Murder Most Deserving

by Hank Edwards

  “Bill and Sonya,” Norbert said, a chill to his tone. “How utterly retro to see you again.”

  “Well, it’s real shitty to see you, Norbie,” Sonya snapped, arms crossed over her chest.

  Norbert made one of his insufferable grunts of superiority that had Jazz clenching his teeth. “Are you two still together and singing?” Norbert asked, and then he tittered a condescending laugh. “And is this your offspring? Don’t tell me, Bill, that you disappointed all your male paramours as badly as you disappointed me so you decided to settle for Sonya’s desperate attentions. How gauche.”

  Norbert sounded so much like Russell that Jazz actually flinched as if slapped. He closed his eyes and shook his head to erase the sensation. Fuck Russell and fuck his loser PR rep! Why were they even still a part of Jazz’s life?

  Jazz was glad Michael had shifted in his seat, openly watching the exchange along with everyone else in the diner, and hadn’t noticed Jazz’s reaction. Michael had asked Jazz more than once how he was holding up after the whole Russell debacle, and Jazz always insisted he was fine. He didn’t want Michael to worry or allow Russell’s bullshit to tarnish their so-far so-damn-good relationship. But it had proved quite difficult in the days following Russell’s arrest, when it seemed that every blogger and minor-market reporter had been hounding them for some kind of sound-bite or quote. Thankfully attention spans were crazily short these days and someone else’s misfortune had drawn that circus out of town.

  At least until today.

  The sound of a hand slapping a table and rattling the dishes made Jazz jump and look back at the argument.

  “This is Ally Roberts,” Bill snapped, his hands flat on the table and high color in his cheeks. “She’s our new lead guitarist.” Bill sat back, crossing his skinny arms as he glared up at Norbert. “And we perform all over the country now. I’m sure you’ve heard our music. One of our biggest hits is a song about a no-good, cheating, thieving, lying boyfriend. It’s titled ‘Skinflint Norbie and His Walkabout Shoes.’”

  Jazz’s snort of amusement surprised him, and was unfortunately loud enough for Norbert, Bill, Sonya, and Ally to hear. All four looked in Jazz’s direction, and he felt a smug sense of satisfaction at the quick flash of fear that crossed Norbert’s face.

  “He likes it.” Bill chuckled. “Might have sold another CD.”

  “Better get the cash up front from that one,” Norbert said with a sniff. “He’s as dishonest as they come. A real snitch too.”

  “With that endorsement from you, then we like him already,” Sonya said, flashing a smirk.

  When Norbert sniffed a second time and turned his nose up at Jazz, Jazz’s hands tightened into fists without any thought. He glared at Norbert, who glared right back, both of them shooting daggers, lasers, cannons, mortars, and boulders from catapults with their eyes.

  “Jazz….” Michael’s voice was calm and quiet. “He’s not worth it.”

  “It might be worth it,” Jazz muttered. “One little punch would take him down a peg or two.”

  Michael reached across the table and rested his hand on Jazz’s forearm, and by doing so, he might have saved Norbert’s life. At the very least, he saved Gruff’s chair, which Jazz had been envisioning breaking over Norbert’s head.

  Norbert had always been a thorn in Jazz’s side, and a creepy one at that. As Russell’s PR rep, he’d always been lurking around during their marriage. The day of that big storm, after Russell had been caught red-handed, Norbert had lied to the police that he’d been playing Russell to defuse the situation and maybe get the gun away, and that he’d never intended to side with Russell to help murder them all. The authorities had oddly believed him, but Jazz knew better. The little weasel would’ve gladly helped Russell put a few bullets in Jazz and Michael. He’d always had a boner for Russell, and he’d even known about Dylan’s plagiarized book.

  Norbert deserved a swift kick in the—

  Michael’s gentle touch and warm eyes halted Jazz’s rising fury and stopped him from causing a bigger scene. It wasn’t worth it. And neither was Norbert. He unclenched his fists and sat back. Crossing his arms, he glared at Norbert.

  Norbert seemed to take that as some sort of victory. “See? He’d never have the guts to do it,” he said, then directed his glare at the couple still sitting down. “And as for the two of you, I beg to differ on owing you money. I was the one who started the band. I was the one who revitalized the entire folk-punk movement, if you’ll recall.”

