Murder Most Deserving

by Hank Edwards

  Time with Michael later would be the final ingredient for a complete exorcism.

  With his sister still off visiting their other sibling, Gruff was running the place on his own, so he didn’t spend a lot of time talking with Jazz. After the adrenaline rush and conversation at the gun range, though, Jazz was content to sip his iced tea and devour his burger and fries on his own.

  No sign of Misty’s whackadoo cousins in the diner, either, for which he was grateful.

  Misty wouldn’t buy it, but Jazz thought his visit to the gun range might have been better for his state of mind than the yoga.

  As he slurped up the last of his tea, he read over the text Misty had sent him while he’d been on the road. She’d gone to the salon and found it sparkling clean. Jazz’s chair had been taken into evidence by the police, so he’d have to use the station next to hers, which he was fine with, since his space had some bad mojo associated with it.

  He chuckled when he read the part where she said she’d burned enough sage to clear bad energy from the entire town.

  Jazz sent her a text: Let’s hope the sage helps. Mind if I go in tonight and set up the new station?

  No problem, she sent back. How did it go with the visit?

  That was way too much to try to explain in a text, so he wrote back, Call me?

  Can’t, I’m having dinner with the girls

  No preacher? Lucky you

  LOL, you’re bad! No he and Oslo are off doing some male bonding

  Jazz sniffed. What the hell could Herschel’s idea of male bonding be? Ok, have fun. TTYL

  He left some cash on the table, including a generous tip, and waved to Gruff on his way out the door. He drove back to his apartment as the sun dropped toward the waves of Lake Michigan, and he parked his car in the back corner as usual. Pocketing his phone, he gathered his nylon bag, which housed his pistol and ammo, before getting out of the Miata with a groan. Gruff’s food was good, but heavy. He locked the car and headed toward the salon.

  If he was being honest with himself—which he was trying to do—he also wanted some closure about the whole Norbert thing.

  He still had no idea why anyone would kill the guy and leave him in Misty’s place and in his chair.

  It felt like a warning.

  But after seeing Russell, he doubted the message was from his ex.

  So if it hadn’t been a message from his ex, then from whom? Ally might have had a beef with him after he’d saved Norbie’s bacon, but enough to try to implicate him in the murder? And what was she doing with the odd Airbnb guy from next door? Too many questions and not enough answers.

  Just like life, baby.

  His bag was heavy, and he switched it to his left hand so he could unlock the salon. The motion-sensing light above the door buzzed into life as he approached.

  He held his breath as he turned the key, anxious about walking in there again. But if he was gonna freak out, best to do it without clients around, right?

  Jazz slipped inside and locked the door behind him. The salon was dark and the pungent aroma of sage lingered in the air. As he reached for the light switch, the murmur of voices drew him up short.

  His heart leaped in his chest.

  Not again….

  What the fuck should he do? Had someone broken in? Was someone leaving another body? Were the cops still here collecting evidence? No, they wouldn’t leave the lights off. He should call the cops, but it was dark and whoever had broken in would surely see the cop’s red-and-blue lights and make a break for it right toward him.

  The break room. If he could get in there, he could make a quiet call.

  Dammit, he’d never oiled those hinges! Shit! His tendency to procrastination was going to be the death of him for sure. His heart raced and helpless panic threatened his hard-fought-for serenity.

  The weight of the bag in his hand seemed to speak to him.

  I’m not helpless….

  Moving carefully, so as to not make a sound, Jazz set it on the floor and ever so quietly opened the zipper. His .45 was tucked into a secure compartment. When Jazz released the snap holding it into place, he held his breath.

  Out in the salon, the low rhythmic voice never wavered.

  Jazz was surprised by how calm and collected his hands were as he deftly removed the unloaded pistol and a full magazine. After spending time at the range, the weapon felt comfortable, confident in his hand. He slipped the magazine in, but didn’t clip it in place.

  He crept forward, eyes adjusting to the dark, gun toward the ground and palm underneath the magazine, holding it in place.

  Streetlamps outside the front window illuminated two silhouettes in the main salon, one tall and imposing, standing before another figure on its knees.

