by Hank Edwards
Michael gave him a squeeze, and Jazz turned his head to smile at him.
“Wanna go back to the party or go home to see Mr. Pickles?” Jazz asked.
“Home,” Michael said. “It’s been a long day.”
“That it has.”
After Michael sent a quick “sorry” text to Misty, Jazz took side streets to Michael’s house, avoiding Main Street where the festival crowd gathered. He pulled up Michael’s driveway and cut the engine.
Michael led the way to the back patio. He paused and looked over at the empty funeral home parking lot, glowing under the lights.
“Come on, sweetie,” Jazz said with a nudge. “I’m sure your crew has everything ready for tomorrow. Look, Mr. Pickles is pawing at the door he’s so happy to see you.”
Michael nodded and unlocked the sliding door. Mr. Pickles meowed as he wound between their legs. Jazz used the half-bath in the hallway, smiling as he listened to Michael’s quiet conversation with his meowing cat as Mr. Pickles waited for food. When he returned to the kitchen, Mr. Pickles was happily eating and Michael yawned as he opened a bottle of wine.
“Can you stay the night?” Michael asked through another yawn.
Jazz smiled. “I’d like that.”
He accepted the glass of wine Michael offered and followed him into the living room. They sat close together on the sofa and gently clinked glasses.
“Joe’s a suspicious sort, isn’t he?” Jazz said.
“Yes, and he’s been seen at both crime scenes.” Michael yawned again. “First, in the group of gawkers, so that could mean nothing, but he did seem very interested. And he was at the salon yesterday, and he followed two of the deputies into the coffee shop and seemed to be eavesdropping on their conversation.”
“And you know that because you followed these same deputies and listened to their conversation as well?” Jazz smirked.
Michael gave him a narrow-eyed glare. “I was getting you a coffee.”
“Just teasing you, sweetie.” Jazz yawned and patted Michael’s thigh. “I’ve had enough playing Hardy Boys for one day. How about we see if there’s a fun rom-com on one of the movie channels or something?”
“That sounds good. Anything but a mystery.”
Jazz found the remote for the new fifty-three inch flat-screen Michael had purchased for his living room, bringing his household TV count up to a more suitable American standard of two. He clicked around the channels and finally settled on Pretty in Pink. By the time he looked over to say something witty about Jon Cryer as Duckie, Michael had fallen asleep sitting up.
“My sweet mortician,” Jazz said quietly. “What a pair we are, falling asleep in front of the TV, two nights in a row.” He assessed the glasses of wine on the coffee table, then dumped Michael’s into his own glass. “Shame for it to go to waste.”
He got up to fetch a light throw and covered Michael, then removed Michael’s glasses and placed them on the coffee table before sitting on the couch beside him. Checking the time on his phone, he was surprised to find it was past ten. Where had the day, and the weekend, gone?
Wine finished and movie almost over, Jazz started to doze himself. Turning off the TV, he yawned and reached over to pull some of the throw he’d spread on Michael onto himself.
Mr. Pickles jumped up onto the couch and kneaded the throw numerous times before he curled into the space between them. As Mr. Pickles purred, Jazz gazed lovingly at Michael and then drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MICHAEL WOKE with a start, his neck kinking. “Ow!”
Disoriented, he squinted in the sunlight beaming through the living room window. Why am I…?
He smiled as he remembered falling asleep on the couch with Jazz.
“Jazz?” he called out and sat up. “Jazz?”
His blurry vision spied a folded note tented on the coffee table. He slid on his glasses and read it.
Sweetie,
Left early and didn’t want to wake you since you have such a busy day ahead of you. I fed Mr. Fluffy Butt and made you breakfast. Just need to microwave it. Here’s a key to my place. Entry code is 1776 because my landlord is a patriot. Off to yoga with Misty. Will text you when I hit the road.
—Jazz
The abundant Xs and Os and hearts filling in the rest of the empty space on the note made Michael feel fluttery inside. But the key?