  That got a few scoffs, but Norbert wasn’t deterred.

  “If you’ll also recall, you two never paid me for gas the whole time I drove us to those dumpy bars in those godforsaken small towns.” He gave Ally a frosty smile. “Make sure you get any money they promised you up front.”

  Jazz frowned and looked at Michael, his anger slowly being replaced by curiosity. What was Norbert talking about? He’d been in a band with these two? Book industry PR rep Norbert? And just what the hell did “folk-punk” even sound like? Whatever it was, Jazz was pretty sure there was no such thing as a “folk-punk movement.”

  Bill pushed to his feet, fists clenched at his sides and his jaw set. To Norbert’s credit, he didn’t flinch or take a step back, rather he stared Bill in the eye.

  Jazz hated to think it, but Norbert might’ve grown a spine since Russell was arrested.

  “You take that back,” Bill said, his voice low and threatening. “That was my van you were driving. And we agreed that you would pay for gas while we put miles on it.”

  “I don’t recall that agreement at all,” Norbert said. “I think you made it all up since you’re obviously still harboring deep feelings for me. You wouldn’t worry about a petty debt all these years if you weren’t still in love with me.”

  “You were a warm body in the night. Nothing more,” Bill snapped. Sonya fidgeted, apparently too furious to even watch the two men facing off.

  If Jazz wasn’t imagining it, he would’ve sworn Bill looked a little strained. Good Lord! Did this guy still have the hots for Norbert?

  Unbelievable!

  Jazz noticed the von Trapp family exchange peculiar glances before returning their attention to the confrontation. They seemed as uncomfortable as Jazz at the notion of anyone pining for Norbert.

  “You haven’t changed one bit.” Sonya stabbed angrily at her salad. “Norbert Farthington never bothered to remember anything that made him uncomfortable.”

  “From what I’ve heard,” Ally sneered, “all you cared about was finding some guy to suck your dick in an alley.”

  “Charming,” Norbert said. “And completely off, just like Sonya’s vocals.”

  “Like this conversation?” Michael grumbled.

  Jazz managed a smile and reached out to take his hand. “You always know exactly what to say.”

  “My vocals are off?” Sonya cried, finally looking up, her cheeks flushing with color. “You couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, Norbie.”

  “Oh, Sonya, give it up with that hair color—it really washes you out,” Norbert said with a sneer.

  Bill lunged forward and grabbed the front of Norbert’s shirt.

  The stocky and muscular young von Trapp man shot to his feet. His cheeks sported patches of dark blond whiskers that had Jazz thinking he might be sixteenish. When the young man took a step toward Bill and Norbert, the younger sister wife put a hand on his arm. Her touch appeared to calm him, and he returned to his seat even though he continued to closely watch the confrontation.

  The kitchen doors swung open, bumped by Gruff’s big ass as he carried two plates out into the dining area. He headed toward Jazz and Michael’s table, all smiles until he noticed Bill holding Norbert by the shirt.

  “Hey! No roughhousing inside!” Gruff shouted.

  Everyone froze, and Michael let out a startled gasp.

  Pounding over to Jazz and Michael, Gruff set the food down before them with a clatter. Half of Jazz’s fries fell off the plate—his waistline but not his taste bu
ds would appreciate that later—but Jazz didn’t care about the fries as he and Michael watched Gruff stalk over to separate Bill and Norbert.

  “He started it!” Norbert insisted, brushing off his shirt when Bill released him.

  “You’re a complete dickhead,” Ally said, and got to her feet. “I should kick your ass for what you did to Bill and Sonya and—” She stopped herself abruptly from saying anything further.

  “Ally, stop,” Sonya said, her voice sounding tired and used up.

  Gruff gave Ally a gentle push back into her seat, then glowered at Norbert. “I don’t like people messing with my customers.”

  Sputtering but determined, Norbert pointed at Jazz. “That man egged this lunatic on!”

  Gruff looked at Jazz over his shoulder.

  Jazz calmly gazed back at Gruff and ate a fry off his plate.

  Gruff faced Norbert and growled deep in his throat. “Nobody comes into my restaurant and insults my friends. And when they do, I show them the door.”

