by Hank Edwards
Grinning wide, Jazz walked up to Michael. He almost stumbled back when Jazz gave him a firm hug. Jazz’s lips tickled Michael’s neck and earlobe when he whispered, “I was worried you wouldn’t come.”
Michael had barely returned the hug before Jazz stepped back. Discombobulated, both by what Jazz said and the way those lips made his belly simmer with sudden desire, Michael managed a “Wh-what? Why would you think that?”
Jazz shifted from foot to foot, Sperry flip-flops showing off well-pedicured, suckable toes. “Well, I’ve kinda brought a lot of bad energy into your life. Thought last night would be the nail in the proverbial coffin.”
“Bad energy?”
“Yeah, first with me yelling at Russell, then Dylan being dead. That guy who shot at us was probably after the heroin—”
His back stiffened sharply. “How do you know about the heroin?”
Jazz threw out his hands, face earnest. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I swear!”
The hostess and two old overly tanned beachcombers waiting for a table looked over.
Michael touched Jazz on the arm. “Shhh,” he admonished.
Nodding, Jazz pursed his lips, which Michael never got to kiss last night.
“Now, please. Explain yourself.” Michael knew he sounded like a scolding father, but all his instincts went on alert.
Could Jazz be involved? Did he know more than he was telling Michael? Had Musgrave been correct? Was Jazz using Michael to get information?
Good Lord, am I on a date with a murderer?
Jazz took a chest-expanding breath. “I wasn’t listening in, but Kitty told me to wait in the display room. I was petting Mr. Pickles, and I heard your voice coming down the hallway. I was going to call out a hello, but then I heard the sheriff, and he doesn’t like me much, so I hesitated, not wanting to interrupt. Then I heard the sheriff say ‘Who in their right mind shoves rubbers full of heroin up their poop chute.’ I figured you guys were talking about Dylan’s autopsy. Before I could say anything, you saw me. Plus I saw Dylan’s name on the evidence box the sheriff had. It was all so quick. I didn’t mean to hear or see anything.”
Michael said nothing, and Jazz waited, looking so distressed that Michael believed him. And when he analyzed his own memory of the evening’s events, Jazz’s story aligned. Nodding once, Michael said, “Okay, I can see how that happened. But the sheriff doesn’t want that information public. Have you told anyone?”
“No, after I left you I went straight home and worried all night and this morning that you would no-show me. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.”
The dejected expression Jazz wore made Michael long to embrace him. Instead he offered, “I thought you would cancel with me too.”
Perfectly arched brows shot up. “Why would I do that?”
Michael didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t plant the seed of his fears into Jazz’s mind—namely, that Jazz was totally out of Michael’s league. “Similar reasons to you, I suppose,” he finally said.
“Oh.” Jazz hooked his thumbs in the pockets of those snug jeans.
Michael cleared his throat. “Well, um? Shall we get a table?”
That fetching grin full of straight white teeth and plush lips returned. “Yes, we shall. After you.”
Head down to hide his nervous teenage-boy grin, Michael led the way to the hostess stand. He glanced at her name tag. “Adison, can we get a table for two, on the patio? Perhaps with a view of the water?”
She smiled. “I think we can manage that for our favorite customer’s grandson.” She scooped up two lunch menus and said, “This way.”
Pleasantly surprised by the special treatment, Michael had to wonder if this was what Jazz experienced last night with all the freebies from his clients.
“Favorite customer’s grandson?” Jazz said, weaving between tables of dining patrons as they followed Adison outside.
Michael glanced over his shoulder at Jazz. “My grandfather, Joel Fleishman, is a beloved member of Lacetown. I became the county coroner when he retired, but he’s never really retired from Lacetown politics and society. Quite the charmer, making friends everywhere he goes. Especially with the pretty or richest widows.”
Not like Michael, who sometimes imagined his limited social skills—those which hadn’t been mastered to deal with the bereaved—rivaled the skills of a wet mop.
