Murder Most Lovely Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  About the Authors

  By Hank Edwards

  By Deanna Wadsworth

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  Murder Most Lovely

  By Hank Edwards and Deanna Wadsworth

  Lacetown Murder Mysteries: Case One

  A killer at a small-town literary festival. Bumbling drug dealers. A kidnapped cat. Starting a romance among all this chaos might be the death of them.

  Michael Fleishman is excited to meet his favorite mystery writer, Russell Withingham, at Lacetown’s Literary Fest. He is not expecting to cross paths with sexy hairdresser Jasper “Jazz” Dilworth—or become embroiled in a real-life mystery. As Lacetown’s only mortician and the county coroner, Michael is called to his first murder scene and is shocked to recognize the victim—Russell’s young lover.

  Jazz only wanted to confront his ex, Russell, over his cheating. Instead, he meets the adorably awkward Michael and becomes a murder suspect. Soon Jazz is teaming up with Michael to clear his name. Along the way, they are helped and hindered by Michael’s sassy assistant, Kitty, the grumpy Sheriff Musgrave, Russell’s creepy PR rep, Norbert, and Michael’s lothario grandfather, who likes his manhattans strong and his women saucy. And of course, Mr. Pickles Furryton the Third….

  Chapter One

  MR. PICKLES will be so excited when I get home, Michael Fleishman thought.

  Well, he wasn’t really sure whether the taciturn cat would care if he had ten of his Brock Hammer novels signed by the author, but Michael would be excited.

  He parked his tan Camry in the last available angled parking space on Main Street, unable to believe his luck finding a spot. He ordinarily would’ve walked, living so close, but he didn’t want to risk getting any of his paperbacks or the two hardcovers wet in the rain.

  Lacetown, Michigan, was crowded for the Great Lakes Literary Fest. Today was the first day of the three-day festival, and sadly the tail end of a late-spring storm front. The festival kicked off the busy tourist season for their lakeside village, and despite the rain, the streets were busy with fans and visitors hunched under umbrellas, hoping to meet their favorite author at the afternoon signing event. The lesser-known authors were trying to stay dry under tents in the town square, but most of the big-name authors had been moved indoors for their signings, the bars and restaurants serving as makeshift bookstores.

  And in Michael’s mind, there weren’t many big names in fiction he wanted to meet more than Russell Withingham.

  He’d checked the festival website before leaving the house and knew Mr. Withingham would be inside Kelsey’s Bar & Grill. There was a small line forming outside already, so Michael grabbed his bag of books and his umbrella, and then hurried to join them.

  A woman he didn’t recognize in line in front of him smiled, and he nodded politely. There were always strange faces in their little town during the summer. Tourists mostly, and this weekend, literary fans.

  The crashing sound of waves drew Michael’s attention behind him. Main Street ended at Lake Shore Drive, and on the other side, a boardwalk overlooked their unswimmable portion of Lake Michigan. Large waves crested, crashing in places over the spacious boardwalk stretching the length of town. He spied a few unfortunate tourists who didn’t have the presence of mind to see the obvious safety hazard of being out there when the lake was unhappy.

  Hoping no one would be hurt, he adjusted his bag on his shoulder and tried to keep his umbrella from poking the lady’s in front of him. Fleishman Funeral Home only had gigantic golf umbrellas for services, and he was glad for it when the rain picked up and a gust blew mist onto his glasses. He shoved them into his front shirt pocket, knowing there would be no use keeping them clean until he was inside.

  “Shit, I thought this rain was supposed to let up this afternoon,” a deep masculine voice from behind him said.

  Michael turned and drew up short.

  “Whoa there, pal. You could take an eye out with that thing.”

  For a heartbeat Michael froze and stared.

  The man had a long face and wheat-colored hair swept back from a low brow and into a ponytail. Eyes the color of cognac had just enough sparkle to make Michael smile and conjure thoughts of mischief and long summer romances.

  And you’re staring at him like a ninny!

  Michael hastily stepped back to avoid poking the gorgeous man in the eye with his umbrella. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, watch it,” the lady in front of him snapped. “You’re soaking me!”

  Michael jumped when he realized his big umbrella had slipped beneath hers and was funneling water right onto her.

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” he said at once, stepping back the other way.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Ponytail Guy said again, reaching up to take hold of the eye-level pin on Michael’s umbrella. “How about I just join you?” And then he stepped under the huge umbrella with Michael.

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” Michael managed, squirming a little. “There’s plenty of room.”

  The man used both hands to brush a few wayward strands of blond hair off his face, his tanned skin glistening from the rain. He wore a ring on a long well-manicured index finger. Smiling, he held out a hand. “I’m Jazz Dilworth.”

  What a strange name. Sounds like something in a mystery novel.

  He quickly shook the proffered hand. “Michael Fleishman.”

  Jazz flipped a thumb behind him. “I work across the street at Misty’s Makeover Palace.” He furrowed tidy brows. “Fleishman, like the funeral parlor?”

  “Yes, the same.”

  “Eew,” the lady in front of him said with a distinct Valley girl attitude.

