Murder Most Lovely

by Hank Edwards

  And yet, Russell had not once thanked or mentioned him in the acknowledgments of any of his books.

  “Old news, Norbert,” he told himself. “Tally ho, your master awaits.”

  Oh, if only Russell would be the master to Norbert’s willing servant. And what decadent things Norbert would do to the man, if he ever received the simplest form of encouragement.

  But in all the years they’d worked together, that encouragement had never arrived.

  At first there was a host of men as Russell’s popularity grew. Norbert looked down on all of them, naturally, but none of them had been long-term prospects.

  And then Jasper arrived.

  Norbert’s hopes were nearly dashed, until some months into the relationship, Russell requested Norbert’s assistance in setting up liaisons during his travels. Norbert had savored the opportunity to be “in the know” about Russell’s secret life, while a small part of him felt as if he was the one Russell was cheating on Jasper with. But as often happens, Jasper discovered Russell’s transgressions and the two decided to “take a break.” What had started out as a trial separation, however, had become a permanent one.

  And just when Norbert thought he might have a chance with Russell, Dylan had arrived.

  Lovely, innocent, and nubile Dylan.

  Norbert loathed the youngster on first sight.

  Jasper had his faults, but there was substance to him at least. Not so with Dylan.

  And Norbert had harbored an intense dislike for the boy.

  Meemaw always said not to think poorly of the dead, but the little twink deserved everything he got, Norbert thought as he sauntered to the side door of the cottage, a latte in each hand and the strap of his soft-sided leather messenger bag over a shoulder.

  Now that Dylan was dead and cold, with no hands to comb through Russell’s hair, Russell would be in need of comfort.

  Comfort that no one else in his life would know quite how to provide.

  No one but the single person who had been with Russell from the beginning.

  Me.

  Ah yes, with Dylan gone—poor, unfortunate Dylan drowned and tragically disfigured—Russell might finally wise up.

  Norbert drew his shoulders back, took a breath, and tapped lightly on the door with the toe of his boot.

  “Come in.”

  Russell’s voice was weak, breathy. It called to something dark and hungry in Norbert, and he tucked one latte in the crook of his arm to work the doorknob. Why hadn’t that twit Josiah given him a coffee holder? He’d have words with him on the morrow.

  The kitchen was modern and bright, all granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. It was about the size of Norbert’s entire apartment, but he didn’t begrudge Russell his success one bit.

  Dylan had been using Russell for his money and connections.

  Too bad I’m the one left alive to care for Russell in his time of need, isn’t it, Dylan?

  Norbert couldn’t have planned it any better.

  He found Russell sitting in a corner of the massive sofa, a light throw over his legs and his knees pulled up to his chest. Peering at Norbert with bloodshot, puffy eyes, Russell was the picture of grief.

  “Oh, Norbie.” Russell’s voice cracked, and he looked away as he held a trembling finger to his lips. “I’m all right. I’m all right. I won’t cry. Nope, I’m not crying again.”

  “There, there, Russell. I know this is a shock and a terrible loss. You must be swimming in despair right now.”

  Russell turned his head quick, eyes suddenly brighter, a half-smile on his supple lips. “Swimming in despair. I like that. It’s a good title for a Brock Hammer mystery.”

  Norbert watched Russell scurry from the couch to a desk by the window where he scribbled some notes on a pad of paper. While Russell had his back turned, Norbert trailed his gaze down the length of Russell’s back, let it linger on the luscious swell of his ass inside tight running shorts, and then drop to his exquisite calf muscles.

  He could look all he wanted, but he’d never been invited to touch.

  Always a stalker, never a lover.

  The story of his life, and one no author in his right mind would want to put into print.

  But that’s all about to change now.

  Norbert was glad to see Russell writing something, even if it was only a possible title. Since Jasper left, he hadn’t written a word. Too busy fucking and playing with Dylan. The writer’s block was all that twink’s fault, distracting Russell with his tight ass and even tighter hole—Norbert just knew it was tight!

