by Hank Edwards
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
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Copyright
Murder Most Deserving
By Hank Edwards and Deanna Wadsworth
Lacetown Murder Mysteries: Case Two
An acoustic music festival comes to Lacetown, and with it, another dead body—this one found at Fleishman’s Funeral Home. Michael recuses himself from the autopsy, handing the job over to his arch-nemesis from a neighboring county.
Luckily Michael and local hairstylist Jazz are closer than ever. Between a trio of funerals, a blowout BBQ, and a couple of trips on Beulah, Jazz’s beloved scooter, Michael and Jazz do some sleuthing of their own. With the first gruesome murder still fresh in their memories, they can’t help but wonder if notorious murderer and famous author Russell Withingham might be targeting them from jail, where he’s awaiting trial.
The festival, however, brings in a veritable lineup of potential killers, including a familiar—and most unwelcome—figure from their past. As the murderer circles ever closer to Jazz and Michael, Sheriff Musgrave is quick to remind them that everyone’s a suspect until Sheriff Musgrave says they’re not!
To our husbands, who overheard all our conversations about sex and murder, and they didn’t worry… too much.
CHAPTER ONE
“I KNOW this is the worst thing in the entire world for us, but I love the burgers here.” Jazz Dilworth opened the diner door and waved for his boyfriend, Michael Fleishman, to enter Gruff’s Grub ahead of him.
“I’m just glad you called.” Michael gifted him with that shy smile Jazz had grown to adore. “I usually don’t get to see you on Thursdays.”
“Lucky for me I had a no-show.” Being one of Lacetown’s most popular hairstylists, Jazz was slammed on Thursday nights at Misty’s Makeover Palace.
“Indeed.”
When his elderly client Ruth Blankenship didn’t show up for her perm appointment, the salon receptionist, Lisa Ann, had called her. Poor Ruth had been so frazzled, Jazz wondered if dementia was setting in. So with a big gap in his schedule, he’d texted Michael about grabbing a quick bite before he went back to work.
Adjusting his glasses, Michael looked around the diner’s dim interior. “The smell alone could coat your arteries,” he said, but with a smile that let Jazz know he was kidding.
Well, kidding with a side of serious. Gruff’s Grub gave new meaning to greasy spoon. Tucked away down a short side street off Coastline Road, it wasn’t one of the more popular restaurants in Lacetown, Michigan.
“I know, I know, but I don’t eat here that often,” Jazz said, studying his boyfriend’s face and enjoying the way Michael’s warm brown eyes took in the details of the room from behind tortoise-shell glasses, his straight dark hair combed perfectly in place. “You’ve really never eaten here?”
Michael shook his head. “Don’t think I’ve ever really heard of this place.”
“And you’ve lived here all your life.” Jazz smirked. “I’ve been introducing you to all the hot spots in Lacetown. First Heavy Petting Point and now Gruff’s.” The mere mention of the scenic overlook and somewhat secret make-out point known by locals as HPP conjured images of Jazz riding Michael hard and fast in the front seat of his car. We need to take another drive out there soon….
“HPP and Gruff’s are the hot spots?” Michael said with a serious expression. “I suppose my funeral home is considered a cold spot?”
Jazz laughed and had to resist leaning in to kiss Michael. “There’s that dry sense of humor I adore. You’ll like this place, trust me. The food is far from healthy and so good. And besides, Gruff is a sweet old bear.”
As if on cue, a tall, wide man with a long beard bumped open the swinging kitchen doors. He wore a white apron and carried two plates of food. His eyes narrowed in what looked to be perpetual annoyance, but when he caught sight of Jazz, he flashed a big bright smile and gave a shout of happiness that startled the customers sitting closest to him.
“Jazz Dilworth, as I live and breathe!” Gruff’s voice rumbled like an earthquake. “It’s been weeks since you darkened my door.”
“Oh, Gruff, you old sweet-talker,” Jazz said. “Got an open table for us before the health department shuts you down?”
Gruff gave a hearty laugh and waved toward a booth by the windows. “Take a seat over there. I’ll be over in a minute.”
Grabbing Michael’s hand, Jazz led him on a winding path through the tables scattered about the long narrow space and past a middle-aged couple who looked sad. A young, rather androgynous person with a stern expression, short dark hair slicked back like a 1950s greaser, and fingers clutching a thick hamburger, sat with them. At the next table gathered what Jazz assumed was a family of four—or maybe some kind of freaky cult members, because they were all dressed in matching homespun cotton outfits. The father of the matching misfits stared hard at Jazz and Michael’s clasped hands, and Jazz managed to repress a shudder. The young man chewed his thumbnail, looking lost in his own world, and the two women wore identical bland brown dresses that didn’t complement their mousy hair.
Jazz indicated the women with his eyes after they slid into the booth. When Michael checked them out, Jazz whispered, “Sister wives?”
Casually glancing back, Michael whispered with amusement, “Nothing would surprise me. With the Acoustic Music Festival in town, I’m sure there’s a banjo or two involved.”