  Michael maintained his polite mortician smile. Sadly, he was used to the reaction.

  Hence his lackluster love life.

  Expecting Jazz to make some equally grossed-out remark and leave the shelter of the umbrella, Michael looked back at him.

  But Jazz was smiling, his white teeth radiant and even. “That explains the planet-sized umbrella. Only ever see those at funerals and on golf courses.”

  Michael’s facial muscles softened, and the smile he gave Jazz was more genuine, relaxed. “Yes, they come in handy.”

  Jazz grinned. “I bet they do.”

  This man was gorgeous. He had to be younger than Michael. But more importantly, he had the potential for being gay since he was a hairdresser. Well aware of his stereotyping, Michael was nonetheless hopeful.

  He wasn’t the best flirt, but sharing an umbrella with an attractive man in front of a bar acting as a makeshift bookstore felt like the opening of a rom-com, so he was ready to give it the ol’ college try.

  �
�Are you a fan of the Brock Hammer novels too?” he asked, glad his glasses were in his pocket. Jazz stood so close, Michael didn’t even need them to clearly see his handsome face.

  Jazz scoffed. “Used to be.”

  “Oh.” Michael’s heart fell. So much for common interests. “Did you know this line is to meet the author?”

  “I know, all right. The fucker’s been ducking my calls for weeks.”

  Michael flinched at the man’s crass remark. “You know Russell Withingham?”

  “Married to him,” Jazz said. “Separated.”

  So he is gay…. Michael shook his head. “Wait, what?”

  Those warm brown eyes met his, and Jazz smiled. “Separated,” he said again. “Permanently. He’s supposed to still be making my car payment, and I just got a call from the bank. He hasn’t made the last two payments.”

  Michael didn’t know if he was more disappointed to find out his favorite author was a jerk, or excited to know the man under his umbrella was gay and single.

  Well, possibly single.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Michael offered.

  Jazz shrugged. “Nothing for you to be sorry for,” he quipped. “In fact, I should be thanking you for sharing your umbrella with me. Nothing worse than running into an ex with your hair all soaking wet, looking like a hot mess. I wanna be a vision when I tell him off. You know, make him regret losing me.”

  Michael couldn’t help his involuntary head-to-toe sweep of Jazz’s body. He was a vision. Jazz carried some extra weight on him, but Michael liked men of a husky build. They seemed more solid and down-to-earth. Any man who would give up all the hunkiness Jazz had to offer had to be nuts.

  Oh, the things Michael would do with him if he could. I’d drip hot candle wax on each of his nipples while I rode….

  Awkward, Michael cleared his throat when he realized Jazz was staring right at him. Michael’s face heated. Thankfully the guy couldn’t read his thoughts. “I’m sure he’ll regret it. You look great.”

  Jazz’s grin widened, and he tugged a little on the vest he wore over a white V-neck T-shirt. “Thanks.”

  Still feeling warm in the face—among other places now—Michael smiled back. “You’re welcome.”

  “I used to love Russell’s books. Was totally a fangirl.” Jazz leaned in and spoke softly. “The first dozen were great. Now they’re crap, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  While Jazz was simply whispering closely so the other fans might not hear, Michael relished his nearness. “Yeah, that’s why I only brought the first ten to get signed.”

  “Ten?” Jazz’s brows shot up.

  He worried his upper lip. “Is that too many?”

  Jazz laughed, a free, easy sound. “Oh, Russ will be thrilled. Trust me.”

  Granted, Russell Withingham might be a bad husband, but Michael loved his books and didn’t want to annoy the man.

  Looking for something to discuss besides Jazz’s ex, Michael said, “Your boss, Misty, does work for me sometimes. She took care of one of my clients for her funeral yesterday.”

  “Yeah, I know. It was Beatrice Neibolt.”

  “Misty doesn’t like working for me,” Michael confessed.

  “I know,” Jazz agreed. “I heard all about it.”

  “You did?” He had no idea Misty disliked styling his clients so much that she might be complaining about it.

  “Yeah, creeps her out,” Jazz said. “I don’t know why. You stay in this business long enough, eventually you get a call to give a client their last do. I don’t know where they’re going in the next life, but I’ll be damned if any of my clients get to the other side with their hair a wreck.”

  “You’ve cared for the deceased before?” Michael asked, pleasantly surprised. Most people were freaked out by what he did for a living. Running a successful funeral parlor and being appointed county coroner should have brought him prestige and respectability, and he supposed it did in some circles. But working with dead people left most folks unsettled, rather than endearing anyone to him.

  “Sure,” Jazz said with a casual shrug. “I don’t see the big deal.”

  Grinning wide, Michael fished in his pocket for the leather business card holder he never left the house without. He flipped it open and withdrew a card. “If you’d like some extra work, I’d love to have you.” He heard how that sounded and quickly added, “Um, have you do some styling for me. I mean, for my clients.”

  Jazz smiled as he took the card. “I knew what you meant. And Misty will be thrilled.” Then he dug in his front pocket, the jeans just tight enough in all the right places that when his hand filled the denim, it accentuated his nice package. “Here’s my card. You can get my references from Misty, if you want.”

