by Hank Edwards
Knowing Steve and Ezra would just keep asking, he replied simply, “His name is Jazz, and he does hair for Misty.” He gestured to the van with its gruesome contents. “And with all of this, who knows if it will even happen.”
“You should go anyway,” Steve said as he got behind the wheel.
Michael was pensive as he climbed into the van.
“I agree,” Ezra said.
“You should never let work get in the way of fun, Captain.”
“But is it appropriate for the coroner to go out with someone who may be a potential suspect?” Michael’s stomach ached as his nervousness increased.
“Did the sheriff say Jazz was a suspect?” Ezra wanted to know.
“No, but our body is Jazz’s ex-husband’s new paramour. Anyone who’s watched Murder, She Wrote would know he’d be top of the list.”
Steve grinned and gave him a side-eye. “You might want to update your references a bit, Captain. Maybe Law & Order instead of Murder, She Wrote? And I like to live by the old standard of it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission. Go out with Jazz tonight and have a good time. It will be good for you to talk to someone living.”
Michael sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. “You caught me doing that one time!”
“Exactly. If I caught you doing it once, that means you’ve done it unobserved numerous times.”
Giggles came from the back seat once more.
“I have no idea how to respond to that. Could you just drive, please?” Michael crossed his arms and looked out the side window.
He should be thinking of the victim he’d be spending the afternoon with, but all he could think about was what to wear if he went to the festival with Jazz tonight. What would Jazz be wearing? Probably something fashionable and sexy. None of Michael’s clothes came anywhere close to fashionable. And they sure as hell would never be described as sexy.
Adjusting his glasses, he looked over at Steve, taking in the long-sleeved flannel shirt the man wore over a V-neck white T-shirt and a pair of khaki cargo pants. That was pretty much all Michael had seen Steve wear as he worked behind the scenes around the funeral home, but on occasion Steve helped Michael during funerals, and he always dressed well. Too bad Michael wasn’t as tall and broad as Steve or he might be able to borrow an outfit.
“You staring because you’re mad at me?” Steve asked without taking his gaze off the road.
“What? No!” Michael sighed. “I was thinking about what to wear tonight, if I do decide to go.”
“Well, A, you should definitely go. And B, if you’re looking for cargo pants and flannel, I’m your guy. But I think you might want to stop in at Buster’s Suits & Stuff and take a look around.”
“Buster’s? Does he actually sell fashionable clothes?” Grandpa loved to shop there, but a seersucker suit was not Michael’s idea of stylish.
“He does, if you browse with a discerning eye,” Ezra answered.
“You should have Kitty shop for you,” Steve said. “She dresses nice.”
Michael considered Steve’s suggestion. Kitty’s wardrobe did have a flair that Michael appreciated. And the noir vibe she would bring to a selection might spark some interest from Jazz. And then maybe later Jazz would tear off Michael’s new clothes and pound him into the mattress.
A blush heated his face. He was amazed at how quickly his thoughts turned to sex lately. He was in dire need of some human connection.
Taking Steve’s suggestion about Kitty’s fashion sense, Michael sent her a text: Any chance you could go to Buster’s and buy me a stylish outfit for an important meeting I have tonight? He thought about adding that he’d be busy with Dylan’s autopsy this afternoon but left that detail out.
Kitty didn’t take long to reply. Shopping on company time instead of paperwork and billing? Hell yes I can do that!
Michael smiled at the emojis his boisterous receptionist sent. After he answered a few texts about price range and casual vs. business casual, Michael told her where he kept a spare credit card in his desk.
One less thing to fret over.
Obviously thrilled about a shopping excursion in the middle of the afternoon, Kitty was already gone when Steve pulled the van around to the rear of the funeral home. After he backed up to the receiving area, they all stepped out and pulled on latex gloves before transferring the gurney from the van to the service entrance. Inside, there was a door that led into the parlor, a wide stairwell to the basement, and an elevator large enough to safely and respectfully take the deceased to and from the basement preparation room. Steve used the special key to activate the elevator, and soon they had Dylan Roberts’s remains downstairs, and they wheeled him into the separate area reserved for Michael’s coroner duties. While Michael flipped on all the lights, Steve and Ezra each took an end of the body bag and transferred it to the autopsy table.
