Page 11 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“You all realize I’m standing right here, right?” I throw my hands up in exasperation that could power a small windmill. “Is this what having supportive friends feels like? Because I’m starting to think I need to reevaluate my social circle.”
But within seconds my irritation dissolves as soon as I spot Noah across the room, engaged in what appears to be a heated argument with an Elvis impersonator in a purple jumpsuit that looks like it was designed by someone who thought subtlety was a foreign language. Everett stands nearby, arms crossed, judge face in full effect like he’s presiding over a very informal but potentially violent court session.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, drawn to the confrontation like a moth to a particularly disastrous flame that promises to singe off my eyebrows. Noah is just that angry.
Once I get close enough, I catch fragments of Noah’s words, his voice low and dangerous in a way that suggests he’s operating on the edge of his professional restraint and most likely his personal sanity.
“Last warning, Joe. Pay what you oweor I swear I’ll?—”
“You’ll what?” Purple Elvis sneers. “Kill me? In a room full of cops and witnesses with smartphones?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Noah growls, and it’s then I realize that he means it with every fiber of his being.
Before things can escalate into what would probably become the most documented assault in Las Vegas history, Pacy and Chuck materialize like hospitality ninjas trained in conflict resolution and advanced martial arts.
“Gentlemen,” Chuck says with a forced calm that suggests he’s mentally calculating the hotel’s liability exposure, “this is hardly the time or place for whatever personal business you might have.”
The tension diffuses like air leaking from a balloon, and I feel someone slide next to me with the stealth of a seasoned eavesdropper. Sherry Smoot’s fiery curls enter my peripheral vision before she speaks.
“Looks like Dirty Joe is pushing that handsome steed to his very last nerve.” She giggles, her voice honeyed with Southern charm but laced with something sharper that suggests she’s enjoying the drama more than any decent person should. She leans closer, her champion pin glittering pink—the exact same shade as the glitter I spotted on Jolene’s apron! And that’s a coincidence that makes my investigative instincts tingle like they’ve been touched by a live wire. “If he doesn’t watch his back, he might be the next body in this place. And honey, I’d pay good money to watch that show.”
A chill runs down my spine and it has nothing to do with the casino’s aggressive air conditioning. First Jolene, now threats against this Dirty Joe person—and Noah caught in the middle of both.
Las Vegas is supposed to be all about luck, but as I watch Noah’s face darken with a rage that he can hardly control, I can’t help but think that our odds are getting worse by the minute.
And in a town built on stacked decks, loaded dice, and the dreams of people who don’t understand statistics, those are exactly the kind of odds that get people killed.
NOAH
Chuck Longnecker and Pacy Morgan haul me away from Dirty Joe like I’m a drunk college kid being separated from a beer pong table. Except in this case, the stakes are a heck of a lot higher than my dignity and significantly more expensive than my student loans ever were.
The ballroom spins around me, in green and gold and the kind of gaudy excess that screamswe have more money than taste. The scent of butter and sugar hangs thick in the air, but it can’t quite mask the desperate smell that clings to every rhinestone surface in this place like cheap cologne on a first date.
“Let go,” I growl, shaking off Pacy’s hand with enough force to send him stumbling back a step. The VIP security director’s ridiculously bright teeth flash in what I’m sure he thinks is an intimidating smile.
“Take it easy, Detective,” he says, straightening his uniform jacket. “This is the Bellanova, not some dive bar where you settle disputes with your fists.”
Detective Morrison approaches, his bald head reflecting the chandelier light like a freshly polished bowling ball. His red eyebrows—the only hair that survived whatever follicular apocalypse claimed the rest—arch in disapproval.
“Fox,” he barks, “I don’t care if you’ve got a badge back in Vermont?—”
“Honey Hollow,” I tell him, which earns me a glare that could peel paint. “Ashford County, to be exact.”
“Whatever backwater jurisdiction you crawled out of, we do things professionally here. You want to duke it out with Elvis, take it somewhere that isn’t my crime scene.” His tone suggests he’d prefer I take it to another state entirely.
Dirty Joe smooths his purple jumpsuit, his lip curling into a sneer that would make the real King proud. “You’ll never see anything, Fox,” he says, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. “Some things just stay in Vegas.” He pats the ridiculous pompadour wig glued to his scalp and saunters away, each step punctuated by a rhinestone-induced jingle that sounds like tiny bells announcing my impending financial doom.
I make one last attempt to go after him, but Everett’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. For a guy who spends his days in a suit behind a bench, he’s got a grip that could crack walnuts.
“Noah.” Lottie’s voice cuts through my rage like it always does, smooth and steady and carrying just enough concern to make me remember I’m supposed to be the responsible one here. She steps in front of me, those hazel eyes scanning my face like she’s reading evidence at a crime scene. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, which might be the least convincing lie I’ve told since I tried to convince Lyla Nell that vegetables were candy. “Just some unfinished business.”
Everett’s blue eyes narrow, and I can practically see him shifting into judge mode. “That looked like you were about to commit assault on a man in a purple jumpsuit. In front of half the Las Vegas Sheriff’s Department. That was more than unfinished business. You were about to finish him permanently.”
The guilt hits me like a cold case file to the gut. Lottie and I have always been straight with each other, even after the divorce papers made our relationship status more complicated than a tax audit. But how do I explain that Dirty Joe isn’t just some random Elvis impersonator? That he’s sitting on information that could blow up everything I’ve worked for?
“It’s complicated,” I say, which is detective-speak forI’m in deep and don’t know how to get out.
