by Hank Edwards
Jazz squeezed his upper arm. “Sweetie, I mean it. I’ve got a lot to think about, and it’s not about you and me. This is all just shit and nonsense from my past. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“No more worrying about us, promise?”
Michael smiled. “Promise.” I promise to try….
“Good.” Jazz seemed pleased, relaxed in the afterglow for now. “I will, however, see you at five to style my ladies.”
Michael hesitated. “Are you sure you’re still up for that? Ezra or I—”
“Your creep-tern is not sending off my ladies to the bingo hall in the sky. I’ll be there. It’s good to keep busy.” Jazz leaned in for a kiss, then pushed him toward the door. “Go be amazing.”
Michael blushed as he left the apartment. He stood a moment outside Jazz’s door, letting his hand rest on the knob to allow some kind of contact with Jazz’s place to linger. His phone buzzed again and he sighed. So much for that. He hurried down the stairs and out into the heat of the day.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AFTER A morning of self-pampering that included the hot sex with Michael, a facial mud mask while he soaked in his big claw-foot tub, and a manicure and pedicure, Jazz still felt antsy after lunch. When he normally would’ve been at work, he had nothing to occupy himself with until he was due at the parlor to style his ladies.
A shiver went through him, knowing Norbert’s body would be in the building.
Why the hell was he in my chair?
Michael had a point about Ally having the clearest motives in all of this, but Jazz couldn’t help feeling that all the convoluted foreshadowing Russell had always been so fond of in his books—“It makes for a great page-turner, Jasper dear!”—pointed to Russell’s involvement. But why involve Michael? Jealousy? Revenge for catching him?
Or just to torment Jazz?
That seemed most likely, but why would Russell murder Bill Denton? Maybe the hitman Russell had hired had been forced to kill Denton to cover his tracks. Denton was skinny and pale, just like Norbert. Totally could have been a mix-up if the killer found them at the HPP, the intended target always Norbert. And Russell knew it would get to Jazz the most by going after Michael, which was why the killer had left “Norbert”—aka Bill Denton—in Michael’s garage.
Michael said it felt like a personal message to them, and Jazz agreed. Russell was leaving Jazz the message that he could try to move on, or be happy without Russell, but Russell could stop Jazz’s happiness if he wanted to.
The sick fuck.
A stunt like that had Russell’s stench all over it.
A few blocks away, the music festival had kicked off the afternoon sets, and someone was plucking away at a steel guitar. The sound system must have been amped up, because he could hear it perfectly through his windows, which were closed against the heat, and over the hum of his air conditioner. His nerves tolerated the guitar, but when the singer started to yodel, Jazz knew he had to tap out. No way was he going to sit around his apartment all day and listen to that while Musgrave and his minions worked the crime scene one floor below.
He needed to leave.
His first instinct was to go to Michael’s, but Michael was swamped with work and dealing with his nemesis. Though happy they managed some alone time earlier, Jazz didn’t want his current bad mood to cause Michael any more stress. He wished he’d been feeling more himself last night after that hot fucking Michael gave him, instead of so stuck in his own head with all the drama. He hadn’t meant to give his nervous boyfriend any inhibitions or insecurities about their sex life.
As far as Jazz was concerned, that was one of the best parts of their relationship thus far, like their bodies were perfectly in sync.
To think his preoccupation with Russell had caused Michael any worry or distress broke his heart.
It also pissed him off.
Fucking Russell, fucking my life up even from prison. This is just like him!
After he got home last night, Jazz had realized he needed to talk to Russell. He’d felt better about everything once he’d made the decision…. But then Norbert.
Jazz fought a shiver.
Even that super-hot sixty-nine hadn’t quelled his nerves. He did feel better after he’d told Michael his plan to see Russell, but now the visit loomed over his head. Not to mention another murder investigation he was a suspect in. He knew Hotel Boy well enough to know Musgrave would be harassing him once Misty wasn’t there to play defense.
Thinking of his friend, he sent her a text to check on her. How are you holding up?
