For the Love of Jazz (6 page)

“And?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, resting her forehead against the glass. “But it still doesn’t seem right, after all this time. I can’t picture him driving into that tree.”

Turning around, she pinned her father with an intense stare. “Daddy, Jazz drove like a demon. Drove fast and always got tickets, but he was never once in an accident. Not once. It just doesn’t fit.”

Chapter Three

Disoriented, Jazz jerked his head up, looked around him, unsure what had woken him. Still half asleep, he pushed his face back into the throw pillow. The next knock was loud enough to rattle the windows. Cursing, he shoved himself to his feet, rubbing the back of his stiff neck.

Mariah had been up at the crack of dawn, but had fallen asleep around ten that morning and Jazz hadn’t been too far behind her. She still slept in a boneless little puddle in front of the TV. Stumbling past her, rubbing at his bloodshot eyes, he muffled a yelp as he stepped on a thumb-sized plastic unicorn, the horn poking straight in the tender arch of his foot. With a scowl on his face, he swung the door open.

Any lingering drowsiness disappeared in a haze of hatred as he gazed into the murky brown eyes of Larry Muldoon, the man who had found him torn and bleeding after the accident sixteen years earlier. The man who gleefully announced, while Jazz was pushed into the back of an ambulance, that he had killed Alex Kincade.

Time hadn’t been good to Larry. Always rail-thin and short, he had developed a protruding potbelly that hung over the polished belt of his uniform and his pale skin had turned sallow. What little hair he had was thin and sparse, sticking this way and that. The star he wore pinned to his stiffly ironed khaki uniform looked more comical than authoritative. Except for the beer gut hanging over his belt, Larry looked a lot like Barney from
The Andy Griffith Show
.

“Heard you were back here,” Larry said, tucking his thumbs into the loops of his trousers. Cocking his head to the side, he asked, “You planning on staying long?”

“You generally don’t buy a house if you’re planning on just staying the summer,” Jazz snapped, reaching for the door.

“You’d best be rethinking that plan. We don’t welcome killers around here.”

“Only wife beaters and bullies who beat up on kids, right?” Jazz replied edgily, backing away from the door.

“I don’t rightly know what it is you’re talking about,” Larry lied with a sly smile on his face. He knew. Oh, hell, yeah, he knew. Larry had been privy to a beating or two, had even once belted Jazz across the face. “All I know is what I told you that last night is just as true now as ever. I hear tell you’re a widower, lost your wife to cancer. You’re cursed, boy. I’ve told you that before and you didn’t listen.”

Rubbing a hand over his face, Jazz swore under his breath. In town less than a week and folks already knew about Sheri? Why in the hell had he moved back to this small town?

“Now, Jazz, I’m just here to offer some friendly advice.”

“Go away,” Jazz growled, raising his hand to shut the door in that sour face.

“Just a minute there, son. Got some words I need to say to you.”

Keeping his voice low and his eyes level, Jazz calmly replied, “Got a warrant on you, Deputy? If not, then you had best get off my land. I’ve nothing to say to you.”

“You’d be wise to pack up and leave, boy. Listen to your uncle here.”

His hand shot out before he could stop it, locking on Larry’s shirt, dragging him forward. Lowering his head until they were nose to nose, Jazz whispered, “You are not my uncle. And that sack of shit was never my father. I’d sooner drink Drano than belong in your family, got it?”

Sweat pearled on Larry’s brow, his upper lip and his hands. “You must be wanting to be arrested for assaulting an officer,” Larry sneered, reaching up and trying to pry the large, dark hands from his shirt.

A low, lackadaisical voice drawled, “Well, now, Larry. I don’t rightly see that he assaulted you.”

Slowly, relaxing each tensed muscle, Jazz let go. He turned his head to see a familiar face at the top of the porch stairs. Another blast from the past. Another uniform. And a face that brought, for once, welcome memories and smiles. “Look here. Cousin Tate, aren’t you looking important?” Jazz asked, tucking his hands in his pockets.

A smile spread over the dark, lean face, so similar to Jazz’s. The only son of Jasper McNeil Sr’s younger brother, and one of Jazz’s only remaining relatives, Tate McNeil had been there in the hospital when he awoke, had stood in the rain at his momma’s funeral, a shy, chubby boy.

Tate’s father, Waylan McNeil, had died in a fire trying to rescue a young mother. Tate was left alone with his momma, much like Jasper. But Tate’s momma hadn’t remarried. No, Ella had gone back to school, gotten a degree, and had been running her own real estate business for the past seventeen years.