The black vinyl gleaming under the surgical lamp shone like the surface of Lake Michigan on a moonless night. As he unzipped the body bag, Michael wondered if Russell Withingham might think that was a good description to include in a book. Then they helped him remove Dylan’s body and position it on the stainless steel surface.
“You need me for anything else in here?” Steve asked as he wheeled the gurney into a corner for cleaning later.
“No, I can manage the rest of this on my own.”
Steve nodded.
“Can I assist?” Ezra asked, brows up and face eager. “I can remove and catalog the clothing and just be available to help.”
Michael thought about it for a moment, then gave Ezra an apologetic smile. “Seeing as this is a police investigation, and you’re a mortician not a forensic pathologist, I’m not sure that it’s wise. We want to keep everything according to procedure. Wouldn’t want to impede the investigation.”
Ezra nodded, and the way he shuffled his feet had Michael imagining him saying “Aww, shucks.”
Steve and Ezra stripped off their gloves, then washed up at the sink. Ezra muttered something about having paperwork to finish and quickly disappeared up the steps. Michael felt bad for disappointing him.
Instead of leaving with Ezra, Steve stood looking down at the body.
“Something else on your mind?” Michael asked.
“Just thinking about why anyone would cut off another person’s hands after he was dead,” Steve said with a slow shake of his head. “I mean, they already killed the guy, so why take that extra step?”
“Maybe to keep us from getting his fingerprints. Though his head was not removed, so we could easily identify his facial features or use dental records. Or it could have been a crime of passion. In one of the Brock Hammer mysteries, Brock’s secretary, Trudy, is murdered and afterwards her eyes are gouged out. Turns out the killer was her sister, who was angry at the victim for looking at and flirting with her husband.”
“Sibling rivalry to the extreme,” Steve said.
Michael nodded. “You could say that. It was interesting, actually, the way the author set it all up. He added the secretary’s conflicts with her sister several books ahead of the one in which she is murdered. He laid the groundwork for the murder years earlier, and right when we as readers were sure we knew how Brock’s life was going, he killed off the person closest to him, and made it appear to be related to Brock’s current case. It changed everything about Brock’s world going forward, and left lasting impressions on all of his readers who had come to love Trudy as much as Brock did himself, if not more. Lots of readers were furious he killed her off. The fan sites were atwitter with outrage.”
“You don’t say.”
“Yes. Withingham even received death threats. Can you imagine?”
“No, I can’t.”
The flat tone of Steve’s voice told Michael he had gushed far too long about The Least Guiltless Party—the eighth book in the Brock Hammer series, and in Michael’s opinion, the best so far. But thinking about the fictional world he loved so much made him realize that Russell Withingham would have to
be considered a suspect in Dylan’s murder. And though he didn’t want to think that way about his favorite author, betrayal and love were powerful motives for murder.
Which meant Jazz would be a suspect as well.
“Anyway.” Michael turned away to wash up. “I should start the autopsy.”
“I’ll leave Kitty a note that you’re down here.” Steve headed up the stairs, leaving Michael all alone with Dylan’s body.
He pulled on two pairs of gloves and prepped the area before turning his attention to Dylan. With a deep breath, Michael put a surgical mask in place and lowered the clear visor to protect his face and eyes.
Before he switched on the microphone to record his observations and findings for Kitty to transcribe later, Michael began to quietly speak.
“So, this is somewhat awkward. It’s not against the rules for me to perform this examination because you and I did not have a personal relationship. But it does present some interesting entanglements. I haven’t performed many postmortem examinations on murder victims. But that shouldn’t make you nervous. I am very thorough and very professional, despite the fact that I seem to have a sudden and indisputable attraction to your boyfriend’s estranged husband.”
