Page 10 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
The hallway outside the kitchen has transformed into a scene from a disaster movie—minus the budget but with twice the drama and possibly more overacting.
A hungry mob presses against the entrance and their expressions range from morbid curiosity to genuine horror. And sure enough, in the middle of it I spot Carlotta holding court like she’s reporting live from the crime scene, complete with exaggerated gestures that all point to me.
Wonderful.
And standing with Carlotta, to my complete surprise and mild horror, are a trio of familiar faces—my best friend Keelie, Noah’s mother Suze, and Lily Swanson.
The three women couldn’t look more different—Keelie with her cute blonde locks and warm smile, Suze with her boxy frame, her short blonde-gray hair, and permanent scowl, and Lily, the dark-haired beauty who tormented me throughout childhood but nowmaintains civil relations since I sign her paychecks. She’s learned over the years that being mean to your boss is bad for job security.
“Oh, Keelie!” I rush toward my bestie, wrapping her in a hug that nearly knocks us both over.
Everett leans close to my ear. “I’m going to check on Noah,” he whispers before slipping away.
Check on Noah?
I find that odd. Noah is a big boy who can handle himself around crime scenes, but I’m too distracted by the unexpected reunion to dwell on Everett’s sudden need to supervise a trained detective.
“What are you doing here?” I ask my gorgeous bestie, still gripping her arms, because let’s face it, I’m afraid she might disappear if I let go.
“I just dropped little Bear off with your mom,” she’s quick to tell me, referring to her two-year-old son who seems to operate on a perpetual sugar high. “Charlie said she needed a sous chef, and I couldn’t pass up a Vegas getaway. Though I didn’t expect to land in the middle of another Lottie Lemon Murder Mystery.” She says this title like it should be printed on book covers with my picture on the front, preferably one where I look confused and slightly traumatized.
“That’s right, Lot. They’re going to start charging admission to crime scenes when you show up.” Carlotta cackles. “Meanwhile, your mama and Wiley are missing all the fun because they put themselves in baby jail. Imagine choosing diaper duty over dead bodies!”
“It’s called responsible grandparenting,” I say, though the concept remains as foreign to Carlotta as particle physics, appropriate social boundaries, or the basic understanding that not everything needs to be turned into a spectacle. Like the homicide scene behind me.
I turn to Suze and Lily, trying to process their presence here like a math problem that doesn’t add up. “What in the world are you two doing here? Who’s minding the bakery? Please tell me you didn’t just abandon it to the mercy of whatever chaos Honey Hollow can produce.”
Although now that I’m gone, that probably isn’t a lot.
“Effie is handling things,” Suze reports with a shrug that suggests she couldn’t care less if my business burns to the ground in her absence, which is pretty much her standard attitudetoward most things that don’t directly involve her or the things she deems important—like making sure Noah never ends up in my bed again. She and Everett are sort of a unified front on that topic.
Lily nods. “We asked Effie to come along, but she said she had things to do and people to kill.”
“Sounds like the Cutie Pie is in good hands.” I sigh. Effie’s murderous hyperbole has always been her most charming quality. Although knowing Honey Hollow, it might be a literal statement.
“Alex and I couldn’t resist a free babysitter,” Lily explains with a Cheshire cat grin. “We’re ready to roll the dice and win our millions, or at least enough to pay for this trip and maybe a nice dinner that doesn’t come from a drive-through window.”
Alex would be Noah’s baby brother, one year younger and romantically attached to Lily in what passes for a stable relationship in our social circle. He had a baby with a psychotic woman who is currently doing time in some psychiatric facility for the criminally insane, and Lily is helping to raise little Levi. He’s just a smidge over nine months old and is a cute little Fox through and through—basically Lyla Nell in male skin, assuming Lyla Nell was slightly less likely to see dead people.
Lily nods my way. “I have a feeling Alex and I are going to win big.”
Keelie leans in. “The only thing you’re likely to win with Lottie around is front-row seats to a homicide investigation and possibly a starring role in the eventual true crime documentary.”
“You’re a ray of sunshine,” I deadpan just as the kitchen doors swing open, and Chuck Longnecker emerges, his face arranged in a mask of appropriate corporate concern that I bet took years of customer service training to perfect. The crowd falls silent, sensing an announcement the way animals sense earthquakes.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Chuck begins, his voice carrying the tone of a hotel worker who’s had to deliver bad news in luxury surroundings before and knows exactly how to package disaster for maximum damage control, “I regret to inform you that there has been an unfortunate incident. A homicide.” He pauses for effect as gasps ripple through the crowd like a wave. “The sheriff’s department will be taking everyone’s name and contact information. Please proceed tothe nearest exit, where deputies are stationed to ensure your cooperation.”
The crowd erupts in a chorus of exclamations and the noise amplifies in the enclosed space like thunder trapped in a tin can.
Carlotta slaps her thigh and hoots with laughter that could be heard in three neighboring casinos. “So you got another one, Lot! Who’d you off this time? And please tell me it was someone who deserved it, because I’m running out of alibis for you.”
I glare at her with enough heat to caramelize sugar. “Could you try—just once—not to make me sound like a serial killer with a baking fetish?”
“She has a point, though,” Keelie muses, tapping her chin. “It must have been one of your stiffest competitors.”
“Stiffbeing the operative word,” Suze adds dryly, because apparently murder brings out her talent for inappropriate comments.
“I give it twenty minutes before they start questioning you,” Lily chimes in with the cheerful tone of someone who may or may not have placed a bet on the inevitable disaster. “What’s your alibi this time? Excessive flour purchasing? Suspicious activity with measuring spoons?”
