Page 13 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
Geez.
Pain shoots through my palms and knees, but instinct has me scrambling up and reaching for my phone and activating the flashlight to see what tripped me.
The light reflects off rhinestones first—lots of purple catching the light like tiny stars. Then I see the face, alabaster pale with death, his eyes fixed on the ceiling in eternal surprise.
Dirty Joe Tuggle won’t be giving me back anythingI wanted. He won’t be giving anyone anything ever again. The bullet hole in his chest has seen to that.
For the second time today, death has crashed the party. And this time, I’m pretty sure I’m about to become the prime suspect.
EVERETT
I’ve spent years perfecting my courtroom composure—judge face, as Lemon calls it with the sort of affection typically reserved for particularly endearing character flaws—but Detective Morrison’s monologue about the internal workings of the Las Vegas Sheriff’s Department is testing even my well-honed patience.
The man appears to believe that his jurisdiction extends to the air we breathe, the thoughts we think, and possibly the moral fiber of our ancestors. And he’s currently explaining, in excruciating detail, how Honey Hollow’s approach to homicide investigation is likely as sophisticated as a child’s tea party compared to the well-oiled machine that is Las Vegas law enforcement.
“In my city,” he drones on as his shiny head catches the light from every conceivable angle as if it’s been polished and buffed by professionals, “we have protocols. We have systems. We have procedures that date back to when law enforcement actually meant something.”
“Fascinating,” I reply, my tone suggesting it’s anything but. My eyes scan the ballroom, looking for Lemon and hoping she’s not currently tripping over another body somewhere.
I spot Noah instead. His face is set in the expression I’ve come to recognize as his professional mode—jaw tight, eyes constantly moving, his shoulders square. And he happens to be waving frantically in our direction.
Morrison follows my gaze. “Is your friend having some kind of episode?”
“I believe he’s trying to get our attention,” I say, already moving toward Noah. “And he’s not one for theatrics, which means there’s a reason.”
Morrison huffs but follows, his legs working double-time to match my stride, creating a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like a hamster on a wheel. “If this is some small-town bumpkin overreacting to a dropped tray of hors d’oeuvres or a particularly hungry slot machine?—”
Noah meets us halfway, his face grim in a way that suggests the evening has taken a turn for the worse yet again. “There’s been another murder.”
Detective Morrison’s eyebrows shoot skyward. “What? Where? And please tell me it’s not another baker because I’m running out of theories that don’t involve some kind of culinary serial killer with a very specific target demographic.”
“Back hallway.” Noah jerks his head toward the darkened corridor at the far end of the ballroom like he’s directing traffic at the intersection of Chaos and Catastrophe. “It’s Dirty Joe Tuggle.”
A chill runs through me and these goosebumps have nothing to do with the casino’s climate control this time and everything to do with the realization that the same Elvis impersonator Noah was nearly brawling with less than thirty minutes ago is now dead. The timing could not possibly be worse unless Noah had somehow managed to kill him on live television while singing “Love Me Tender.” And that might have been a heck of a lot neater.
“Lead the way,” Morrison orders, his skepticism suddenly replaced by sharp professionalism that suggests he’s finally grasped that this isn’t some elaborate prank designed to waste his time.
We follow Noah across the ballroom, weaving through clusters of confused baking competitors who are still milling about despite the earlier evacuation order. The irony isn’t lost on me—in an event centered around creating sweetness, death has decided to serve up a double helping of bitterness.
“How did you find him?” I ask as we approach the corridor.
Noah takes a moment to grimace. “I tripped over him. Literally. Face-planted right into the carpet.”
“Of course, you did.” I shake my head. “Only you would find a body by physically falling onto it.” I see Lemon’s trained him well, but I’ll never say that out loud.
“Apparently, Lottie and I share a talent,” he shoots back.
“You two really are perfect for each other in the most disturbing way possible,” I mutter just below a breath.
The hallway opens before us, dimly lit and narrow. The thick carpet muffles our footsteps as we near the still form on the floor. Noah clicks on the flashlight from his phone, illuminating the gaudy purple jumpsuit now stained with a dark, spreading pool that can only be blood.
Dirty Joe Tuggle lies sprawled on his back, his pompadour wig slightly askew, revealing thinning gray hair beneath that suggests even his hairline had been living a lie. His eyes stare upward, fixed forever in an expression of surprised indignation as if death itself was an affront to his schedule. A bullet hole marks the center of his chest, surrounded by a constellation of damaged rhinestones.
Morrison crouches beside the body, careful not to disturb the scene with the precision of a detective who has done this too many times to count. “Single gunshot wound to the chest, just like the baker. Same MO, same general area.” He glances up at Noah. “Quite a coincidence, isn’t it? Two people dead in the same manner, and you were seen threatening one of them not even an hour ago by approximately half the population of Las Vegas.”
Noah’s face hardens. “I didn’t shoot him.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it,” Morrison replies, standing up and dusting off his knees. “Especially since approximately two dozen witnesses heard you tell this man, and I quote, ‘You’ll regret it if you don’t pay up.’ Which, in most legal systems, constitutes a threat.”