Anticipatory domesticity at its finest.
But rather than anticipating domestic bliss, Michael was living it.
Rolling the key between his fingers, Michael read the note one more time. He smiled and traced one of the hearts Jazz had drawn. Even with everything going on, Jazz was thoughtful and worried about Michael’s needs.
I love him so much.
A hardcover book sat on his coffee table, a history of the Lacetown Light. He reverently placed the note inside the book for safekeeping. Rubbing his hands along his thighs, he looked around the room, noting the clock on the wall said six thirty.
Just how early did Jazz wake? Had he not slept well again? Little wonder with all they’d been through and the day he had ahead of him. Michael wouldn’t interrupt his yoga session, but he wanted to leave Jazz a text so his lover knew he was in Michael’s thoughts.
Unfortunately he found his cell phone in the kitchen, dead. He quickly connected it to the charger and set it on the counter. He slid Jazz’s apartment key onto his ring, unable to stop smiling.
Mr. Pickles didn’t hound him for food, but padded behind as Michael ascended the stairs to take a shower. Once he’d dressed, he headed to the kitchen to see what his lover had left him for breakfast.
My lover. Never thought I’d get to call someone that.
Jazz had left him cheesy scrambled eggs, which tasted so much better than whenever Michael attempted them. What was Jazz’s secret?
“That he’s perfect,” he told his cat with a smile. “I love him, ya know?”
Mr. Pickles watched Michael fork in another mouthful, swishing his tail. Michael couldn’t stop smiling.
When Michael left the house, Mr. Pickles meowed his displeasure at being left behind, but it would be too busy to take him along. Michael locked the back door, then crossed the yard and parking lot to unlock the parlor, the first to arrive, per usual. After he flicked the lights on, he plugged his phone into a charger in his office. It had enough battery power now he was able to send Jazz a text.
Thank you for breakfast & taking care of Mr. P. If you need me, just call. You can do this.
He added a few hearts, then frowned at his sent message.
“You can do this?” he questioned aloud. “Sounds like a damn tennis shoe ad, not something you tell your boyfriend headed to face his imprisoned husband. Idiot.”
“Michael?” Kitty’s voice rang out. He hadn’t heard her come in. “Anyone in there with you?”
Mildly embarrassed having been caught talking to himself—again—he cleared his throat. “No, I’m back here in my office.”
He set the phone down, then left the room.
They had a very busy day ahead of them.
MRS. ROSENSTADT’S interment happened first thing that morning at 8:00 a.m. in the plot beside her late husband at Shady Willows Cemetery, on the eastern edge of Harbor County. Out of respect for his clients and their families, Michael left his phone to charge in his office as he and Steve took Mrs. Rosenstadt to her final resting place in a hearse rented from a Cadillac dealership in Grand Rapids. Musgrave had promised his own hearse would be returned as soon as possible.
After the Rosenstadt family finished at the cemetery, and Michael left her in good hands with the staff at Shady Willows, they returned to the parlor to find that, under Kitty’s watchful eye, she and Ezra had the parlor cleaned and completely set up for the two funeral services later that afternoon, the first at one, the other at five. There was a quiet lull in activity just before noon when Michael finally had a moment to slip into his office and see if Jazz had messaged him back.
&n
bsp; Closing the office door behind him, he saw the blinking message light on his phone. He hastily swiped open the screen, his heart sinking to his feet when he saw that he had seven missed calls from Jazz not an hour ago.
Seven!
And all of them two minutes apart or less.
He checked his voicemail, but found no new messages.
Michael glanced at the clock. It took a couple of hours to get to the prison in the middle of the state, which meant Jazz must have called from the prison prior to going inside. What happened? Had he been refused? Was it worse than they suspected? Or was Jazz nervous and needing reassurance?
And Michael hadn’t been there for him when he needed him.
Hands shaking and gut twisting with helpless worry, Michael checked his texts.
