Page 15 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
As soon as they walk away, I pull out my phone to call Lemon. She needs to know what’s happening before she hears it from someone else—or worse, sees Noah being led away for questioning. But before I can dial, a text comes through from her.
The twins are finally asleep. Everything okay down there?
I stare at the message, weighing my response with the careful consideration typically reserved for Supreme Court decisions. How exactly does one textYour ex-husband and father of your child is being questioned for murder, but don’t worry, I’m sure he didn’t do it, and also we might need to start researching criminal defense attorneysin a way that won’t send her rushing down here in a panic?
I’m contemplating my reply when another officer approaches with a demeanor that suggests my evening is about to become a heck of a lot more interesting.
“Judge Baxter? Detective Morrison would like you to join them for questioning.”
Perfect. From courtroom to interrogation room in the span of a single day, with a brief detour through what can only be described as the world’s most deadly baking competition. This Vegas vacation is turning out to be everything the brochures promised, assuming those brochures advertised sun, fun, and criminal proceedings in a casino setting.
I follow the officer through the ballroom, now largely empty except for law enforcement personnel and a few stragglers being interviewed by officers. Among them, I spot Sherry Smoot, her red curls as vibrant as her gesticulations as she speaks to a detective who’s taking notes with sincere dedication as if he’s transcribing the Dead Sea Scrolls.
Chuck Longnecker stands near the entrance, his face set in the professional mask of concern that seems to be his default expression when dealing with situations that might affect the hotel’s liability insurance.
And Pacy Morgan is directing his security team, pointing toward exits and speaking rapidly into his radio with the efficiency of someone coordinating either a security operation or a very elaborate cover-up.
Each of them has a story. Each of them has secrets. And somewhere among them is a killer who’s claimed two lives in a matter of hours and shows no signs of stopping.
The officer leads me to a small conference room off the main ballroom where Noah sits across from Morrison, hisposture rigid but composed. He glances up as I enter, a flicker of relief crossing his face.
“Judge Baxter,” Morrison says, gesturing to a chair. “Please, join us. Your friend here was just about to explain his relationship with the deceased in detail that will hopefully include actual facts.”
I take a seat beside Noah, noting the tension radiating from him. “I’m sure Detective Fox is cooperating fully,” I say as the stern voice I use in court automatically engages. “As he would expect any witness to do.”
“I didn’t kill Jolene Nelson, and I didn’t kill Dirty Joe Tuggle. I was nowhere near the kitchen when Jolene died. I was in full view of dozens of witnesses in the ballroom. And as for Joe—I had every reason to want him alive. Dead men can’t pay debts or provide information, and they’re notoriously poor at answering follow-up questions.”
Morrison considers this, his fingers drumming against the table as if he’s calculating the odds. “Until we determine otherwise, consider yourself a person of interest, Detective Fox. Don’t leave town.”
“We have a hotel suite booked for the week, plane tickets home, and a two-year-old who’s expecting to see the dancing fountains. I’m not exactly planning to disappear into the Nevada desert.”
“Good. Keep it that way.” Morrison rises from his chair. “We’ll continue this conversation later—after I’ve had a chance to review the evidence, speak with other witnesses, and possibly charge you with double homicide.” He exits the room, leaving Noah and me alone in a silence that feels heavier than it should.
“Well,” I say finally, “that could have gone worse.”
Noah’s laugh is hollow, like an echo in an empty courtroom. “How exactly? Short of him actually slapping cuffs on me and reading me my rights on live television?”
“He could have insisted on a cavity search,” I offer. “Vegas law enforcement is nothing if not thorough in their approach to criminal investigations.”
This earns a genuine, if brief, smile. “There’s still time for that. The night is young, and Morrison seems like the type who enjoys being thorough.”
I lean back in my chair, studying him. “You know, if you end up arrested for a double homicide, I’m going to be extremely put out. Do you have any idea how difficult it would be to explain to the twins why their sister’s father is playing with license plates instead of detective badges? Let alone what it will do to Lyla Nell.”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Noah insists, rubbing his temples.
“I know that,” I say, my voice softer. “But you’re not making it easy for anyone else to know it. You need to come clean about whatever’s going on with Dirty Joe, and you need to do it before Morrison decides you’re his best suspect and stops looking for alternatives.”
Noah’s eyes meet mine, and there’s a vulnerability there I rarely see—the kind of openness that suggests he’s reached the end of his ability to handle this alone.
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is with you,” I reply. “But murder investigations have a way of simplifying things rather quickly. Either you killed them or you didn’t. Either you’re hiding something relevant or you’re not. Morrison isn’t interested in nuance or family dynamics. He wants a suspect he can charge.”
I stand up, straightening my jacket. “And if I find out you are the killer, I might just kill you myself. And unlike you, I know how to avoid leaving evidence.”
Noah rises as well. “Your confidence in my innocence is touching.”
“Always happy to provide moral support,” I reply. “Now, let’s go find Lemon before she hears about this from someone else. Preferably someone less panic-inducing than Carlotta, who would no doubt frame the story asNoah Fox: Serial Killer of Men in Purple Pursuits.”
