Page 16 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
As we exit the conference room, the ballroom beyond is transformed. Where earlier it buzzed with the energy of competition, now it hums with the methodical efficiency of a crime scene investigation. Officers move with purpose as crime scene tape creates geometric patterns across the space, and the once-festive atmosphere has been replaced by something colder, more clinical.
Whatever is happening in this casino—whateverhas led to two deaths in a single day—I can’t shake the feeling that it’s far from over. And for a man who prides himself on maintaining control in his courtroom, I find myself distinctly uncomfortable with the realization that here, in this glittering monument to chance and risk, control is nothing but an illusion.
The house always wins. And someone in this casino is playing a game where the stakes are measured in human lives, and the only prize is getting away with murder.
LOTTIE
The Bellanova’s penthouse suite smells like an unholy trinity of baby powder, expensive hotel shampoo, and the pizza we ordered two hours ago. It’s a strangely comforting combination—reminiscent of home, but with better thread count and room service.
The suite itself is larger than our entire two-story home in Honey Hollow, with floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the Vegas Strip like a neon-lit diorama. Every surface gleams with the kind of polish that screamsdon’t you dare touch me with those sticky fingers,which is exactly why there are currently tiny handprints decorating the glass coffee table like prehistoric cave drawings.
I’m perched on the edge of a white leather sofa that amounts to couture furniture, nursing Ozzy while trying not to think about how much of my bodily fluids might be seeping into this pristine sofa. Motherhood—where bodily functions become currency, privacy becomes a distant memory, and every piece of clothing you own develops mysterious stains that defy scientific explanation.
Lyla Nell sits cross-legged beside me, cradling Corbin with determined concentration as if she’s defusing a particularly volatile device. My heart melts a little watching hernurseher brother, who’s already milk-drunk and snoozing peacefully despite being held by someone whose childcare experience is limited to feeding crackers to her stuffed animals. She has her shirt hiked up on one side inperfect mimicry of me, gently patting Corbin’s back with her tiny hand like she’s performing some kind of sacred ritual.
“Milk all gone,” she announces with the gravity of a doctor delivering a grim diagnosis. “Baby full now.”
“Good job, Dr. Lyla Nell,” I tell her, trying not to giggle at her serious expression. “Your medical degree is clearly paying off. Have you considered specializing in pediatrics?”
The suite echoes with the controlled chaos that only multiple children under five can create. My poor mother bounces baby Mimi in her arms while simultaneously trying to adjust the volume on the cartoon that has Bear and Josie hypnotized like tiny little zombies. The blue bear on the screen sings about sharing in a voice that makes nails on a chalkboard sound like Mozart.
“Louder!” Bear demands, his two-year-old voice surprisingly authoritative for someone who still needs help wiping his own nose. “More loud! Bear likes it loud!”
“Oh no, we don’t,” my mother practically screams while fumbling with the remote. “We needlessloud before the neighbors call security.” Her lemon-blonde hair, usually perfectly styled, has begun to escape its confines, giving her the frazzled look of someone who’s been babysitting too long in Vegas—which, to be fair, she has. And yet her week has hardly begun.
Piper swings contentedly in the baby swing we’ve positioned near the window and her eyes track the ceiling fan with the fascination only a three-month-old can muster for rotating objects.
“This place is a petri dish of bodily fluids and cartoon theme songs,” I mutter as Ozzy finally unlatches, milk dribbling down his chin like he’s a tiny, adorable drunk who’s lost control of his motor functions. I wipe it away with the efficiency born of weeks of experience, then shift him to my shoulder for a burp that will undoubtedly decorate my shirt with regurgitated breast milk.
Motherhood is glamorous like that. All the magazines and books forgot to mention the part about becoming a human napkin.
Lainey glides into the living area, looking annoyingly put together in a flowy bohemian dress and not a hair out of place despite being in a room that looks like a daycare center hit by a small tornado.
Lainey and I share the same caramel waves and hazel eyes, but she seems to have evaded my perpetual look of a mother who has been awake since the dawn of time. Genetics can be so unfair.
“The room service here is insane,” she practically sings while flopping onto the adjacent sofa. “I ordered one slice of cheesecake and they sent up an entire cake with gold flakes on it.Gold flakes. As if my hips needed the temptation to eat the entire thing, and as if I have the kind of disposable income that makes edible gold seem reasonable.”
“Your hips should meet my hips,” I tell her, patting my still-recovering midsection. “They could start a support group for postpartum body trauma.”
Meg stomps in from the second bedroom, and the term entrance has never been more appropriate. My black-haired, Gothically-inclined sister has transformed into a patriotic pinup on steroids.
Her Mad Madge the Badge outfit is Wonder Woman meets American flag meets Vegas showgirl—a red glittery bustier paired with blue booty shorts, tan tights, and skin-tight knee-high red boots that would give a podiatrist nightmares. A sparkly mask covers her eyes, and a badge-shaped emblem is emblazoned across her chest in case anyone is confused about her persona or her commitment to the concept of justice through wrestling.
“Well, well,” I sing. “I see subtlety is making a comeback this season.”
“Subtle doesn’t sell tickets,” Meg snorts, striking a pose that threatens to launch parts of her anatomy into orbit. “Besides, this outfit is practically conservative compared to what Lady Liberty Lobotomizer is wearing tonight. She’s basically wearing the Constitution as a bikini.”
“I don’t even want to know what that means,” I say, though I absolutely do and will probably Google it later when I have privacy and possibly a stronger internet connection.
Wiley emerges from the kitchen, carrying a tray of drinks that are alarmingly colorful and probably contain enough sugar to put a small horse into a diabetic coma. With his dark hair that turns red at the tips and those green eyes that seem to see everything, he’s essentially Noah if you ran him through a time machineset to mid-life crisis with a side of charming rogue. Seeing him is like looking at Noah’s future, which is both comforting and terrifying in ways I don’t want to examine too closely.
“Non-alcoholic mojitos for the nursing mamas,” he announces as he quickly distributes the glasses, “and proper ones for the rest of us.” He winks at my mother in a way that makes me wish brain bleach was an actual product I could get my hands on.
“You’re a saint, Wiley,” my mother coos, accepting her very-much-alcoholic mojito while still bouncing Mimi with her free arm. And not coincidentally, the baby’s eyes are wide with what looks suspiciously like judgment.
“A saint?” I snort, nearly choking on my virgin mojito. “That’s a first. Usually, he’s calledthedefendantorthe deceasedorthat guy who owes me money for emotional damages.” That last one would be what Suze calls him on occasion.
“Lottie!” My mother’s quasi-scandalized tone is undermined by the smile she’s trying to hide. I knew she’d think it was funny. Because sarcasm laced with the truth usually is.