Before Jazz could make a Deliverance joke, Gruff lumbered up to their booth and set menus and table settings before them. “Hey there, Dilworth.”
“Since when do they let you out of the kitchen?” Jazz teased. “Where’s Hattie tonight?”
“Off visiting our sister in Wisconsin.” Gruff shook his head. “Never work with your sibling, trust me on this. You know how long since I’ve been to Wisconsin?”
“Five years?” Jazz asked in a flat tone of voice. He’d heard this complaint before.
“Five years,” Gruff said as if Jazz hadn’t spoken. “Guess the cook doesn’t get to take days off.” He gave Michael a once-over. “You’re new, but you look familiar.”
“Oh. Well, yes, I’m new here, but I do live in town. I’m Michael Fleishman.”
“The mortician?”
Jazz watched over the top of his menu as Michael’s blush spread bewitchingly across his cheeks. So freaking cute. Jazz had to admit, he really was a lucky man. Even if his past romantic experiences made it seem otherwise.
“Yes. I own Fleishman’s Funeral Home. That’s me.”
“You’re the county coroner too, right?”
The blush deepened, and Jazz almost
couldn’t stand the level of adorable coming off Michael in waves.
“That is also correct. You seem to know a lot about me, but I don’t even know your name.”
Gruff frowned at Jazz before speaking to Michael. “I’m Gruff.”
“That’s your given name?”
“That’s the name I’m givin’ you, so yeah, it’s my given name.” Gruff turned to Jazz. “The usual?”
“Yeah.”
“How about you, County Coroner? Don’t tell me you’re gonna order a salad like those vegan-folk-singer types over there.”
Jazz looked where Gruff indicated. It was the table of three, with the miserable-looking couple and the Happy Days throwback. The couple appeared thin and sallow as they picked at their garden salads. Despite the summer heat, the woman shivered like she was cold. Naturally one would be miserable and cold surviving off twigs and berries in a burger joint.
“Are they performers at the festival?” Jazz whispered.
Gruff bent down and motioned them closer. Jazz and Michael leaned over the table, and then Gruff said in what was more or less a normal tone of voice for most people but passed as a whisper from him, “Yeah. Bit of tree-hugging, antifracking folk singers have been coming in since yesterday, asking why I don’t offer quinoa and if everything I make is gluten-free.”
Jazz did an elaborate eye roll for Gruff’s benefit. “The nerve of some people.”
“Right?” Gruff straightened up and jerked a thumb toward the table of four who were all dressed alike. “And don’t even get me started on the von Trapp wannabes over there.”
Michael’s face was so red Jazz worried he might burst into flames. He took pity on him and spoke up. “Hey, Gruff? Michael will have the same as me.”
Gruff looked between them with a critical eye. “Burger medium with a basket of fries and a Coke?”
“Yes,” Michael said, giving Jazz a relieved smile. “That sounds lovely.”
“All right. I’ll get that going for you.”
Gruff stomped back toward the kitchen. Jazz noticed all the diners Gruff had been loudly gossiping about were now giving him and Michael the stink eye. But he chose to ignore them and focus on his date.
Michael was tall and incredibly fit, with a cock to write sonnets over. His dark brown hair was neat and tidy, just like everything else about him.
Jazz was incredibly lucky to have met such a great guy.
Michael had admitted to Jazz he had not dated much—in fact, he’d only had one serious boyfriend and a handful of lovers, unlike Jazz’s wild past. But Michael did not cease to wow the socks off Jazz in the sack. He could go from being a power bottom to a cuddly submissive in one day. Or even the dominant man who bent Jazz over the kitchen table and insisted he keep the kitchen apron on while he pounded Jazz’s ass. After those encounters, Jazz typically had trouble walking and standing behind his salon chair the next day.
Sexual compatibility aside—and oh Lord, were their bodies compatible!—Jazz could not believe how wonderfully their relationship was going. It had been almost two months, and they hadn’t had a single argument. They liked many of the same things and pretty much always agreed on which TV show or movie to watch. Jazz hoped his active social life wasn’t too much for his shy new lover, and though he knew they were still in the honeymoon phase of their relationship, he felt like he was living in a romance novel and every day was a happily ever after.
He never wanted this book to end.
“What?” Michael asked, touching his face. “Is there something on my face?”
Jazz grinned, not embarrassed in the least to have been staring starry-eyed at his beau. “Nope. Just admiring my handsome boyfriend.”
Michael cheeks pinkened again and his gaze darted away. “Oh.”
“I hope I didn’t interrupt an exciting evening when I called.”
“No, I was listening to part two of that new podcast I was telling you about.”
“Frozen Forensics?”
Michael smiled, and Jazz could tell he was trying to downplay his enthusiasm. “Frigid Forensics with Blake Hanson. He’s investigating a cold case about a woman’s husband she reported missing five years ago. The police never found anything suspicious, but apparently very recently, she sold her house and moved to Ho Chi Minh City, of all places. The new homeowners have done some excavating and discovered human remains.”
“Of course they have.”