“Deputy Muldoon, you got any official reason to be here?” Tate asked calmly, staring into the older man’s eyes.

“Just came to welcome Jazz back, is all. After all, we are family,” Larry said, his eyes sullen.

“A little family reunion, eh? Didn’t quite look that way to me,” Tate said. Raising his shoulders in a shrug, he added, “Course, I could be wrong.”

The hatred simmering in Muldoon’s eyes was palpable. “Well, now, Sheriff McNeil. You have been wrong a time or two.”

“Yes, I have. Don’t make yourself one of my mistakes, Deputy Muldoon,” Tate advised in a level tone. One straight, black brow lifted fractionally and a single cool glance from his dark eyes had Muldoon’s glare dropping away. “Get on back to work now—and I advise you not to go harassing this man here. History is not repeating itself.”

Before he could give release to the venom in his head, Muldoon stomped away, grumbling under his breath. Silently, the cousins watched as the police car pulled down the pitted driveway. Then they turned and studied each other.

“I would suggest, Cousin Jazz, that you watch your step with him. He is a pest, but even pests can cause a good deal of damage if they’re ignored.”

With a slow nod, Jazz acknowledged the warning. And the assistance. “I reckon I had better watch my speeding around town, as well. Seeing as how that was his favorite pastime a few years back.”

Chuckling, Tate said, “I’d reckon Doc Kincade pretty much paid for the renovations on the station house, with all those tickets of yours he paid.” He nodded to the swing across the porch. “Mind if I have a seat?”

“What’s mine is yours,” Jazz offered, spreading his arms wide. “Gotta admit, I’m impressed. You look a damn sight better than I would have expected.”

Stretching long, lean legs out in front of him, Tate leaned back and saluted Jazz. “To my inspiration. I knew if I looked like you did, all the girls would be tripping over me. You up and leaving the way you did, left the field right clear for me once I got ship shape. Thank God for the quarry. Went swimming there most every night that summer, clear up until Halloween. Then I started running.”

“Another Briarwood success story,” Jazz muttered, shaking his head. “So, there’s a new sheriff in town, huh? Your momma’s real proud of you.” With a sly smile, Jazz asked, “Does that mean you’ll fix my speeding tickets?”

With a quick wink, Tate said, “Well, that just depends on who writes the ticket.” Pushing the swing back lazily, he stared off into the distance. “Larry is going to hassle you, you know that, don’t you?”

Jazz responded with a grunt, reaching up to scratch his head.

“He blames you for your momma killing Beau. He muttered and cursed about it left and right at that time. And then when you up and left, he preened for weeks.”

“How do you know that? You were still in high school.”

“I hear things. When you’re a quiet kid, a lot of people don’t notice you’re standing right there and can hear everything that’s being said. And Larry likes to say quite a bit. I’ll do what I can, but unless he really crosses the line, my hands are tied.”

“I’m not worried about it,” Jazz said, shrugging his shoulders. He had dealt with worse than Larry Muldoon, more times than he could count.

“You need to worry some. That man has a lot of hate built up inside of him.” Tapping his finger against the side of his head, he added, “There’s something wrong up here.”

“Their daddy must’ve worn real tight shorts, that’s all I can say,” Jazz replied, leaning against the post. “I’ve got bigger things on my mind than some little twerp like Larry Muldoon.” Shaking his head, he muttered, “How in hell did he get to be a cop, any how?”

“Good question. I inherited him, so to speak, when I signed on. Much as I’d like to fire his pitiful ass, I can’t do it until he gives me a reason.”

Silence broken only by the squeaking porch swing, they sat staring off into the distance. After some time went by, Tate asked, “Where’s the pretty little girl of yours? Momma said she’s a sweetie.”

“Sleeping. It’s exhausting, her watching me work,” he said with a smile.

“Is she getting in the way?”

Shaking his head, Jazz answered, “Not the way you’d think. She just sits there and watches, with those big eyes of hers. When I’m done, she asks questions, but it makes me feel like she’s grading me. A little woman in that baby’s body, I’m telling you.”

“Mind if I ask about her momma?”

“Not much to tell. She was a friend of my editor…” Voice trailing off, he stared hard at Tate. Why hadn’t he kept his big mouth shut?

“Your what?” Tate asked, a mile-wide grin on his face.

“My editor, damn it.”

“What, exactly, does she edit?”