  Greedy and ungrateful Dylan thought he deserved everything. Well, Norbert had warned him what would happen if Dylan tried to ruin Russell’s career.

  Yes, Dylan got what he deserved in the end, didn’t he?

  Russell turned and the excitement in his expression faded quickly back to sorrow. “Is one of those coffees for me?”

  Pushing thoughts of Dylan away—the problem had been solved, after all—Norbert smiled and extended one of the cups. “I got your favorite.”

  “Caramel soy latte with a dollop of whipped cream?”

  Panic exploded in Norbert’s chest like a tiny and virulent supernova. He went blind for a moment, literally unable to see anything at all as his heart skipped a beat and his lungs seized up.

  Had Russell’s latte tastes changed yet again and Norbert had not realized?

  Hadn’t it only been a couple of days ago when Russell had pronounced the vanilla lavender latte with a dollop of honey as his newly minted favorite?

  “Uh…,” Norbert managed, the cup still extended, his hand trembling.

  A big smile flashed like gaudy neon across Russell’s face. “I’m joking with you. It’s just a joke, Norbie. Come on, lighten up.”

  Feeling rushed back into Norbert, and he released a shaky, pent-up breath. “Oh. Good. You had me going there for a moment. Ha. You big joker.”

  Russell approached him and took the latte, fingers lightly brushing Norbert’s. He had to suppress a shiver.

  “With Dylan gone, I’ve no one left to joke with,” Russell said, eyes drifting away from Norbert as he slipped back into heartbreak. “I am devastatingly alone.”

  “You’ve always got me. I’ll never leave you.”

  Russell gave a thin smile and wandered back toward the couch. He sipped the latte and made a face before he sat down. “It’s gone cold, Norbie. Could you be a prince and zap it in the microwave for a few seconds? Not too long, I don’t want to scald my throat. I just think coffee drinks should be warm, don’t you?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry. It was hot when I bought it.”

  Norbert took the cup and stuck it in the microwave. As the machine buzzed, he surveyed the stacks of dirty dishes and shook his head. What would Russell do without him around? The microwave beeped and Norbert carried the latte back to Russell, now lounging back on the couch.

  “Thanks so very much, Norbie.”

  “You’re most welcome. Any PR things we need to work through?” Or perhaps a nice rubdown or a blowjob?

  Russell waved away the suggestion. “I just couldn’t. Not right now. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. But I don’t like you spending so much time alone. I’m going to pick up around here a bit, if that’s okay—spend some time with you so you’re not wallowing.”

  Russell sighed. “Dylan loved to wallow.”

  “What’s that?”

  “In bed and in the bath. He was a wallower.”

  Norbert cocked his head and frowned.

  “You know, a wallower. He would lie down and roll about. In bed and in the tub.”

  “Ah. I see. Okay, well, you sip your latte, and I’m going to clean up. I’ll start in the kitchen and then take a look at the bathroom and your bedroom.”

  “Yes, sure, go ahead.”

  Norbert got busy, rinsing dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher. He wiped down the counters—damn, those granite countertops were so much nicer than his cheap Formi
ca—and swept the floor. When he’d finished with the kitchen, Norbert checked on Russell and found him in the same position on the couch and staring at the wall.

  “Do you need anything, Russell?”

  “Yes.”

  Oh, please, let him say that he needs me, Norbert thought. But aloud he said, “What can I give you?”

  “Dylan back again.”

  Norbert had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. “If I could do that for you, I would. But it’s just not possible. Anything you need from the kitchen?”

  Russell turned watery eyes up to him. “No. But thank you.”

  “All right.” Norbert sat at the desk in the corner and removed his laptop from his messenger bag. “I’m going to post some items about the signing to your social media accounts. With all the running around yesterday, I never got a chance.”

  “Do you mind doing that some other time?” Russell winced a bit. “Dylan was on his laptop at that very desk, just the other day. Seeing you there is… upsetting.”

  If all the emotional wounds Norbert had endured from Russell over the years were to show on his physical self, his body would be covered in scars. He closed the laptop and slid it back into his messenger bag, managing a tight smile.

