by Hank Edwards
“Oh, you’re in love.” She smiled in a dreamy way.
He’d yet to say such a thing to Michael, but her observation gave him butterflies. “Well,” he hedged. “That’s why I need to get this monkey off my back, once and for all. I don’t want anything to tarnish what we have.”
“You’ll come have a yoga session with me before you go see Russell, then,” she declared. “It will clear your mind.”
He smiled at her. “You know, that’s not a bad idea.”
“None of my ideas are bad,” she quipped.
Laughing, he said goodbye, feeling more relaxed despite the situations being thrust upon him.
True friends had a way of making everything better.
On the ride back home to get his stuff before he headed to the funeral parlor, Jazz passed an older model beige car with a stained and faded white vinyl roof headed the opposite direction. He caught only a glimpse of the man driving, but saw the passenger clearly. The short, slicked-back hair, the expression that seemed to be permanently set to “scowl.”
Ally Roberts!
The car whizzed past, leaving him with no chance to really ID the driver and with several questions in mind. Jazz considered doing a U-turn and following, but decided against it. Trailing someone wanted for questioning in a murder case two days in a row probably wasn’t the best idea. If he’d minded his own business last night, he wouldn’t be a suspect in Norbert’s murder. Michael might like pretending to be Brock Hammer, but Jazz didn’t feel like being victim number three. He’d leave the tracking down of murder suspects to Musgrave and his band of yahoos.
Besides, trailing a suspect wouldn’t be the same without Michael along for the ride.
Nothing was the same without Michael.
“Shit,” he said aloud to the wind. “Misty’s right. I’m in love with Michael.”
What a lovely and surprising revelation.
Recognizing his new feelings made Jazz want nothing more than to spend the rest of the weekend cuddling and sexing up his mortician, especially now that they’d decided to go condom-free. But Jazz wanted his heart and mind to be as clear and open as possible when he told Michael that he loved him. Misty’s yoga and meditation would help, but Jazz knew he first needed to deal with Russell face-to-face. It wouldn’t be fair to Michael for Jazz to make such an important statement while lingering thoughts of Russell tormented him.
Oh, and it might have to wait until after they were questioned for more murders.
Ugh, fuck my life.
At least he had Michael. Warm, sweet, doting Michael.
That was the one thing he couldn’t allow to get fucked-up.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“IT’S GOT to be the water. That or the subpar detergent that place uses to wash their sheets.”
Parker Trevino stood before Michael’s desk, scratching his chest through the lightweight cotton of his scrubs. Hives stood out in angry red patches along his bare arms, brighter and more prolific than they had been this morning when he’d been at the salon. He hissed as he scratched them, but Michael couldn’t tell if it was pain or pleasure. Perhaps an equal measure of both.
“The water?” Michael said and tried to focus on the invoices Kitty had asked—more like demanded—him to review before Monday. With Ezra and Steve by his side, he’d spent the rest of Saturday getting everything ready for the two visitations scheduled the next day. Grandpa had dropped by too, under the guise of a friendly visit, but Michael knew he’d been checking up on their “guest.” Now Trevino’s kvetching was distracting Michael from completing his last task for the day.
“It’s got to be something around here,” Trevino snapped. Even covered with hives and in distress, an air of superiority rolled off him in waves. “Right here on the lake, all manner of toxins could get blown over you from Indiana and Illinois. And who knows what you Lacetownies add to your water.”
Michael folded his hands atop the pile of invoices, barely able to suppress a sigh. His expression must have perfectly reflected his frustration, because Trevino took a step back and his eyes widened slightly, even as he continued to scratch his arms.
“There are no airborne toxins blowing in from the lake, and there is nothing different about our water. I highly doubt the Inn on Windswept Point uses, as you put it, a subpar detergent. Perhaps you’re experiencing a very strong seasonal allergy reaction, or your body is responding to an insect bite. Now, I’m sorry that you’re suffering, but Willet Pharmacy is a few blocks away. Perhaps it would be in your best interest to pay them a visit.”