  “I will not stand—”

  “I don’t care if you stand or sit,” Gruff said. “You won’t be doing it here.”

  And with that, he spun Norbert around, grabbed him by the belt and the back of the shirt, and hustled him to the door.

  “Oh my God,” Jazz said, his heart pounding and a light sheen of sweat coating his body. “Oh my God.”

  “Jesus,” Michael whispered and turned to sit sideways in the booth again to be able to see better.

  As Gruff tossed Norbert out of the diner, Jazz’s smile was so big it made his cheeks ache.

  But then a nibble of guilt poked its way through the joy at Norbert’s comeuppance. Something had definitely changed about Norbert since Russell’s arrest, and maybe Jazz shouldn’t feel quite so good at seeing Norbert treated so badly.

  Then again… it was Norbert. The guy was such a snake in the grass. And apparently a cheater and a thief. Not to mention the father of the “folk-punk movement,” whatever the hell that was.

  The creep.

  “Show’s over folks,” Gruff said, dusting off his hands as he headed for the kitchen. He paused beside their table and winked at Jazz.

  “Thanks, Gruff.”

  “My pleasure.” Gruff tipped his head toward the door. “You know him?”

  “I did once,” Jazz said and gave Michael a sad smile. “In a previous life.”

  “When you were with that writer?” Gruff asked.

  “Russell. Yeah.”

  Gruff looked at Michael, then back. “I’d say you traded up.”

  And with that, he stomped back to the kitchen.

  “I can’t believe that skinny puff of a pantywaist actually showed up this weekend,” Ally said with a long glare at the door where Norbert had disappeared. She sat back with a huff and screwed her face up at Bill. “Get over him already, Bill. He’s like a big cocksucking zero.”

  “I am over him,” Bill snapped, but even from across the room, Jazz could hear the lie in his tone.

  Michael and Jazz exchanged glances. Michael’s brows shot up as he whispered, “There’s no accounting for tastes, is there?”

  Jazz made a disbelieving sniff of agreement and ate another fry.

  “What a jerk,” Sonya said. “Who would have guessed Norbert would be in Lacetown.”

  “Do you think he’ll be at the festival?” Bill wondered.

  “Who cares?” Ally said confidently. “You guys just focus on performing this weekend. I’ll take care of ol’ Norbie if he comes around again. Don’t you worry about it, Bill.”

  The diner fell quiet then, except for some whispered conversation between the von Trapp clones, but Jazz didn’t pay them any attention. He reached across the table to take Michael’s hand again and gave him a smile.

  “Don’t I know how to show you a good time?” Jazz said.

  “Always.” Michael had a decided glint in his brown eyes that made Jazz wish he could cancel the rest of his customers and go home to play in Michael’s giant walk-in shower.

  Jazz released Michael’s hand, but not his gaze as he picked up his burger and reveled in the anticipation of salty, meaty, greasy heaven. “How’s your burger?” he asked before taking a huge bite of his own. Perfect.

  Flinching adorably, Michael pushed his glasses up his nose. “Oh! I haven’t even sampled it yet. Too busy watching the show.” He took a bite and nodded appreciatively. “Delicious.”

  Chuckling, Jazz put his burger down and wiped the grease from his mouth with a napkin. Then he sobered and leaned forward. “Why the heck do you think Norbie is in Lacetown?”

  Always so in tune with Jazz’s moods, Michael quickly took his hand once more, and Jazz squeezed back, feeling suddenly off-balance. “It doesn’t matter,” Michael assured him. “He’s none of our concern anymore. Let’s focus on enjoying our impromptu date, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay. Dinner and a show, right?”

  Michael smiled at that, then picked up his burger.

  Jazz tried to enjoy the pleasure in Michael’s expression when he took another bite, but his mind flooded with questions. Was Norbert in Lacetown snooping about Dylan’s murder case, gathering evidence to help his precious Russell? Jazz had hoped to never see either of them again, at least until he and Michael testified at Russell’s trial. Maybe Jazz could request a private testimony? Was that a thing? Hopefully the prosecutor would offer a plea and there wouldn’t even be a trial, just a long prison term for Russell.