  “Of course. I can do that while I eat dinner. For now, I’ll just go in and pick up and clean the bathroom. I’ll be in the bedroom if you need me for anything.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  “In the bedroom,” he repeated, “if you need anything.”

  “Yes, yes, I heard you,” Russell said absently, gazing out the window once more.

  Dammit.

  Russell needed more time. Norbert should’ve expected that.

  Well, he’d make his next move soon enough.

  Norbert was tired of waiting.

  Clothes lay scattered about the floor of the room, and the bedding was rumpled, the sheets twisted and half off the mattress. Furry pink handcuffs dangled from the brass headboard. Based on the scratches along the wall, quite a few people before them had used it for the same purpose.

  Shaking his head, Norbert picked up the clothes and took a long sniff of Russell’s boxers before he stuffed them into a hamper in the bathroom. Soon Norbert would have the real scent of Russell to enjoy, if everything continued to go according to plan.

  As he started to return to the bedroom and straighten the bed—and maybe press his face into Russell’s pillow and breathe in his scent—something from the corner of his eye brought Norbert to a stop.

  What’s that?

  The bathroom was large and contained a toilet, a bidet, a shower stall, and a large whirlpool tub. Something lay folded up in the corner near the tub, and Norbert flicked on the light before crossing the heated tile floor.

  It was a shower curtain liner, one of those cheap vinyl ones available at every big box store.

  But what would Russell need with a liner when the shower stall had a glass door?

  Understanding dawned cold and bright in his mind, and Norbert stopped and stood with his fists and jaw clenched.

  It was for sex.

  Russell and Dylan must’ve used it to protect the sheets and mattress when they fucked. And there it was, all folded up and forgotten in a corner of the bathroom, like the discarded pink handcuffs, both taunting Norbert.

  He could only imagine the mess they had made together. Lathering each other with oils, slipping fingers and dicks and who knows what else into tight, willing holes. Or maybe they were into watersports, who knew?

  Who cared?

  Dylan was finally out of the picture.

  Norbert stared at the folded shower curtain liner a little longer, his fingers slowly uncurling as his jaw relaxed. When he had pushed the darkness back down into the little hole inside of him where it lived, he went into the bedroom, picked up Russell’s pillow, and pressed it against his face.

  Our time is next, Russell dear. With that nasty little twink gone, now we’ll finally be together.

  Chapter Nineteen

  JAZZ SLID his hand along Michael’s stomach and down to his cock, which twitched in his grip. “So much pent-up sexual energy.”

  “You have no idea,” Michael said, flashing a sexy grin. He leaned in for a quick kiss. “As much as I’d love a repeat performance, I am kind of hungry.”

  “Hungry? Even after the ice cream?”

  “Hey, we followed a suspect, got pulled over by the sheriff—”

  “You so want to see that dash-cam video.”

  Michael gave him a gentle pinch that startled a gasp out of Jazz, before he continued, “And then had bombtastic sex.”

  “Bombtastic?” Jazz laughed. “That’s not a word.”

  “It could be a word.”

  “In a teenage girl’s diary.”

  Michael rolled on top of Jazz and proceeded to tickle him. Jazz squirmed, laughing as he tried to escape. But Michael had him pinned, and just when Jazz feared he would piss on the bed from laughter, Michael rolled off and put his feet on the floor. He stood, looking down at Jazz, his smile so sweet and honest and genuine, it made Jazz catch his breath.

  “Come on, let’s get some food.”

  After slipping on his glasses, Michael extended a hand and pulled Jazz to his feet, then into his arms. He gave him a soft kiss before stepping back and stooping to pick up his clothes. They dressed and descended the steps barefoot.

  In the kitchen, Michael pulled open the refrigerator door and inspected the contents. “I have leftover meat sauce for spaghetti,” he said, pulling out a container.

  Jazz came up beside him, looking into the fridge too. “We could use some carbs to replenish our energy. Oh, a box of wine. Fancy. Would you like me to whip up some bruschetta too? Looks like you have all the ingredients for a little gourmet late-night snack.”