Michael held up a gloved hand, palm out. “I know, it sounds very convoluted and completely untoward. But I assure you, I am not only capable, but far enough removed from the situation to be unbiased about any discovery I shall make.” He reached for the microphone but paused to look down at Dylan one more time. “I’m sorry for what you went through, and I promise to help discover who did this to you, no matter the outcome. This will seem like a violation of your physical self, but it is all intended to assist the police.”
He gave a single nod, cleared his throat, then switched on the microphone and began to speak, stating every observation as he circled the table.
Chapter Six
JAZZ LOOKED around the salon. His thoughts were all jumbled together, and he couldn’t seem to follow a single one to a logical conclusion. Damn Russell and his stupid kinky oversexed lifestyle. Now he was dragging Jazz into trouble with the police. Why was he such an asshole?
“Hey, everything okay?”
The soft voice brought him back to the moment, and he found Misty standing before him, the depth of her concern clear in her expression. She wore her usual black yoga pants, disguising them as daywear with a white V-neck, a long colorful bead necklace, and a flowy bronze cardigan. Her goal in life was to wear yoga pants every day and have no one be the wiser.
“There’s been a, um, a….” Jazz clutched the handset of the cordless phone to his chest as he leaned in and lowered his voice. “Murder.”
Misty gasped, and her blue eyes went wide. At the front desk, just over Misty’s shoulder, Jazz saw Lisa Ann lean a little closer, pretending she wasn’t eavesdropping.
Jazz took hold of Misty’s upper arm and directed her back to the tiny, cluttered hole that served as her office. He let her go inside first, then closed the door behind him and pressed his back against it. The feel of the door helped anchor him in the moment, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Who was murdered?” Her gaze locked on Jazz, Misty blew one of her errant red curls, with their current hot pink highlights, out of her face.
“A guy who was involved with my ex.”
Her eyes widened even more. If he told her any other shocking information, they were bound to pop right out of her skull.
“The famous author?” She shook her head and sighed. “Just goes to show you, no matter how rich people get, they can still mess up their lives.”
“Yeah.” Jazz hesitated, then said, “I may need an alibi.”
Misty gave him a long, steady look. “An alibi? For what? Oh.” Her mouth dropped open in an O of surprise. “Oh! Oh my God. You mean they suspect…. But why would you want to kill anyone?”
“I don’t. I didn’t. It’s just…. It’s messy because I kind of, well, confronted Russell yesterday during his book signing.” Jazz made a face and shrugged as he turned the phone over and over in his hands. “And that’s probably going to get back to the sheriff.”
“What did you say?”
“Oh, the usual, you know. You’re a two-timing motherfucker, and you need to quit fucking around with my car payment and give me the money you promised. That kind of thing.”
Misty made a face. “Ew.”
Jazz mimicked her expression. “Yeah. Ew.”
“But Russell wasn’t murdered, right? It was his boyfriend?”
“Right. But I was acting like a goddamn jealous queen full of fury, so it won’t look good.”
“Ew.”
“Exactly.”
“When was he… you know?”
“Murdered?”
“Yeah.” She shivered and twirled a red-and-pink lock of hair around her finger.
“I don’t know. But it had to be last night, because we just saw him at the book signing.”
“Oh, the boyfriend was there?”
“Yep, Dylan was there.”
“Did he see you yelling at Russell?”
“Of course. Everyone did.”
“Ew.”
Jazz sighed. “Big-time ew.”
“So what kind of alibi do you need?” Her expression brightened, and she jumped to her feet. “You were out with us last night! You have an alibi!”
Jazz laughed. He couldn’t help it. Her excitement made him feel a little more hopeful. “I know. I just needed to make sure you were clear about what was going on. We went out for appetizers and drinks at the Roost.”
“Right. And we ran into Kevin Raines, who’s always flirting with you.”