There was one from earlier, letting Michael know he was on the road. And then the final message from Jazz: Headed inside now
Michael couldn’t infer his mood from those simple words, and he stewed with worry.
I never should’ve allowed Jazz to go alone!
Though Jazz had maintained this was how it needed to be, and he was a grown man, capable of making his own decisions, maybe Michael should have insisted he go with him.
And what if he had?
His insistence most likely would have driven a wedge between them. He never wanted to force himself into a situation where he wasn’t wanted.
But why hadn’t Jazz wanted him by his side?
Michael still hadn’t wrapped his head around that one. He’d wanted to respect Jazz’s wishes, but now Jazz was dealing with this all alone. And stressing out, if seven calls were any indicator.
He called Jazz, but as he suspected, it went straight to voicemail.
“Dammit.”
He thought about what to text, and wrote: Call me the instant you are finished. I’ll have my phone on me at all times. Sorry I missed your calls. I love you.
He quickly deleted that last part.
There was a knock on his door as he hit Send.
Michael set his phone to vibrate and slid it into his back pocket. “Come in,” he called.
Ezra stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
“Yes?” Michael asked, his mind still on Jazz.
“The Blankenship family has arrived. They’re in the Serenity Room.”
“Yes, thank you.” Michael sank onto the edge of his desk, his mind too scattered to think of work at the moment.
“I have the coffee made and seeing as many of the guests will attend both services, would you like….” Ezra hesitated, the halt of his chatter startling Michael out of some sort of worry-filled trance.
Michael looked up at his apprentice, waiting for him to finish asking whatever he had intended. “Yes?”
Ezra furrowed his brow. “Sir? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, yes,” he lied. “Just woolgathering.”
He took a step closer. “Are you sure? You seem upset. Does it have to do with Jazz?”
Michael let out a snort of surprise at his apprentice’s astute observation. “As a matter of fact, yes, it does.”
My poor Jazz, at a prison facing his would-be murderer alone. I should have insisted—
A gentle hand touched Michael’s arm and he gazed up at Ezra’s eyes shining with sympathy behind his glasses. “I thought I hadn’t seen his car or scooter next door this morning. You must have spent the night apart. I had no idea.”
Michael closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to focus on work and process what Ezra had said. But all his thoughts were halfway across the state, along with his heart. And there was nothing he could do to stop the swell of worry washing over him.
He felt utterly useless!
“Michael?”
The soft whisper drew Michael’s eyes open again, and he looked at Ezra.
Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and Michael realized that Ezra was now touching his shoulder. As if in a dream, he saw Ezra’s other hand lift to touch his cheek, his fingertips cool. Michael flinched and stared. Not taking his gaze away, Ezra pulled on Michael’s neck ever so slightly.
Their lips came together in a kiss.
A heartbeat later reality slammed into Michael.
“No!” He shoved Ezra away and leaped to his feet. Panic flooded his brain. It felt as if a long, cold blade had been pushed into his chest and pulled down to a low point in his belly, leaving a thin line of emptiness behind.
Ezra looked as if Michael had struck him. “I thought….”
“No! No, I didn’t want that! Why did you do that?”
Without another word, Ezra bolted from Michael’s office, leaving the door wide open.
“Ezra, wait,” Michael called after him but the man had already disappeared. Then he heard Ezra’s voice, louder and more pleasant than usual as he said something to Ruth Blankenship’s family.
With a groan, Michael buried his face in both hands. What the hell just happened? Ezra had kissed him! Why?
“Oh my God,” Michael moaned.
What would Jazz think?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“FUCK,” JAZZ cursed and hung up his phone when he spied the Channel Three news van ahead of him as he waited to go through the prison’s gate. He’d called Michael several times, but he hadn’t picked up. He knew Michael had a crazy busy day ahead of him, but he sure could benefit from hearing his boyfriend’s voice.
And now reporters were here? It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?
If they were here for Russell, then surely they would recognize Jazz.