  Michael was still smiling as he took the card and carefully placed it into his card holder. “I’m sure that you’re more than qualified. You said you’ve been in the business a while.”

  “Knocking on thirty years.”

  Michael scoffed. “Did you start in preschool?”

  “Hardly,” Jazz laughed. “A good hair colorist and access to the finest beauty products all culminate for the perfect illusion.” He leaned in. “I’m forty-one.”

  “Me too,” Michael said. “But you don’t look a day over thirty-one.”

  Jazz put his hand on his chest. “Oh, you flatter me.”

  The line inched closer to the door.

  “Jazz, is that a nickname?”

  “Short for Jasper. I can be a little jazzy, and I love music, so there you go. But I can’t play or read music.”

  “Me neither. No artistic talent whatsoever.”

  Jazz frowned. “Your work has a bit of art to it.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m rubbish with the hair. That’s why I need Misty for my female clients.”

  “Good thing you met me today.”

  Now he was grinning like a fool, but he couldn’t help it. “Yes. Good thing.”

  Far too soon for Michael’s liking, they reached the door, and he gestured Jazz ahead of him. He had to close and shake off his umbrella before he stepped inside, which sadly ended whatever private and possibly flirtatious moment he’d been sharing with the gorgeous Jazz.

  Jazz scanned the bar, jaw set.

  Helping him out, Michael pointed to the back corner, where a middle-aged man with thinning blond hair, a black velour blazer, and burgundy ascot sat behind a table with mounds of books. “He’s over there.”

  “Thanks,” Jazz said, his shoulders relaxing. He gestured to Michael’s umbrella. “Mind if I hold that till I get up there?”

  Michael realized Jazz wanted it to hide from his ex until he got closer. And while not wanting to get involved, Michael liked the idea of having a chance to spend more time conversing.

  Jazz held the umbrella over one shoulder and turned so it blocked his profile from Russell’s view. Michael stood behind Jazz and watched as drops of rain ran down the side of his neck. He longed to let his tongue follow that rain beneath the neck of Jazz’s T-shirt. But that wasn’t something he did, and not only because he was a Lacetown business owner. He needed to work on relaxing and letting go of his inhibitions. At least that’s what all his exes had told him. One even went so far as to say Michael’s clients had more warmth than him.

  Ouch.

  “So you live here?”

  Michael blinked. “What? Oh. Here in Lacetown?”

  Jazz grinned. “No, here in the bar.”

  A blush heated Michael’s cheeks. “Sorry. I was woolgathering.”

  “I like that.”

  “What?”

  “Woolgathering. It’s not used that often anymore. I like it.”

  “Oh. Well. Thank you. And, yes, I was born and raised here.” Michael cleared his throat and looked away, then back. The bag of books suddenly seemed very heavy, and he switched shoulders. Jazz held his gaze, warm brown eyes locked on to Michael’s.

  “So what happened between you two?” The words were out before Mi
chael could run them through his mental filter to see if they were appropriate.

  Jazz’s forehead furrowed. “Me and Russell?”

  Panic zinged through Michael. “I’m sorry. That was a very personal question, and we just met. Forget I asked.”

  “No, it’s okay.” Jazz took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Russell likes his side dishes.”

  “Side dishes?” Candied yams popped into Michael’s mind.

  “You know….” Jazz glanced at the woman in front of them, who seemed to be leaning back and listening. He moved fast, putting a hand on her shoulder and easing her forward and away from them as he said, “Careful there. Looked like you were about to tip over. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself before you get to meet Russell Withingham.”

  “Oh, no… I wasn’t… I wouldn’t….” The woman’s cheeks flushed, and she took a step forward.

  “There you go.” Jazz turned back to Michael with a grin. “Where was I?”

  “Side dishes,” Michael managed, even though his mouth was dry. There were six people between them and Russell. And then what? They’d exchanged business cards, but would Jazz even call? Could Michael bring himself to call?

  “Right. Side dishes. Like, you know, a twink on one side, maybe a bear on the other. It happens, I know, and some couples get off on inviting other people to the party, but I’m a one-on-one kind of guy. Maybe if he’d asked me about it, like, before we said our ‘I dos.’” Jazz sighed and peeked around the umbrella. “Five more people. He’s really moving them along now.”

  “Are you sure he won’t be mad I have ten books?” Michael asked, even more nervous now. He didn’t want to piss off his favorite author.

  “Oh, honey, by the time I’m done talking to him, he won’t be able to count to ten.”

  “Oh?” A flutter of nerves went through Michael. What if Jazz went off on Russell before Michael was able to get his books signed? Would Russell be so upset he would storm off and leave those still waiting in line with their books in hand?

  “Three more people,” Jazz whispered and winked.

  “I’m sorry he cheated on you.”

  “Oh, sweetie, it wasn’t just him cheating on me. That makes it sound like it was a one-time or one-person event. He was dipping his quill in every ink pot in town. Or, to put it in a way you might appreciate, he was embalming every warm body in reach.”