“I should have taken him home, dammit. Then I would have an alibi for the entire night.” Kevin was a decent guy and not bad-looking. He was the director at the Bluffs at Lake View senior complex and flirted pretty openly with Jazz. But Kevin lost his shit and got bitchy with Lisa Ann if Jazz needed to adjust one of his haircut appointments—though typical of all clients, he’d tell Jazz it wasn’t a problem. But shit like that was telling about who a person really was. How would a guy like that act after a casual fling? No, Jazz had learned his lessons about hookups, and while he still had his share, the vibe needed to be right. Misty called it his sixth sense, or premonitions. Jazz just knew fucking Kevin would be a hundred kinds of drama.
Misty’s perfectly arched eyebrows went up, the overhead light glinting on the gold hoop in her brow. “You want to sleep with Kevin?”
Sneering slightly, Jazz shook his head. “Not especially. But if it would’ve given me a rock-solid alibi for the night, then I would have bit the bullet.”
“So to speak.” Misty grinned.
They chuckled together.
“Are you going in to talk to the sheriff?”
Jazz nodded. “I have to. I know I have a few clients this afternoon, but—”
“Don’t say another word.” She lifted a hand to silence him. “We’ll shift the schedule around to cover for you, or Lisa Ann can reschedule them.”
The tight feeling inside Jazz’s chest loosened just a bit, and he smiled. “Thanks, Misty.”
“Oh, honey. Anything for you. You know that.”
Grinning, she took the phone from him and set it on her desk, then pulled him down into a strong hug. When they parted, she searched through the mess on her desktop until she found a pad of paper. “Okay. Let’s make sure we have our stories straight.”
“I don’t want to tell stories. We need to be honest.”
“Oh, of course,” she said, not looking up. “But I need to make sure I get the time right and stuff like that. Now where are my glasses? Dammit.”
Jazz plucked the leopard-print readers off the top of her head and handed them over. “Found them.”
“See? I couldn’t find myself if I didn’t know where to look. Okay, we closed the salon at seven, and spent about forty-five minutes cleaning up and talking. You floofed my hair while Jon
i finished her nails, right?”
“Right.”
Chewing her lower lip and smudging her taupe lipstick, she concentrated on her notepad and scribbled away as she spoke. “Then we left here at seven forty-five and went right to the Roost. We had food and drinks there until you left at, what? Ten-thirty? Eleven?” She scratched her curls, thinking. “When did the band come on?”
Jazz thought about it. “Ten, I think. I left after their first set, and when I got home, the news was already on.”
“Okay. Got it.” She looked at him over the tops of her glasses. “You go on and talk to the sheriff. I’ll let Lisa Ann, Joni, and Taylor know what’s going on.”
“Thanks, Misty. You’re amazing.”
She sighed and drooped to the side of the chair, then pushed her curls out of her face. “I know. It’s so exhausting.”
He laughed and opened the door. Lisa Ann and the other two stylists, Joni and Taylor, immediately scattered away from the door.
“I don’t think you’re going to need to tell them much,” Jazz said.
Misty shook her head. “Those nosy bitches,” she said without any malice. Then she gave Jazz another hug. “Let me know how it goes.”
“I will. And thanks again.”
Jazz gathered his stuff and headed for the door.
“You’re leaving?” Lisa Ann asked from behind the front counter, pretending she hadn’t already heard.
“Gotta go. Misty’s coming up to talk to you.”
And with that, Jazz was out the door. He weaved in and out among the tourists and slow-walking townspeople as he made his way to the sheriff station. The scene he’d caused with Russell played on a loop in his mind, and he cursed himself for letting his emotions get the best of him.
Again.
Fucking Russell and his fucking fucks on the side.
He reached the sheriff’s office and stood on the sidewalk in front for a few moments, staring at the glass doors. It was a one-story redbrick building, with the small fenced-in county jail behind it for minor offenders. Jazz knew the layout because he’d heard some clients at the salon talking about acquaintances spending the night in the drunk tank “at the Hilton.” He guessed that was a play on the sheriff’s first name as well as the hotel chain, but besides that, he didn’t want to find out for himself.