  For a flash Jazz thought one of his coworkers might be giving her boyfriend a BJ, but then he heard the voice.

  “…forgive my son for his impure actions, Lord. He knows not what he does. Let this serve as a reminder—”

  “What the fuck!” Jazz snarled as he slapped his magazine in place and flipped on the safety. Time seemed to speed up, and his brain caught up to his pulse when he realized what he was seeing. “How the hell did you get in here, Herschel?”

  “Jazz!”

  Jazz shook his head as the figure on its knees spoke.

  “Oslo? What the hell are you two in here for?” He was about to set his gun down and flip on the lights, but then Herschel’s harsh command halted him in his tracks.

  “You should not be here, sinner,” Herschel declared. “We are doing the Lord’s work. Unless you intend to repent of your sinning ways, like my son is doing, leave us at once!”

  Jazz let out a bark of laughter. “I ain’t going anywhere. Does Misty know you’re here?”

  “Of course she does,” Herschel scoffed.

  Jazz narrowed his gaze, and his hand tightened on his pistol grip. Hadn’t Misty said that Oslo and Herschel were “male bonding”? Why would they need to do that here, and in the dark? He hesitated to flip his gun’s safety off, even though every hair on his scalp prickled in warning.

  And then his earlier thought of a blow job in progress went through his mind. He felt a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. Michael had been right to worry about poor Oslo.

  “Yeah,” Jazz said, reaching with his free hand for his phone. “Something’s not adding up. I’ll just give Misty a call.”

  Jazz’s hand never reached his pocket.

  MICHAEL PULLED into the parking lot of the Holland Harbor Lofts, anxious to see Jazz. The day had been hectic, but all the services had run smoothly. While Steve cleaned the rental hearse to return tomorrow, Michael had sent Ezra to deliver the unwanted floral arrangements to the Bluffs. Like a well-oiled machine, Kitty and Michael had put the funeral parlor back to rights, and Michael was actually done earlier than he’d expected. He couldn’t see if Jazz’s scooter was in the lot, but his car was there. It was almost 9:00 p.m., giving them plenty of time to relax before the fireworks started.

  Independence Day was later in the week, but the Lacetown City Council had scheduled the fireworks for Monday night to capitalize on the festival crowd—and avoid competition with Bridlestop, who always set their fireworks for July Fourth, and who always had a better show.

  The crowds had been too thick for him to hit the store, so they would have to make do with whatever refreshments and snacks Jazz had on hand. Michael opened the building’s exterior door with the four-digit code he’d easily memorized and made his way up the stairs. He knocked on Jazz’s door, but there was no response. Maybe Jazz had braved the crowded streets and taken Beulah out to the store. Delighted Jazz had given him a key to his apartment, he slid it into the lock, feeling incredibly honored.

  Jazz trusted him, and that meant so much to Michael. Not just with his personal items and all the things he held dear inside his apartment, but with their decision to forego the use of condoms too. Michael knew this level of trust on Jazz’s part was a major step in their relat
ionship, especially considering the awful betrayals Russell had piled on during their marriage.

  Such a deep relationship was new to both of them.

  Hopefully Jazz wouldn’t see the incident with Ezra as a betrayal.

  Dammit, why did he do that? And why didn’t I see it coming?

  Michael barely had the key in the lock when the door to the neighboring apartment flew open. The tall man they’d followed from Misty’s block party stepped out into the hallway.

  “What are you doing here?” Joe demanded as if startled to see Michael standing at Jazz’s door.

  Not liking the man’s tone, Michael drew up to his full height, grateful he was at least bulkier than the taller man, and hopefully a little bit intimidating.

  “I could ask you the same,” Michael queried. “And why are you so evasive about the reason you’re in town?”

  Joe let out a weary sigh. “If you must know, I follow the festival circuit.”

  Michael eyed his bright orange hawaiian shirt covered in parrots. “You strike me more as a Jimmy Buffett fan than a folk fan.”

  Joe flashed a grin, which made him look more attractive. “No denying that.”