  Michael studied his fridge. “I do?”

  Chuckling, Jazz shooed Michael and the sauce away from the fridge. “All right, you wowed me in the sack. Let me wow you in the kitchen.”

  “You cook?”

  “I’m a bit of a gourmet,” he bragged, then looked around the spacious kitchen. “And I’ve been dying to get my hands on this kitchen.”

  Michael set the glass container on the island countertop. “And here I thought you came over for me.”

  “Nope, just a ploy to use your kitchen,” Jazz teased, taking out tomatoes, parsley, and parmesan cheese from the fridge. There was a loaf of crusty bread in a basket on the counter and several bottles of olive oil. A little pasta and some of that boxed wine? Perfect.

  “Ha-ha,” Michael said. “I’m going to bring Mr. Pickles back in now that we’re taking a bit of a break.”

  “Think he’s had enough fresh air by now?”

  “More than enough. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was sitting at the door, waiting to come in.”

  Michael ran his fingers along Jazz’s thigh as he passed him on the way to the sliding door. Jazz turned to watch him, and a tiny twinge of concern started when Michael sucked in his breath and then paused to stare outside.

  “What is it?” Jazz set down the cutting board as awful scenarios raced through his mind, each more terrible than the last. “Did something happen to Mr. Pickles?”

  Michael had the door open and was through it before Jazz could reach him. Jazz rushed outside after him, the flagstone cool on his bare feet, the prickle of the grass making him follow Michael across the yard on tiptoes. Michael crouched down, and when he stood up again, Jazz expected to see him holding the mutilated corpse of Mr. Pickles. But instead he held the end of the chain, the empty clip swinging from his hand.

  “He’s gone.”

  Michael’s voice was flat, dull.

  He’s in shock. “He can’t have gotten far,” Jazz assured him. “And he’s still wearing his collar because it’s not on the clip. We’ll find him. C’mon, let’s look. Mr. Pickles! C’mere, boy! Here, kitty kitty kitty.”

  Michael joined him, calling for Mr. Pickles with an edge of panic in his
voice that sent seismic fractures through Jazz’s heart. They searched the back and front yards, poking into bushes and all the heavily shadowed corners. When that turned up no sign of Mr. Pickles, they got their shoes on and walked the perimeter of the funeral home, and then set out along the sidewalk. And with every passing second, Michael’s demeanor became more frantic.

  They reached the corner of Perch Avenue—Michael’s street—and Main Street.

  Still no sign of Mr. Pickles.

  A good many people were out enjoying a late evening stroll. Michael asked a passing woman if she’d seen a cat, and she said no.

  Hands on his hips, Michael looked up and down Main Street. “Where did he go?” he asked, voice cracking.

  “Don’t panic yet,” Jazz said, though he suspected they were long past that. “Here, kitty kitty! Here, kitty kitty!”

  A police cruiser sidled up to the curb, and Deputy Tanner powered down the passenger-side window. “You guys look perplexed.”

  “Mr. Pickles is missing,” Michael blurted. His eyes were wide, and he was breathing so heavily, Jazz worried he might have a heart attack.

  Tanner was out of the car and settling his hat on his neatly combed red hair as he rounded the hood and joined them on the sidewalk. “Need help?”

  “That would be great,” Michael said. “You two look on this side of the street, and I’ll go to the other side.”

  Jazz watched Michael trot across the street, dodging behind a passing pickup as he ducked down to peer under the cars parked at the curb. He really, really hoped they found Mr. Pickles alive and well. Mr. Pickles was such a great cat, but, on a purely selfish note, if Michael lost his beloved pet because they were having sex for the first time, Jazz didn’t think anything could salvage what might have become an amazing relationship.

  “So, describe Mr. Pickles for me,” Tanner said, his voice pitched low as if Michael would be able to hear him from across the street. “Height, age, build, ethnicity.”

  “Dude, for real? Mr. Pickles is a cat. The one Michael was holding at the funeral home the night of the break-in.”