Shaky, but ok
Since Misty rarely sent such succinct texts—she totally abused talk to text—Jazz knew she was about as okay as he was himself.
You need any help cooking for your BBQ? I can come over?
At least Misty’s cul-de-sac was far enough from downtown, Jazz wouldn’t have to hear any more acoustic music.
Misty responded almost immediately: YES!!!!!
Jazz chuckled and jumped up from the couch. Minutes later, he locked up his apartment just in time to hear the Airbnb guy talking to someone about the place he’d rented. Dumb millennial neighbors. Jazz didn’t want to see them evicted, but seriously? He paid to have a security locked building so he didn’t have to worry about strangers rolling in and out.
An uneasy feeling settled over him.
A stranger renting the apartment next door on the same weekend of two gruesome murders, and Norbert’s body had been staged inside the salon downstairs. Could it be a coincidence? Maybe Russell had something to do with these murders, maybe he didn’t. But Russell did have a lot of seedy connections and the money to contract a killer. What if the stranger next door was the hired gun?
Suddenly this building didn’t feel as safe as it had before.
For a moment, he thought about getting his Colt 1911 out of the bedroom closet, then shook his head at himself. No, I’ll be fine at Misty’s.
He managed to avoid the cops and the gawkers on his way to his scooter. Once he’d straddled Beulah and started her up, he sped down an alley unseen, then turned out onto Steelhead Avenue.
It was a short and refreshing drive over to Misty’s. She lived on a cul-de-sac in a little subdivision east of downtown with a cute name, Warbler Glen, which Jazz liked to tease her about, calling it Goblin Glen or Goober Glen.
Jazz saw an unfamiliar large white van, like a church might use.
Oh, great, Misty’s new extended family is here.
Jazz parked Beulah right on Misty’s walkway and headed into her cute gray-and-white bungalow. Each of the houses in her neighborhood were similar copies, with manicured lawns, shutters, front porches, all creating a sense of community and security.
A false sense of security, he thought bitterly, but forced it down.
Misty’s front lawn, however, was wild with tall native grasses and flowering bushes, intermixed with driftwood, most likely found on the nearby shores of Lake Michigan. It was far more free-form than her neighbors’, with whimsical lawn decorations and wind chimes that suited Misty to a tee.
Jazz was a “no need to knock” friend, and he let himself in the front door, calling out, “Hey there, Misty Mae, Jazz is here to save the day!” He chuckled. “I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.”
Jazz was met with two sour expressions, the first from Herschel on Misty’s beige suede couch, surrounded by wildly colorful pillows as he restrung a violin bow. The second was from Herschel’s young stepson, Oslo, who sat forlornly, as if he’d just been scolded or perhaps had his mouth washed out with soap. Oslo’s face brightened momentarily at the sight of Jazz, the boy’s fingers dexterously weaving together what looked like severed bow strings into some sort of arts-and-crafts braid. Probably not allowed to play video games like a normal kid. The dream catchers on Misty’s lime-green walls, the fluffy white carpet, and tie-dyed curtains—along with the glow from all her himalayan salt lamps—made Herschel’s stern black suit and drawn face seem wildly out of plac
e.
“Hi.” Jazz gave them a jaunty wave before hurrying into the kitchen.
Bright pink walls and white cabinets greeted him—along with Misty and her grumpy cousin, Dorothy. Daughter Beatrice sat at the island bar, peeling potatoes. Jazz noted the girl’s blue glitter nail polish was gone. Ol’ stepdaddy must’ve disapproved of that along with last night’s makeup.
Jazz tried not to frown.
“Oh, you’re a lifesaver,” Misty said when she saw him. She beamed at her cousin. “Jazz is an amazing cook.”
Dorothy forced a smile, which Jazz read clearly: Real men don’t do ladies’ work.
Rather than ask where do you keep the broom—he refused to sink to their level—Jazz clasped his hands together. “What do you need me to do?”
“Potato salad? Coleslaw, or maybe the marinade for the chicken….”
Her voice trailed off, and Jazz knew he’d arrived just in time. She was frazzled.
“I’m on it,” he said, grateful to have busywork. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it all together. Did you make a menu?”