“What do editors usually edit?”

“Damn it all, Jazz. You expecting me to believe you’ve been writing? What for? You work for a newspaper?” Tate asked.

“Hell, no,” he responded, affronted. “I ain’t no damn reporter.”

“Then what in the hell are you writing?”

“Action adventure crap.”

Tate’s grin only got wider. “What kind of action adventure crap? Anything I might have read?”

Jazz sneered. “I dunno. You learn how to read?”

“Come on now, Jazz. Is that any way to treat your favorite cousin?”

Rolling his eyes, Jazz said, “You’re my only cousin.”

“As your only cousin, don’t you think I deserve to know if my cousin might be a little bit famous? What do you write?”

“You’re not going to shut up until I tell you, are you?”

Tate, looking satisfied, said, “Nope.”

“It’s a series about a private detective. Vance Marrone.” He spat it out like a challenge, wishing he had never even mentioned his editor. Why couldn’t he have just said a friend of a friend?

“Vance Marrone? You write those?” Tate’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “You’re joking.”

Jazz glared at him and turned away.

“No. I don’t guess you are joking,” Tate muttered as he took this in. “You’re D.J. McCoy?”

Jazz ignored him, staring at the woods at the edge of his property. Taking this as an affirmative, Tate jumped up and laughed. “Hot damned, Jazz. You’re my hero! I gotta ask, how many of those women were inspired by real life?”

“Get real, Tate. How many men you know of have sex lives like that?” Jazz asked, rolling his eyes.

“But some of it has to be real. Nobody has an imagination that good.” With that same wide grin still on his face, he sat on the porch railing and said, “You must be pretty pleased with yourself. Got a ton of money stashed in some Swiss bank?”

“I ain’t John Grisham, Tate. Used up most of that money paying Sheri’s medical bills after she died. Cancer is pretty damned expensive.” It was a sad fact that if Sheri hadn’t had that life insurance policy, Jazz would probably be stuck writing the Vance Marrone mysteries for the next ten years just to keep a roof over Mariah’s head and food in her belly.

His face sobering, Tate replied, “Yeah. I reckon so.”

Moments passed as the tension eased from the air. Tate said, “I’m real impressed though. Vance is one mean sonovabitch.”

Face burning, disgust crawling in his belly, Jazz turned and faced his cousin. “I hate them. I hate writing that trash. I wish I had never started it. But, damn it, we gotta eat.”

Frowning, Tate asked, “If you hate it, why did you start?”

“I was young and stupid. Always been good at telling a story. At first, I enjoyed it, writing out every guy’s fantasy. But every one I wrote, it had to be worse than the previous one.”

“If you hate it that much, then quit. Find something else to write.”

“I have.” Eyes gleaming, Jazz explained, “I’ll fulfill my contract with this last book. I’m not renewing it. I’ve got a book another publisher wants. Vance is almost history.”

“Don’t be mad if I don’t congratulate you,” Tate muttered. Shaking his head, he said, “I’ll be damned. My own cousin, writing that stuff.”

“You forget now that you heard it. Otherwise, I’ll stomp that skinny ass of yours,” Jazz threatened. Then he paused, cocking his head. “Mariah’s awake.”

Before Jazz had even pushed off the post at his back, his little cherub had appeared in the screen doorway. Face flushed, eyes puffy and sleepy, she was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. “Hey, pretty girl. How are ya?” he asked, pulling open the screen door and lifting her for a hug. She smelled of sleep and sweetness and innocence and his heart clenched with love.

Mariah squeezed his neck back, then turned her head and looked at Tate. “He looks like you, Daddy. Are you brothers?”

“No, but our daddies were. This is your cousin, Tate.”

Tate held out his hand solemnly, his eyes laughing as the little girl accepted his handshake. “My, my, you sure are a pretty thing, Miss Mariah,” he told her, tapping her nose.

She gave him a sweet smile and said, “Thank you.” Studying his badge, she asked, “Are you a policeman?”

“Town sheriff. Got any bad guys you need me to arrest?” he asked soberly.

“No, thank you. Why are you here?”

“I came out here to invite you and your daddy to church and Sunday dinner with us tomorrow,” Tate said, glancing at Jazz. “My momma sold ya’ll this house. Remember her?”

“Miss Ella is your momma?” At his nod, she smiled, curling her arm around her father’s neck, leaning into him. “Miss Ella is real nice.” With sad eyes, she sighed and whispered, “I don’t remember my mom. She died.”