“I think I’ve met him,” Jazz said with a laugh. “But I didn’t put the connection together. The old ladies in the salon are always talking about him.”
No one puts the connection together because Grandpa is gregarious and fun and I’m not.
Of course he didn’t say that, because Jazz would figure that out soon enough. But hopefully the ease they’d shared last night would carry over to this date, and Jazz would be willing to give Michael a chance.
Hopefully.
Adison seated them at a high-top table in the corner with a gorgeous view of Hardscrabble Beach and the conveniently located Christy’s Marina, where Joe’s got their fresh seafood. While Adison prattled about the day’s specials—strawberry margaritas, lake trout tacos, and a yellow perch sandwich with hush puppies—Michael’s gaze immediately went to the yellow police tape still circling the area where poor Dylan had washed ashore.
“Strawberry margaritas sound good,” Jazz said happily. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”
Michael flinched, and turned back to his date.
Jazz furrowed his brow, glanced at the crime scene, then offered Adison a smile. “We’ll both have the strawberry margarita special, thanks.”
“Salt or sugar on the rim?” she asked.
“Sugar,” Jazz said at the same time Michael said, “Salt.”
After Adison left, Jazz set his menu on the table, regarding Michael seriously. “Maybe we should’ve chosen a different restaurant.”
Michael let out a deliberate sigh through his nose, not wanting the criminal aspects of the weekend to ruin the date. “No, this is the most romantic restaurant in Lacetown. Perfect for a second date.”
The tension in Jazz’s expression softened. “I like the sound of that. Second date.”
“I like the sound of a third,” Michael said, determined to make this date as good as the last one. Well, as good as a date could be when the door-stoop kiss was interrupted by attempted burglary and gunfire.
“Well, the jury is still deliberating on that one.” Jazz stole his line with a wink.
Michael chuckled, enjoying their easy banter. Would they be this easy in bed?
God, I hope to find out!
“Then I had best prepare my opening statements,” Michael said. The sun shone brightly enough that Michael was glad for his transition lenses when Jazz slipped on a sexy pair of shades.
Though Jazz could make a potato sack sexy.
“Truth or dare?” Jazz asked.
“Hmmm,” Michael mused, savoring the warm sunshine on his face and the cool breeze off the lake. Gulls cawed in the blue sky above, a string of fishing wire and lights crisscrossing above the open-air portion of the patio to keep the persistent fowl from stealing food or harassing diners. “I have a feeling either truth or dare will get me into trouble with you, Jazz Dilworth.”
Jazz feigned offense. “Trouble? Me?”
Michael chuckled, already enjoying himself. He’d been so nervous Jazz would cancel, he could hardly believe Jazz had worried over the same scenario but in reverse. Michael’s light khaki trousers and simple green polo shirt contrasted with Jazz’s casual but so very chic flip-flops, jeans, and T-shirt, but perhaps they were more alike than outward appearance painted.
The margaritas arrived, and after some deliberation, they both decided on the trout tacos and an order of the tableside guacamole. Their waitress, Jenna, repeated their orders, made sure the drinks were to their satisfaction, then left.
“I had a nice time last night.” Elbows on the table, Jazz laced his fingers below his chin. Then his smile faltered. “Well, except for… you k
now. Gosh, I’m sorry I brought it up again.”
Michael took a sip of his margarita, then set it down. “Truth?”
“Sure.”
“Maybe we should talk about it? I mean, we didn’t exactly have a chance to compare notes.”
“I know you had to work on the case, and frankly, Musgrave just wanted to intimidate me. I wish I could’ve stayed,” Jazz insisted.
Michael smiled, pleased at the latter. “I wish you could’ve stayed too, but no matter. And there’s no sense ignoring the elephant in the room now.” He gestured to where the police tape fluttered in the Lake Michigan wind.
“Okay, what part of all this crazy shit do you wanna talk about?”
In between obsessing over his second date with Jazz and how his cock had inappropriately hardened against Jazz when they were lying in the mulch, Michael had stewed over the outrageous events of the previous day, embarrassingly asking himself more than once: How would Brock Hammer handle this?