  “Then why is it you follow an acoustic festival?”

  He took a step closer and lowered his voice. “I’m doing some investigative work.”

  Michael cocked his head. “Your voice sounds really familiar. Why is that?”

  “Do you like podcasts?” Joe asked.

  Understanding hit Michael at that moment, and he gasped. “You’re Blake Hanson from Frigid Forensics!”

  Joe smiled. “You know it?”

  “I listen every week!” Michael laughed. “It’s my favorite podcast. I even tweet with you. I’m Captain Coroner.”

  “You’re the Captain?” Joe clapped his hands, and his eyes twinkled. “I can’t believe it!”

  “What a small world,” Michael said. “But why are you calling yourself Joe Stinson?”

  “That’s my real name. Blake Hanson is an alias. I do that so I can travel around and not be noticed when I register for hotels or conferences or festivals.”

  “Smart idea,” Michael said. “Any chance you could give me a spoiler about the widow who ran away to Vietnam? Do they catch her?”

  Joe grinned. “You’ll have to tune in Thursday.”

  Michael smiled back, then cocked his head to the side. “So is the show why you’re here in Lacetown? Are you here doing a podcast on Dylan Roberts’s murder?”

  “That might happen if I find something the police missed. But that story’s been beaten to death, no pun intended. I mean, Withingham was caught red-handed and he’s already behind bars,” Joe said with a shrug. “I’m actually here tracking a serial killer case.”

  “Serial killer?” An uneasy thrill shot down Michael’s spine. “Here in Lacetown?”

  A loud cracking sound downstairs made them jump.

  Bang, bang!

  “Are those fireworks?” Joe asked.

  Bang!

  “Those are gunshots!” Michael exclaimed. “Call 9-1-1!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  HERSCHEL WAS a big man, but he was fast for his size.

  As Jazz reached for his phone to call Misty, Herschel lunged at him. The sight of the big man barreling down on him was so frightening, Jazz couldn’t think of how he should react. Before he could grab his phone or raise his gun, Herschel tackled him.

  The air left Jazz’s lungs as he hit the floor. His ass took the brunt of his fall, which sent a spark of pain up his spine. His teeth clicked together, just missing the tip of his tongue.

  Thankfully he kept hold of his gun and a measure of his wits. He flipped off the safety with his thumb.

  Herschel moved quickly, sliding off Jazz and around behind him. He lifted Jazz’s shoulders off the floor. Right as Jazz started to wonder if this had all been a huge misunderstanding and Herschel intended to help him to his feet, something looped around his throat. It pulled tight, stopping his breath and digging into his skin. It kicked off a wave of panic that rolled through him.

  He’s trying to strangle me like….

  Herschel was the killer. Herschel had killed Bill Denton and Norbert.

  And now Jazz would be next.

  But why?

  Jazz lifted his hand and tried to turn his gun toward Herschel. He pulled the trigger once, twice, and a third time. Herschel jumped, but his grip didn’t loosen.

  On his side, with Herschel all but atop him, Jazz struggled and tried to get his fingers beneath the ligature, but it was too damn tight. He stomped his feet against the floor and clawed at Herschel’s forearms as he gasped for air. Wildly he fought one-armed, refusing to release his gun, though the arm that held it was all but pinned beneath him. He got off another shot, but it went wild.

  God, I hope someone hears the gunfire….

  A shadowy shape paced in the salon, and Jazz thought for a moment it might be Michael, come to save him. But then the figure strode through the glow of a streetlamp.

  Oslo! The boy had his hands fisted in his hair, his face scrunched up in anguish.

  “Stop!” Oslo screamed. “This is bad!”

  “Silence, boy! This is what cleansing sin looks like!” Herschel shouted, yanking back on Jazz and forcing a gagging sound out of him. “I brought you to this place where I’ve cleansed the Earth to help you see that sin has no place here.”

  “No, stop! It has to stop!”

  “Never, son. Not until the Lord’s work is done!”

  Herschel’s grip loosened only slightly as he rambled to Oslo.