“Well,” Trevino said with a sniff and half turned away from Michael’s glare. “I have finished the autopsy on Norbert Farthington. I need to update the reports for the sheriff, but I suppose that can wait for a bit. Where is this pharmacy?”
Michael searched through the stacks of invoices for his pen. He really would like to become completely digital, but as most of his customers weren’t computer savvy, he still had to use paper and snail mail. When he located the pen, he wrote out a few quick directions on a Post-it Note. He held the note out to Trevino, who took it with a single nod of thanks before turning to leave the office.
“How was Norbert’s…?” Michael couldn’t seem to bring himself to say autopsy after Norbert’s name—the man had been so jaded, snide, and sharp-tongued, it was still a shock to think of him as deceased. “What are your findings?”
“I’m certain whoever murdered the initial victim, also murdered Mr. Farthington. As I told the sheriff, we have one killer and two victims.”
Michael resisted the urge to say “duh” like Jazz would have, and instead questioned, “Did you discover anything of import after the second autopsy?”
Trevino lifted his nose and looked down at Michael. “As a matter of fact, yes, there was something.” He scratched his upper arms. “Very interesting.”
“And that would be?”
Trevino stuck his thumbs in his front pockets as if he needed to keep himself from scratching his hives, and rocked back up on his heels, reminding Michael of Musgrave. “I don’t think it’s wise that I inform you. You are a person of interest. After all, one victim was found at your place of employment and the other at your lover’s place of employment.”
Michael picked up on the subtle twist of lips as Trevino used the word lover.
“If the sheriff thought we had something to do with it, he would’ve arrested us. So either tell me what you found that was so very interesting or stop gloating and go take care of your hives.”
Trevino blustered. “I’m not gloating.” He resumed scratching. “I’m trying to abide by the law.”
“And victim rights laws state that I have a right to know what happened,” Michael said just as firmly.
Trevino scoffed a little bit, and Michael swore he heard a giggle on the other side of Kitty’s door.
Trevino missed it, though, and he took a hefty breath through his bulbous nose and relented. “Fine. Both victims’ cause of death was strangulation. They were strangled with a fine ligature, which left a residue on their skin and inside the wounds. I’ve sent a sample to my lab for analysis. What’s interesting, however, is that both victims’ fingernails were cleaned. By bleach. Which indicates premeditation and perhaps a penchant for doing this sort of crime before.”
Michael wouldn’t pretend the bleach detail didn’t disturb him.
Perhaps Jazz’s theory about Russell hiring a hitman wasn’t far from the mark?
“That is interesting. Anything else?” Michael said with a less confrontational tone.
“While Bill Denton’s wound was deeper and cleaner, Norbert Farthington’s lacerations were far more irregular, indicating a terrible struggle. Thankfully, fibers were discovered in those lacerations so I sent them off to my lab as well.”
Michael didn’t mention he preferred to send his evidence to U of M, but mostly that was because Trevino had a better lab than his own, and he didn’t like the man’s gloating. But now was not the time for
such pettiness. Not when they had murders to solve.
“Anything else of import?” Michael asked.
“No, it seems rather cut-and-dried. They were probably strangled by the same person with a similar weapon, then staged. I can’t wrap my head around why or who would do this. But you two seem to have been targeted.”
The glimpse of humanity in Trevino’s expression softened Michael’s ire. “Yes, well, unfortunately this isn’t the first time we’ve been through such a thing here in Lacetown.”
Trevino furrowed his brows. “Maybe your town should be a little more selective of what kind of riffraff they bring into it with these obscure festivals. Seems to bring out the freaks.”
And the Musgrave vibe returned.
“Perhaps I should mention that to the mayor the next time I speak to her,” Michael said.
All business once more, Trevino nodded. “Both vics are cooling downstairs. I don’t know what their funeral arrangements are, but I suppose that’s the next step. As for me”—he scratched even more vigorously at his blotchy skin—“I’m going to visit this pharmacy, then return to my room at the inn to take a nice hot bath with an oatmeal soak and have a big glass of vodka on the rocks. I’ll be back tomorrow to finalize all the paperwork for the sheriff. I’ll avail myself of the arrangement room for my work.”