Double fuck.
After a surprisingly refreshing hour of yoga with Misty, Jazz had been brimming with confidence. She’d been right, and having his chakras aligned—whatever the fuck that meant—and moving his body through poses and breathing had really centered his thoughts.
Things had felt really good with Michael too.
Jazz had been worrying about the honeymoon phase fading with Michael, but last night was the first night they had ever spent together when they didn’t have sex or get each other off. In his past relationships, that usually meant an end to the honeymoon and the beginning of the end. Even Russell—with his unquenchable libido that rivaled the biggest nymphomaniacs in the history of the universe—had withdrawn slowly but surely, and Jazz had felt the warnings, though he chose to ignore them. But last night had gone a long way toward disproving the past.
With Michael, it was totally different.
Sleeping beside him, with Mr. Pickles curled up between them, had been sheer bliss.
Like happiness, warmth, and home all mingled up with sunshine and snow on Christmas.
And it felt far more intimate and significant than all the nights spent in the throes of hot, sweaty sex with anyone else.
Something had changed in their relationship, but for the better, pulling them even closer and making them that much stronger.
Now, all those happy feelings were dampened, replaced by the gnawing apprehension eating him up inside as he stared at the prison.
Behind those walls was Russell. The man Jazz had married, thought he would spend forever with. The man who callously cheated on him and effortlessly planned to kill him. The man Jazz was pretty much convinced had pulled murderous strings from behind bars to fuck with Jazz’s new life.
Well, Jazz would get Russell to confess, because if it’s one thing he excelled at, it was talking to people. And Jazz knew just what kind of traps to lay for Russell to get him to spill his guts.
“What a fucked-up life you got, Dilworth,” Jazz muttered.
He thought about texting Michael that he’d arrived, but changed his mind and decided to try calling again. He desperately needed to hear Michael’s voice.
His hands were shaking as he touched Michael’s name on the screen and the call connected. It rang three times, and then his stomach leaped when he heard: “You have reached Michael Fleishman of Fleishman Funeral Home in Lacetown, Michigan. If you require funeral arran
gements for a loved one, or wish to—”
Jazz sighed and hung up before the message had finished.
The news van in front of him moved into the lot and Jazz was next at the guard station. “Name and purpose?” the guard said in a bored voice. Although his muscles, scowl, and side-arm didn’t speak to lethargy.
“Jasper Dilworth, here to visit Russell Withingham. I called ahead. I should be on the list,” he said, noting with a bemused sniff that it sounded like he was arriving at some snobby high-society party Russell had planned.
“Photo ID,” the guard said after he checked something on a computer.
Jazz handed over his license and waited, tapping his fingers on his steering wheel and looking in the lot to see where the news van parked.
“Are those reporters here for Russell Withingham too?”
The guard handed Jazz his ID back, a parking permit, and visitor’s pass. “Not for me to say.”
Of course.
After he received directions of where to park and what door to enter, Jazz found himself one lane over from the news van. Just my damn luck. What were the chances of this prison holding two notorious murderers? Zero to none, most likely.
He called Michael once more before he got out of the car.
Again, straight to voicemail.
Why did Jazz have to date a man with a job?
Ugh!
This time he listened to Michael’s boring outgoing message in its entirety, feeling a little calmer by the soothing tone of his voice. But he didn’t leave a message.
What would he say, anyway? He knew Michael was worried, which is why Jazz did the chickenshit move of not waking him up that morning and leaving a note instead. Hopefully a key to his loft would calm any panicked thoughts Michael might be having when he saw Jazz had already left, reassure his lover that Jazz was committed to Michael, to them. Jazz had told himself it was kinder that way, but in truth, he hadn’t wanted to see Michael worry, not when he had such a hectic day ahead of him.
Now or never, Jazz thought. You can’t move on with Michael if you don’t do this. And you can’t prove your theory of Russell’s role in these murders either if you hide in your car.