She pointed at the fridge, where a list of picnic foods were scrawled on a dry erase board. Only pop and beer were crossed off.
“Let’s get started, then,” Jazz declared. He got a sick thrill at the frowns from her cousins when he unashamedly took one of Misty’s frilly kitchen aprons out of her pantry and donned it.
“I look so good in peach,” Jazz said to Misty, smoothing the flowered fabric.
“You do!”
Soon he lost himself to the rhythmic act of chopping onions. He noted that Misty’s relatives watched his culinary knife skills with obvious surprise and envy.
“You have all this under control,” Misty declared after the potatoes were boiling and the coleslaw was done. “Dottie, will you and Bea help me find the centerpieces in the basement?”
Misty and the sister wives headed downstairs. Oslo walked in after they left, drawing up short when he spied Jazz.
Their eyes met, and Jazz noticed his empty glass. He nodded toward the fridge. “Pop is in there.”
“Oh, we don’t partake in sugary drinks.”
Jazz barely refrained from an Of course you don’t and smiled instead. “Filtered water is at the sink.”
Oslo walked around the island where Jazz chopped celery for the potato salad, almost skirting Jazz the whole time. The boy stopped at the sink and opened a container of Clorox wipes, pulling two free and cleaning his hands. A strong smell of chlorine wafted over Jazz, and he struggled to keep from telling Oslo using those would strip his skin of all the natural oils.
Oslo filled his glass at the sink, then surprised Jazz by leaning against the counter to Jazz’s left and openly staring at him.
Only allowing it a moment, Jazz stopped chopping and turned to face him.
Oslo didn’t flinch. “You’re good at that,” he said, gesturing to the cutting board with his glass.
“I like cooking,” Jazz replied, unsure what Oslo wanted.
Tipping his head, Oslo studied him more closely. “Your eyeliner is interesting. How’d you learn to do that?”
His tone was one of curiosity, not condemnation, so Jazz answered, “I’m a hairstylist. Learning makeup is part of the skill set.”
“A hairstylist? That explains your nice hair.”
Not immune to a compliment, Jazz offered Oslo a smile. “Thanks. You know, with those big green eyes of yours, a brown eyeliner would really make them pop.”
Oslo blushed. “You think so?”
“I do,” Jazz said, suddenly feeling sorry for this young man.
“Oslo.”
The sharp tone drew them both up short.
Herschel entered the kitchen with the violin bow in hand.
“Your bow’s been restrung.”
“Thank you.” Oslo hurried from the kitchen, taking the bow on his way out.
Jazz met Herschel’s eye and put as much fuck you and your fucking brimstone energy into his stare as possible. Herschel took in Jazz’s apron, his disapproval obvious.
Before either of them could speak, Misty, Dorothy, and Beatrice came up the basement stairs, carrying folding camping chairs, red-white-and-blue streamers, and firework foil centerpieces.
“Everything all right up here?” Misty asked, obviously sensing the tension in the room.
“Everything is fine,” Herschel said, keeping his watery gaze fixed on Jazz.
“Jazz?” Misty asked.
Jazz gave a single nod and looked away from Herschel. “Everything’s jake, Misty Mae.” He flashed her a smile and went back to making the potato salad.
“Oslo,” Herschel called, and the boy immediately reappeared in the doorway. Herschel waved for his family to follow, and they all exited the kitchen for the backyard.
Misty closed the patio door, no doubt to cut Jazz off at the pass before he could snark about the von Trapps. “How’s Michael handling that other coroner taking over the… exams?”
“You mean his nemesis?” Jazz said with a smirk, then leaned in and lowered his voice. “And it’s called an autopsy, not an exam.”
Misty shivered and waved her hand. “I know what it’s called. I just don’t like that word. And you never answered my question.”
“He’s doing okay. It’s been a weird weekend, and he’s really busy over there, so I’m giving him space to get his shit done.”
“Is that what you want?”
“What? Space?” Jazz stopped what he was doing and looked at her. “I don’t know. Michael stopped by once he’d left the salon this morning. Gave me a miraculous foot rub and some other attention, if you know what I mean.”