  But it was enough for Jazz. He twisted in place, rolling partially onto his back and feeling the cord around his neck rip across his skin, burning the flesh. Herschel’s grip loosened even more with Jazz’s movements, and Jazz sucked in a thin breath. It helped, but he needed more. He managed to get his bottom arm free, twisted his gun across his body, and pressed the barrel into Herschel’s gut.

  He pulled the trigger without hesitation.

  The gun recoiled hard against Jazz’s hand, the loud rapport swallowing Herschel’s cry of anguish and surprise.

  The weight on Jazz’s body disappeared, and the cord loosened, draping around his shoulders.

  Gasping for air, Jazz scrambled away from the man, coughing wetly, desperate for oxygen. His head spun, and he blinked back the lights swirling in his vision. His ears were ringing as he tried to get his bearings.

  What the…? What just happened…?

  He sucked in another trembling breath as the ringing in his ears receded. Suddenly he became aware of his surroundings, the sound of his ragged breathing, the pain in his neck.

  No, this wasn’t a dream.

  I’m in the salon…. Herschel tried to kill me….

  Shit! Herschel!

  Frantic, Jazz threw the thin cord away from him. Drawing in deep lungfuls of air, he used his feet to push himself across the floor. He had to put distance between them. Images of Russell scrambling after him naked and wet spurred Jazz on with frantic urgency.

  Nearby, someone moaned in pain.

  Someone else was wracked with deep, gut-clenching sobs.

  But where was Michael? Shouldn’t Michael be here?

  Jazz crawled a little farther along the floor, and no one pursued him. Breathless, he turned around when he reached the wall. He rested his back against it. His throat burned and his chest ached, but he was thinking more clearly now.

  Herschel lay to Jazz’s left, doubled up in pain near the back hall as blood pooled on the floor tiles. The guys at the range would be proud of Jazz for that hit.

  He let out a strangled-sounding bark of inappropriate laughter.

  Okay, so maybe I’m not thinking clearly.

  But Herschel was down, and he wasn’t coming for Jazz, so Jazz took a minute to take inventory of the situation and himself. He felt his neck, and it hurt, but there was no blood. And he could breathe and think again.

  Herschel was the killer.r />
  Norbert’s murder had not been a threat sent from Russell in prison. It had been a punishment dealt out by Misty’s cousin’s psycho husband.

  To Jazz’s right, Oslo knelt sobbing with his head hanging down and his hands covering his face.

  What the actual fuck did I walk in on?

  The back door opened, and three figures burst through, nearly stepping on Herschel. Jazz lifted his hand to point his gun at the new intruders, but then realized he wasn’t holding it. Where had he dropped his gun?

  “Jazz!”

  The sound of Michael’s voice was like the finest breath of fresh air on a summer night, and Jazz squinted as someone switched on the lights.

  Jazz managed a weak smile. “Mich—” The word was cut off in a coughing fit that came out of nowhere. His throat burned and his neck hurt, but then Michael was there, kneeling beside him and touching Jazz’s face. Just the smell of him and the sound of his voice made Jazz feel safe.

  “Jesus, you’re hurt,” Michael said. “Let me see. This may hurt.”

  Jazz winced as Michael carefully tipped his head back. “How bad is it, Doc?” His voice was hoarse, and the sound of it made him chuckle, in spite of everything that had happened. He wanted to tell Michael that he sounded like Brenda Vaccaro, but that felt like too many words to try and say. And he didn’t think Michael would know who she was anyway.

  “The skin’s bruised,” Michael said. “Broken in spots. But it doesn’t look like any deep tissue or muscle damage.” He gently moved Jazz’s head around, then smiled as their eyes met.

  Jazz managed a smile. “Am I your first breathing patient?”

  Tears welled up in Michael’s eyes, and he placed a warm palm against Jazz’s cheek. “You’re my first, my last, my everything.”

  Jazz felt tears threatening as well. He’d just been through a lot, but he didn’t think Michael was referring to a patient examination any longer. His heart pounded, and a warm feeling spread through him. Before he could respond, however, a woman spoke from close by.