  Michael touched his hand again, and Jazz looked up.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Michael asked. “Seeing Norbert has to bring up bad memories.”

  He hadn’t realized he’d been bouncing his knee, clenching his teeth, and staring off into nowhere—he’d been doing that a lot lately. He forced a smile, which was easier than it should have been with all the hamster-in-a-wheel thoughts running on a loop in his head.

  “Yeah, I’m okay.” Jazz knew he sounded as convincing as that Bill guy, but he was grateful when Michael nodded his acceptance. Jazz wrapped his other hand over Michael’s. “As long as I’ve got you by my side, I’ll be simply grand.”

  The older man from the table of von Trapp clones stepped up to their booth, startling Jazz. Michael and Jazz both looked up at him in surprise. A black shirt with a preacher’s collar hung from broad shoulders, and brown cotton pants hitched halfway up his belly were held in place by leather suspenders. He wore a black broad-brimmed hat, and his weathered face was creased in a scowl as he stared down at their entwined fingers.

  Michael quickly pulled his hand free. “M-may I help you?” he stammered.

  The man stared at Jazz, who suddenly found himself sitting up straighter.

  “I saw you on TV. You were in an unlawful union with that homosexual writer who killed a young man right in this town, weren’t you?” the man said.

  Jazz blinked twice before the words registered. “Excuse me?” he said with the biggest head bob he was sure he’d ever made. Surely this guy wasn’t another reporter, because he came across more like a backwoods preacher.

  The man fixed his watery gaze on Michael next.

  Jazz bunched a fist. If he insulted Michael, Jazz would “escort” the man out the door, far less politely than Gruff had booted out Norbert.

  “Repent, brothers,” the man said simply and placed a pamphlet on the tabletop before turning away to usher the rest of the von Trapp clones out of the diner. Jazz noticed that the boy was blatantly staring at them as he followed the creepy preacher man—his father?—out the door.

  Michael picked up the pamphlet and made a face.

  “Is it telling you that meat is murder?” Jazz asked.

  “Nope. It’s telling me we’re sinners and going to hell.”

  Michael turned the pamphlet around and showed Jazz the front. THE ROAD TO HELL screamed the bold-type headline. Three columns of type were set beneath it, listing all the burnable offenses. From just a cursory glance, Jazz discovered he was pretty much doomed, even if he mir
aculously turned straight.

  “Good thing you’re Jewish and don’t believe in hell,” Jazz said dryly. “Looks like I’m screwed.”

  “Yes, a boon for me, eh?” Michael frowned at the door, where the family had disappeared. He slid the religious tract out of sight under his paper placemat.

  Jazz reached out to take both of Michael’s hands. “Aren’t you glad you left your comfortable abode and had dinner with me?”

  Michael smiled and squeezed his hands back. “Nothing, not even all that nonsense, would make me regret it.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  MICHAEL PULLED his Toyota into a parking spot behind the Holland Harbor Lofts where Jazz lived above Misty’s salon. He glanced up to the second floor of the old brick building and saw white curtains fluttering in an open window to the loft apartment Michael had gotten to know well.

  The old chandlery building was on Lacetown’s historic registry, the town quite proud of its rich fishing and shipping history. Right on Steelhead Avenue, the redbrick structure housed businesses below and the lofts above, all of them with a view of Lake Michigan across the street.

  “Here you are,” Michael said.

  “Yup, back to the grind. You going home to listen to your podcast to see if they found the hubby’s leg under the azalea bushes?”

  Michael chuckled. “No, part three comes out next Thursday.”

  “You’ll have to let me know what happened.” Jazz glanced at his watch. “I’ve got twenty minutes before my next client.”

  Jazz’s wheat-colored hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and his eyes sparkled like whisky in a crystal decanter. Michael never tired of gazing at Jazz. Sometimes his heart would leap in his chest like it had the first time he’d seen Jazz, taking him by surprise.

  And you’re dating him. You get to make love to him….

  Michael’s heart skipped again, and he gave Jazz a smile. “Twenty whole minutes?”

  “Yup.”

  Off and on during dinner and on the drive back from Gruff’s Grub, Jazz had complained about seeing Norbert again, a sure indication he was very preoccupied with the incident and trying not to be.