“If I said I didn’t, would you give me the details?”
He grinned. “You know I would, but it would probably bring bolts of lightning down from the sky. Anyway, my brain felt… busy, you know? Like there was a lot of noise, and I couldn’t focus. I did some self-pampering, but then the festival music started up, and I really needed to get out of my place. And my own head, I guess. Michael’s got a lot on his plate this weekend, so I’m letting him do his thing and taking care of myself because it’s what I’ve always done.”
“But now you’ve got a handsome and caring man who wants to take care of you,” Misty said. “Don’t you think you should let him? Or even open up a bit and ask for what you need?”
“Oh, I do, when I really need him to do something.”
But do I really do that? Or do I just do things on my own like I’m used to? He wanted me to come over tonight, but I said I needed to be alone. Why?
Jazz didn’t really feel like being psychoanalyzed, so he changed the subject.
“I didn’t get a chance to ask why you were with Sheriff Musgrave this morning. You never schedule appointments that early.” Jazz stopped mixing the potato salad and looked at her as his mouth dropped open. “Did you spend the night with him?”
“Oh my God, no!” Misty’s face was bright red, and she wouldn’t meet his eye. “But we did meet for breakfast at Silvia’s. He asked me out after that mess at the festival last night.”
Silvia’s Breakfast and Lunch Spot was a small but well-appointed diner a few miles outside of Lacetown on the lake. Michael had taken Jazz there once on their way to the outlet malls in the middle of the state.
“That’s interesting. A nice little diner just far enough outside of town to not be seen by any locals.” He smirked. “And on the water too. How romantic.”
“Oh, you,” Misty said, snapping a dish towel in his direction. “Stop trying to cause trouble.” She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Besides, it was my idea to go there.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I like Silvia’s vegan waffles.”
Jazz made a face. “Vegan anything doesn’t sound like a reason to get up early, let alone leave the town limits.” He gasped quietly and turned to fully face her. “Oh my. Misty Musgrave?” Jazz shook his head. “I don’t like how that sounds. If you marry him, you need to keep your na
me.”
“Oh, for the love of modern medicine, we only went to breakfast,” Misty said and blew a curly piece of hair from her face with a huff of breath.
“That’s how it starts. So did you two have anything to talk about? Or did you just sit and look at his big hands the entire time and wonder if the size of a man’s hands really does apply to the size of his dick?”
Misty flicked water at him from the sink. “You’re terrible!” She blushed again and glanced away a moment, then moved closer with a secretive smirk. “I must say, I wouldn’t mind finding out. He does have big hands, doesn’t he? Big, strong hands.”
They laughed together until Misty’s cousins tromped back inside and sucked all the joy from the air. Jazz and Misty exchanged looks with raised eyebrows and returned to their preparations.
In between avoiding more awkward glowers from the relatives, Jazz managed to get Misty’s menu on track. By the time he needed to leave to go to the funeral parlor to style his two customers—so much death lately, it didn’t seem Jazz could escape it—everything was ready to go for the next day.
Jazz doubted he’d get to spend much time with his mortician while he worked. The two ladies from the Bluffs, his nemesis in town, and two murders darkening their doorsteps was keeping him occupied. With all that going on, most likely he’d get to say a quick, “Hi, sweetie, I miss you,” and that would be it. But for now, it would be enough.
“Jazz, you were a lifesaver,” Misty insisted as she walked him to the door.
“Anything to help.”
“It helps to keep busy,” she admitted. She looked as strained as Jazz felt.
“I’m going to see Russell on Monday,” he told her.
Her blue eyes widened. “You sure that’s a good idea on top of everything?”
He sighed. “I think so? I just need this chapter of my life to be over. It’s messing with my head and causing stress between me and Michael.”
Her brows knitted in concern. “You’re having problems?”
“No, no,” he quickly assured her. “But Russell is fucking with my head still, and I don’t want his shadow over me and Michael. I really care about Michael. Like more than anyone ever before him. He’s perfect, ya know?”
