of drinks. They refused to explain what had happened at Misty’s to the curious baristas, and if Michael wasn’t reading it wrong, the tall man in the hawaiian shirt looked disappointed.

  After the deputies left, the man casually got up and left too.

  Okay, it was not his imagination. That was totally suspicious.

  Should I pursue?

  “Help you?”

  Flinching, Michael made a quick decision.

  A comfort coffee for Jazz was more important than some odd man in a hawaiian shirt. He was probably just being nosey like the rest of the citizens trying to peek through the covered windows of the salon, hoping to gather a tidbit of gossip.

  He smiled at the barista, Josiah, who waited patiently.

  “Something chocolaty,” he ordered. They were used to his random orders, and Michael suspected they knew it was for someone in the salon by the way they always smiled and watched him deliver it across the street.

  The tall stranger stood outside the coffeehouse while Michael waited. Then he took a quick left as Michael was paying. Trying not to be obvious, Michael took his coffee and hurried out after him.

  When he was back on the street, he glanced this way and that, but he’d lost sight of the man.

  “Damn,” he cursed quietly under his breath.

  “So what’s going on?”

  Michael jumped at the voice, turning to find Kevin Raines, one of Jazz’s clients, standing beside him. Raines’s thinning brown hair fluttered in the breeze off the lake, and his green eyes were narrowed suspiciously. He had an Ace Hardware bag in his hand, stuffed full with a large coil of nylon rope.

  Michael had never been comfortable around Kevin. He’d been eerily happy at his grandmother’s funeral several years ago, and he was aggressively persistent in always asking out Jazz, despite knowing Jazz and Michael were an item.

  Then Michael realized he was staring at Kevin. “Excuse me?”

  “What’s going on?” Kevin asked again, sounding perturbed. “I was supposed to be getting my haircut this morning, but there was a dead body in Jazz’s chair. Now I don’t know when I’m going to get back in.”