Page 12 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
Lottie’s eyebrow arches so high it threatens to disappear. “Complicated? Noah Fox, I’ve given birth to your child while solving a double homicide. I know complicated. This”—she gestures between me and the direction Dirty Joe disappeared in—”is something else entirely.”
Before I can formulate a response that might salvage some dignity, Carlotta barrels into our little circle like a bowling ball aiming for a strike.
“Well, hot darn and hallelujah!” she shouts loud enough to wake Elvis himself. “If you’re planning round two with the hunka-hunka burning love in the purple pantsuit, count me in! I’ve always wanted to tussle with an Elvis. It’s number three on my bucket list, right after skinny-dip in the Vatican fountain and teach the Pope to tango.”
Lottie grunts at the thought. “Shouldn’t you be tracking down Mayor Nash and making sure he’s not getting a naughty lap dance from some topless showgirl?” Her eyes widen as she realizes what she’s said, and she quickly turns to Everett and me. “Don’t you two get any topless ideas.”
“My thoughts are pure as fresh snow,” I assure her, which earns me a snort from both Lottie and Everett.
Okay, so maybe my halo has always been a little tarnished where Lottie is concerned, but a man can dream.
“More like pure as a mud puddle in July,” Lottie quips back, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she says it.
Everett clears his throat like he’s calling court to order. “I think that Johnny United show is about to begin,” he says to Carlotta. “I bought tickets for you and Mayor Nash. They’re waiting for you at the front desk.”
Carlotta takes off like she’s been shot from a cannon, leaving behind the scent of discount perfume and the echo of an excited squeal.
“That woman moves faster than bad news in a small town,” I mutter, watching her nearly mow down a waiter carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
Lottie’s phone chimes and her face softens as she checks the screen. “Aww, look at this,” she says, turning the phone around to show us a picture of Lyla Nell holding the twins,her little face scrunched with concentration as she attempts to support their wobbly heads.
“How cute is that?” Lottie coos, then suddenly gasps. Two wet spots appear on the front of her shirt like magic, or in this case, like the world’s most inconvenient biological response. “Mother Nature is calling. They don’t call it a let-down for nothing,” she groans, crossing her arms over her chest. “I need to go nurse before I flood the crime scene. In fact, I’ll take Keelie along. I know she’s itching to check up on little Bear.”
She turns to Everett with that look I know too well. “Keep an eye on Noah for me.”
Great. I’ve been demoted from detective to a toddler requiring supervision. Though given that I just tried to throttle a guy in an Elvis costume, maybe it’s justified.
Lottie squeezes my arm before taking off. “Try not to kill anyone while I’m gone, Detective. The paperwork would be murder.”
I watch her weave through the crowd, realizing not for the first time that no matter how many cases I solve or criminals I put away, Lottie Lemon will always be the mystery I can never quite crack. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, Everett glares at me like a prosecuting attorney who’s just caught a witness in a lie.
“What’s the real story?” he demands. His voice is low but intense. “And don’t give me that it’s complicated garbage. The mother of my children is sitting at the top of a suspect list for a murder she didn’t commit. We don’t have time for whatever male pride you’ve got going on.”
I blow out a breath, feeling my resolve begin to crumble as the truth bubbles up, ready to spill over. Everett deserves to know. Lottie deserves to know. Heck, I deserve to stop carrying this particular weight on my shoulders.
“Fine. The truth is?—”
“Judge Baxter?” Detective Morrison’s voice cuts through my confession like a buzz saw. “Need to talk about the deceased.” His eyes shift to me. “Don’t go anywhere, Fox. You’re next.”
Everett gives me a look that sayswe’re not donebefore following Morrison toward the kitchen where Jolene’s body was found.
Alone in the crowded ballroom, I feel my detective instincts kick in like an old, familiar engine. There’s a killer in this room somewhere, probably watching the chaos unfold like it’s their personal entertainment.
I scan faces, cataloging expressions and body language. Years on the job have taught me that murderers rarely leave the scene completely. They like to stick around and watch the fallout from their handiwork.
A redhead at one of the stations works with focused intensity, and her champion pin glitters under the lights.
Chuck Longnecker stands near the judges’ table, his face arranged in an expression of appropriate concern as he speaks with a woman in a Bellanova uniform. Despite his professional demeanor, there’s something calculated in his eyes, like a man constantly running numbers in his head. And in this place, it’s probably necessary.
Pacy Morgan hovers near the exit, his perfect teeth gleaming as he speaks into his radio. His gaze darts around the room, never settling in one place for too long. Nervous or vigilant, it’s hard to tell.
I drift toward the far end of the ballroom where the lighting is dimmer and the crowd is thinner. A narrow hallway extends into shadow, probably leading to storage or staff areas. It’s the kind of place someone might slip away unnoticed—to commit a murder or to hide evidence of one.
My footsteps are silent on the carpet as I approach the corridor. I’ve barely stepped into the shadows when my foot catches on something solid.
Momentum carries me forward, and I hit the floor face-first with all the grace of a rookie on his first day.