Though disliking how he stated rather than asked, Michael tamped the irritation down. “Of course you may.” He stood and approached Trevino, but didn’t offer his hand in deference to the hives. “Thank you for taking care of this in the interest of transparency.”
“Of course. I hope the good sheriff can find out who is tormenting you and your lover.” There was that twisting of his lip again. “It does seem rather deliberate, don’t you think?”
Michael’s stomach knotted, and he agreed with a curt nod. “It does.”
“I should be going.” He scratched his arm again.
“I hope the pharmacist can give you something to help.”
Before Trevino could reply, someone called from outside his office.
“Michael? You here?”
Michael’s heart thumped and a smile blossomed at the sound of Jazz’s voice. Trevino narrowed his eyes and idly scratched at the red spots on his arm. Michael headed to his door and opened it. “In here.”
Jazz stepped into view in the hallway outside of Michael’s office, and his smile at the sight of Michael lit up the room. His gaze shifted to take in Trevino, and the smile dimmed a bit.
“Oh, sorry,” Jazz said. “I didn’t realize you were busy.” He held up a small carrying case. “I’m here to work on Ruthie and Grace, if that’s okay.”
“Yes, that’s fine,” Michael said and smiled. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too,” Jazz replied, then nodded at Trevino. “Mr. Trevino.”
“Michael’s friend,” Trevino said, rather rudely, considering he knew damn well who Jazz was.
“Oh, I thought we’d been introduced.” Jazz stepped into the office and extended his hand. “I’m Jazz Dilworth.”
Trevino dropped his hand to his side. “Sorry, I shouldn’t shake your hand.”
“Oh?” Jazz looked at Michael. “Sorry. I didn’t know….”
“Parker is having an allergic reaction to something,” Michael said. “He’s not sure what it is. I’ve suggested he visit Willet’s, and he was just about to leave.”
“What a shame,” Jazz said, his tone making it perfectly clear he didn’t feel that way at all. He set his case on Michael’s desk and crossed his arms.
“I’ll leave you both to your work,” Trevino said, his emphasis on work providing quotes around it without the need for finger movements.
Trevino brushed past Jazz and disappeared down the hall.
“He’s about as fun as an outbreak of the plague,” Jazz observed. “Maybe those hives are his personality pushing through to the surface?”
Michael laughed and stepped closer to give him a long, deep kiss.
After they parted, Jazz preened a bit, running a hand down Michael’s chest. “Aren’t you proud of how I didn’t call you sweetie in front of that ass Trevino?”
Michael smiled and resisted the very strong urge to kiss him again. “I am very proud. And grateful.” He pulled Jazz into another hug and whispered, “I’ve missed you.”
“Me too,” Jazz whispered back. “But it’s only been a few hours.”
“Feels like an eternity.”
Jazz sighed sadly. “It does.”
“How are you?” Michael asked, taking hold of Jazz’s hands. “Are you doing okay?”
“I’m all right. I spent the afternoon at Misty’s, helping her prepare for the cookout tomorrow. The Bible-thumpers were there.”
“Eww.”
“Yeah, they’re a barrel full of monkeys. Although, our fiddle-playing Oslo did ping my gaydar.”
“Oh?”
“He asked about my eyeliner and complimented my hair. Nothing overt, but pinged nonetheless.”
“I hope he isn’t gay. Can you imagine being in the closet and living in a house with that stepfather of his?” Musgrave wasn’t reacting well to Rae’s coming out, but he was a damn sight better than Michael imagined Dorothy’s husband would be.
Jazz smiled up at him and squeezed their clasped hands. “And that’s why I adore you. I see the situation and make jokes, yet you’re worried about the poor kid. Anywho, Misty and I—well, mostly me—got all the food ready for her party while the relatives frowned, and glowered, and gave me the stink eye. I’m gonna go over there first thing in the morning and help her clean up her yard. She’s pretty rattled still.”