Just like the small town in Death at the Dance Hall, Lacetown was a peaceful town with next to no crime. Michael only locked his door because of his habit of locking the funeral parlor, but he rarely set the alarm. That would change after last night.
The case had come too close to home, and now he wanted to solve this crime personally. After this gruesome, drug-related death, Michael was bitten by the curiosity cat.
Despite the adage’s warning, Michael said, “I agree with your earlier statement. That the attempted break-in at my funeral parlor was more than likely connected to the drugs. Thankfully none of the evidence was compromised, and Tanner and I verified that the burglar didn’t take anything. There were a few clear prints on the door, but most likely they belong to me and the staff. But it is clear to me that if I want to uncover who my burglar and subsequent cat tormenter is, first the murderer must be revealed.”
“I thought Mr. Pickles was okay.” Jazz sounded truly distraught.
His concern warmed Michael’s heart. He reached across the table and gently patted Jazz’s hand, brushing his thumb briefly over the ring on Jazz’s index finger. It was polished wood, not metal. Though he longed to hold Jazz’s hand, he withdrew and offered a smile. “Mr. Pickles is okay physically, but the events did upset him. He was extra cuddly, in need of comfort and assurances, I’m sure.”
“Maybe I should have come back over when you were done with Tanner, offered Mr. Pickles additional comfort and assurances.”
The sinful smile told Michael that Jazz might’ve been more interested in comforting Mr. Pickles’s owner.
Michael took another sip of his margarita, trying not to get distracted as Jazz did the same. Jazz’s slick pink tongue licked sugar from the rim slowly, and indecent thoughts of that tongue doing the same to a different rim…. Is he doing that on purpose?
Trying not to squirm in his seat, Michael cleared his throat. “Do you have any theories about the murder? After all, you knew the victim and his associates.”
“I have thoughts, questions, but no real theory, per se.”
“And they would be?”
Jazz leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t know Dylan, but I do know Russell. First off, he’s not a killer. No way.”
“And you’re positive?” Michael said, feeling simultaneously guilty about asking, yet determined to uncover the truth.
Jazz’s eyes widened. “Absolutely. I was married to him. I’d know if he was a killer.”
Michael only nodded, liking both Jazz’s confidence that Russell wasn’t a murderer and the fact that Jazz referred to their marriage in the past tense.
“Obviously Dylan is dead because of the drugs, right?” Jazz went on. “Russell is so straitlaced he went back into the grocery store once because the check-out girl missed my case of pop on the bottom of the cart. I mean, I was like, yay, free pop, but not Russell. So I know he would never be involved in a drug deal. But obviously his boy toy was a drug mule, right? Russell is totally into spelunking, so there is a part of me that wonders if he knew about the drugs. But then again—”
“What does cave exploration have to do with this crime?”
Jazz shook his head, elbows on the table again, leaning closer to whisper, “Um, the exploration of a certain type of cave, if you get my drift?”
“I am not getting any drift.”
“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”
“Yes, please.”
“Russell likes to, how shall we say it? Put stuff into certain man caves. Carrots, frozen strawberries, circus peanuts. You know?” His voice lowered to a hushed whisper. “So he can eat them out.”
Michael shook his head. “Circus peanuts in a man cave? What do you mean…?” Then his face heated with the speed of a wildfire. “Oh, you mean… no, you couldn’t possibly mean what I think you do?”
Snickering, Jazz finished off his margarita. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. The frozen strawberries were kinda fun, but then it just got fucking weird. Russell may have gotten a new man in his bed, but his weird little fetishes probably didn’t change. He’d never kill someone, but I do wonder if he knows more than he’s ponying up to.”
A shocking rush of lust tore through Michael as he was assaulted with the visual of Jazz as a naked strawberry sundae, balls coated with whipped cream, and maraschino cherries on his nipples….