If Michael wasn’t a detective with Scotland Yard in a previous life, he was making up for it in this one with his love of a good murder mystery. His obsession with mystery novels was how they’d met—Michael waiting in line to have ten Brock Hammer novels signed.
“Lemme guess?” Jazz said. “The wife killed her husband, chopped him up, and buried him all over her flowerbeds?”
“I suppose I’ll find out when part three is released.”
“Think she’ll pay for her crimes?” Jazz asked wistfully.
“It’s unlikely, unless she returns to the States. Vietnam won’t extradite to the US, which is doubtless why she went there. But Blake Hanson has a lot of fans who call in or use social media to share clues, loopholes, etcetera, in order to bring people to justice.”
Jazz gave Michael a teasing smile. “And do you ever call in with a clue?”
He glanced down in a fetching way at his hands on the table. “Maybe.”
“You are so damn adorable.”
His blush reappeared. “Don’t tease.”
“Totally not teasing,” Jazz assured him with a smile. “Not to change the subject from murderous widows and how utterly freaking adorable you are, but you’re still free for Misty’s block party Sunday?”
“Barring a mass influx of bodies, yes. Should I bring anything?”
“Just your delectable self,” he quipped. “And I don’t wanna overbook your weekend, but do you wanna go to the festival tomorrow after I get off work too?”
Michael’s brown eyes lit up. “Sure, if you want to. But won’t that be a late night for you, having to get up so early on Saturday?”
“Yeah, but I’ll manage. Misty has some shirt-tail relatives performing tomorrow night. She met them through one of those ancestry sites and wants us to meet them. I’m not much of a folk music fan, but I do love all the food trucks and wineries that usually come.”
“That sounds lovely,” Michael said, then lowered his voice as he added, “even if most of the performers are pissing off Gruff.”
“It doesn’t take much to annoy him.”
“How long have you known Gruff?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I met him when Russell and I started coming here for the summers. I think we recognized the easily annoyed side of each other, and since then he’s tolerated me pretty well.”
The mention of Russell’s name sent a wash of sadness through Jazz, and he suddenly felt very tired.
Russell Withingham.
Jazz’s almost ex-husband.
Famous author.
And sociopathic murderer.
As it did every time Jazz allowed himself to think about Russell, his stomach knotted.
Four phone calls had come to his apartment from the prison where Russell was being held while he awaited trial—no bail had been set because of Russell’s potential flight risk. Jazz had denied the charges every time.
If Jazz was the type to seek therapy, he imagined a shrink would tell him he should talk to Russell. Get some closure.
But how could he face talking to the man he once loved, knowing Russell had deviously plotted to kill Dylan Roberts, the twenty-three-year-old twink from Russell’s favorite bar, who Jazz had cruelly thought of as just another one of Russell’s fuck toys. Lord knew, Russell had had plenty when they were together. But Dylan had been a young man in his prime, and he’d written a mystery novel that Russell stole and published as his own. That alone was terrible.
But to systematically plot how to murder and get away with killing Dylan, his own lover? And cutting his hands off for no appar
ent reason other than a plot misdirect?
That was a whole different level of crazy.
And Jazz used to sleep next to Russell, make him breakfast, suck his dick, hold his hand, and watch movies….
No. Don’t think about it.
Before Jazz could shake himself out of the mood—I’m on a date with Michael!—it plummeted even further when the door opened and an all-too-familiar figure stepped in. The man was tall and painfully thin, with a swoop of blond hair across his forehead that stood out from the raven-black color of the rest of it.
Norbert Farthington.
“What the actual fuck?” Jazz whispered.
Michael looked over his shoulder and jerked in surprise when he saw Russell’s PR rep in the doorway. He turned back to Jazz with wide eyes. “What is Norbert doing here?”
“Haunting my life?”
Norbert appeared worse for wear, his tacky hair color in dire need of a touch-up, dark circles under his eyes, and his skin the exact color of boiled chicken. His narrow, pointed face was pinched in an expression of distaste as he surveyed the diner.
Jazz’s body wanted to react, to stand up and stride to Norbert and punch him in his narrow-lipped mouth. The last time Jazz had the displeasure of the guy’s skin-crawling company, Norbert had offered to help Russell kill not only Jazz, but Michael, the town sheriff, and Dylan’s uncle.
Before Jazz could even move, the couple at the first table gave simultaneous gasps of surprise.
“What the blue blazes are you doing here?” the man demanded. He was already anemic-looking—probably all that rabbit food—but at the sight of Norbert, he seemed to go even paler.
Norbert glared down at them. “Do I know you?”
“Yes, Norbert, you do,” the woman said. “Or you did before you left the group back in college, cheated on Bill, and never paid us the five grand you owed.”
“This is him?” From the sound of the voice, the androgynous greaser was a young woman, and she glared up at Norbert with open hostility. “Are you fucking kidding me? This is him?”
Jazz was satisfied to see Norbert’s face blanch. He looked completely stunned, and maybe even a little bit guilty? A moment later, however, his features shifted back to his standard expression of something just short of a glare.