“Naturally.” Michael wanted to ask Jazz if he was rattled as well, but he knew that he was, just as he knew Jazz would tell him eventually.
Or at least he hoped Jazz would open up.
Jazz released his hands and picked up his case. “I should go get my girls fixed up. They ready for me?”
“Ezra and I have finished. Both of them are waiting downstairs for your magic touch.”
Jazz placed a warm palm against the side of Michael’s face. “You look tired, sweetie. Like you could use a bit of my magic touch yourself.”
Michael pressed his head against Jazz’s palm and smiled. “Always.”
Jazz gave him a sweet kiss that was over much too quickly. “I’ll leave you to your work. I see those stacks of invoices on your desk, and I do not want to be on the receiving end of another feisty rant from the Itty Bitty Kitty Committee again.”
“She’s threatened me a few times so far this weekend,” Michael said. “But I’m done for the day.”
“Headed home, then?”
“I need to feed Mr. Pickles. It’s his dinner time. But Kitty will still be here while you work. I’ll be back to lock up.”
“Okay, good to know you haven’t abandoned me with all those dead bodies downstairs.”
His stomach dropped. “Oh, no, I should stay, I—”
Jazz shook his head, chuckling. “I was teasing you, sweetie. I’m fine. Now go feed Prince Pickles. You know His Highness doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Jazz gave him another quick kiss. “When I’m finished, I’ll come over to the house.”
His brows rose. “I thought you wanted to be on your own this evening,” he said, trying not to sound nervous or too hopeful. Jazz had made him promise not to overthink their relationship. They were in a good place, and they didn’t need to spend every waking moment together.
Even if Michael wanted to.
“Changed my mind.” Jazz shrugged, smiling impishly. “Besides, we have Jane the Virgin episodes to catch up on.”
“Ahh, an evening of normalcy amidst all the chaos,” he said, not allowing his excitement to show but unable to stop his smile. Jazz might be stressed but he still wants to spend time with me. “Sounds lovely.”
“I’ll text you when I’m done.”
He stood in the hall and watched Jazz walk away, dropping his gaze to the lovely swell of
his beloved’s ass. The invoices needed to be finished, he knew that, but both display rooms were already set up, flowers arranged. Kitty would pick up the refreshments on her way in tomorrow morning, and Michael and Ezra could finish folding the programs then. It was a lot of work, but they were well prepared.
Once Jazz disappeared into the hallway that led to the utility stairs to the preparation room downstairs, Michael glanced at his watch. It was indeed time to take Mr. Pickles home for the night so he could eat. He could use something himself, and his stomach growled as he realized he hadn’t eaten anything in… who knew how many hours. And maybe he’d bring something back for Jazz.
Michael found the cat curled up on an armchair in the Serenity Room, lying on what looked like a cardigan sweater. He lifted Mr. Pickles, who mewed quietly in protest, and held him in one arm as he picked up the cardigan. Maybe it was Ezra’s? It certainly wasn’t something Steve or Kitty would wear. Michael would hang it on one of the hooks by the back entrance on his way out.
Carrying Mr. Pickles, Michael checked each room and turned off the lights behind him. He knocked on Kitty’s door, then poked his head in. “You’re still planning on being here until six thirty?”
“Yes, just finalizing everything for tomorrow and Monday,” she replied, not glancing up from her computer as her long nails clacked away on the keys. “Enid’s Floral is bringing another delivery after they close at six.”
“Okay, I’m taking Mr. Pickles home. Jazz is downstairs.”
“Yeah, I heard him come in. I’ll go down and say hello in a bit.”
“I’ll be back to lock up shortly.”
“No need. We’ll be fine. I’ll lock everything up.”
“What would I do without you?”
This time she looked up, giving Michael a smirk. “You’d be hopelessly lost under a pile of invoices that you finished for me, right?”
“They’ll be finished, I swear.”
She harrumphed, and then her pretty face softened. “You doing all right? I mean, these two murders seem to be connected to you and Jazz. Any thoughts as to why?”