He swallowed hard and hoped Jazz’s sunglasses camouflaged some of Michael’s deep blush. Surreptitiously, Michael slipped a hand below the table and adjusted his errant erection. Quickly he put both hands on his strawberry margarita—which only encouraged his below-the-belt situation.
“Oh dear,” he muttered.
Jazz was laughing now. “It’s cute how easily you blush.”
“Moving on,” Michael said, forcing all sexual thoughts to the back of his mind. “You may have written Russell off as a suspect, but the spouse or significant other is quite often the guilty party.”
“Even in Brock Hammer’s world?”
Jazz’s tone was teasing, but there was always a measure of truth in a joke so Michael wondered if there was possibly a touch of resentment to the words. He hoped his being a fan of Russell’s books wouldn’t affect what might be developing between them.
“Yes,” Michael said with a nod, “even in Brock Hammer’s world. Russell is doubtless on top of the sheriff’s list of suspects.”
“What about your list?”
Michael considered the question. He appreciated Russell’s talent, but as a county coroner, prided himself on keeping an open mind. A young man had been brutally murdered and deserved justice. “I think all possible clues must be followed, no matter where they may lead. Russell surely had the opportunity. I’m just not clear on what his motive would be.”
“Maybe they had an argument and it went too far?” Jazz suggested.
“Seems a bit extreme for something like that. Crimes of passion or in the heat of anger aren’t usually so elaborate. Quite often the weapon of choice is whatever is close at hand. And by that, I mean murder by strangulation or blunt force trauma are among the most popular methods.”
Jazz sighed dreamily and rested his chin on his palm. “You say the sweetest things.”
Michael had to laugh. “I’m sorry. This might be the reason I don’t get many second dates.”
“A little heads-up for you, sweetie. This is our second date.” Jazz leaned back in his chair and looked out at the lake. “In all seriousness, I have a really hard time seeing Russell as a murderer. He’s an oversexed, dipshit cheater, but he could never kill someone. Especially not the way Dylan was killed. Besides, he knows the victim’s significant other would be a prime suspect, and he would consider it way too common for him.”
Jazz smirked at him and Michael smiled back.
“I’m sure you’re right about Russell. He would know he’d be the sheriff’s number-one suspect. But he’s someone to keep in mind.”
“I wish I could get him out of my mind.”
Their waitress arrived
then, rolling a cart laden with sliced avocados, lime wedges, an array of ingredients, and a large mortar and pestle. “Ready for tableside guac, guys?”
“Yum,” Jazz said. He waggled his empty glass. “I think we’ll need another round of drinks too, thank you.”
“I’m on it,” Jenna quipped. “Do you guys like it hot?”
Michael choked back a laugh, burying his discomfiture with a big swallow of his drink. The strawberry flavor was not helping his imagination.
“I do like things spicy,” Jazz said. “But some people take spicy to a level that ruins everything. Spicy is good, but within normal parameters, don’t you think, Michael?”
Well, that was a double entendre if Michael had ever heard one.
Feeling bold, Michael said, “Maybe that person didn’t do spicy right. You should try my version of spicy.”
Good gracious, did I just say that?
Jazz studied Michael over the top of his sunglasses, his gaze almost predatory, somewhat challenging. “Perhaps I should.”
If Michael stood, he’d embarrass himself with a hard-on the size of a Great Lake freighter. He tried not to squirm as he fussed with his napkin-wrapped silverware.
“Soooo,” Jenna dragged out the word, obviously having no clue or care to figure out what they were talking about. “Spicy guacamole or not?”
“Spicy,” they both said at once.
While Jenna asked about ingredients, adding them as they consented, Michael unrolled his silverware and placed the napkin across his lap.
When she left them once more, promising to return with another round of margaritas, Jazz burst into laughter, drawing the attention of a nearby table.
Normally disliking public attention, Michael laughed too, the sound easing his nerves, but by no means dampening his hope that maybe Jazz would be up for something spicy after lunch. In Michael’s bedroom. Or his kitchen, the foyer, the bathroom, the floor in the hallway….
