Page 17 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“What? He did fake his own death and steal money from Everett’s mother. I’m just stating facts that are a matter of public record.” I adjust Ozzy as he finally releases a burp that would make a frat boy proud. “But I suppose resurrected con artist doesn’t roll off the tongue as nicely as saint.”
Wiley chuckles, unperturbed by my verbal jabs and apparently immune to shame or embarrassment. “I preferreformed scoundrelthese days. It has a nice ring to it and suggests personal growth.”
“Reformed like a prison or reformed like a church?” Lainey asks, because I guess she’s genuinely curious.
“Definitely more reformation than redemption,” he shoots back with an easy smile.
The man has a hide like an alligator—nothing seems to penetrate his veneer of charming rogue. I still have no idea how he’s managed to convince my mother that he’s worth the risk.
Mom settles beside him on the loveseat, with Mimi now dozing against her shoulder. “Meg, you’re on in less than two hours. We need to make sure we videotape the whole thing. Did anyone remember to bring a video camera?”
Lainey rolls her eyes at the thought. “Mom, we’ll be recording it on our phones for you. I’ll send you a clip as soon as it’s done. Nobody videotapes anything anymore. That makes you sound like a boomer with no technology skills who still thinks the internet is a fad.”
“I am a boomer with no technology skills,” my mother replies without missing a beat and with the kind of honest self-awareness that’s both refreshing and slightly concerning. “And in my opinion, the internetisvery much a fad. You know me, I still have to ask Lottie how to attach photos to an email.”
I nod her way. “And I still have to explain that the send button actually sends the email, not just saves it as a draft,” I add. “Every. Single. Time. It’s like Groundhog Day but with more technology frustration.”
“You girls think you know everything.” Wiley slings the light insult while draping his arm around my mother’s shoulders. “Miranda and I still watch a variety of videotapes nightly.” He gives an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows as if to clue us in as to the nature of those so-called videotapes.
My mother gasps, her cheeks flushing pink like a teenager who’s been caught doing something inappropriate—and apparently, she has.
“Wiley!” She swats his arm with the kind of playful violence that suggests their relationship involves way more physical contact than I’m comfortable knowing about. “None of which we will ever let you girls see, or our grandchildren,” she adds hastily, as if trying to avoid a lawsuit or being excommunicated from her grandchildren for life. And believe me, both ideas are still very much on the table.
“I’m gagging,” Lainey announces.
“Me, too. TMI, Wiley,” I groan, shaking my head at him while contemplating the benefits of selective hearing loss. “There are some things I never, ever need to know about my mother’s personal life, and that’s definitely one of them.”
The thought of my mother and Wiley—Noah’s father—engaged inactivitiesthat require videotaping makes me want to scour my brain with steel wool. Obviously, the aforementioned bleach wouldmerely be step one.
Wiley was once married to Everett’s poor mother Eliza before he decided to upgrade his life of crime and moral flexibility. It was right after he nuked his marriage to Suze by disappearing with a significant amount of money and a complete disregard for the emotional damage he left behind.
He actually took off with a sizable amount of Eliza’s wealth before faking his death and leaving everyone to deal with the aftermath of his selfishness. He’s a real prize, the kind of man who should come with warning labels and a mandatory background check.
What my mother sees in him, I’m still not sure.
Oh, who am I kidding? I routinely go weak-kneed when Noah flashes those devilishly cute dimples at me, so I’m hardly one to judge questionable taste in Fox men.
Meg’s phone buzzes with an incoming text, followed almost immediately by Lainey’s. They both reach for their devices, but Lainey is determined to beat Meg to the verbal response.
“Forest just told me that you found another body!” Lainey’s eyes are wide as she looks up from her screen. “Please tell me this is some kind of joke or misunderstanding.”
All eyes in the room swivel to me like synchronized security cameras programmed to detect trouble. Even the babies seem to pause their various noises to stare accusingly as if they’ve already figured out that I’m the common denominator in a disturbing pattern.
Meg taps her own phone, her red-polished lips curving into a smirk that suggests she finds my ongoing corpse-detection abilities more entertaining than concerning. “Ha! Hook just sent a text with a picture. Here’s Lot surrounded by the entire Las Vegas Sheriff’s Department.” She turns her screen around, displaying a photo that does indeed show me at the center of a swarm of uniforms, looking like the star of the world’s most depressing photo shoot.
“I was not surrounded,” I protest, my voice climbing an octave. “I was just in the middle of it.”
“There’s a difference?” Lainey arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow.
“Yes,” I insist. “Surrounded implies they were containing me. In the middle suggests I was simply... geographically central to their investigation, which could happen to anyone with really bad timing.”
My mother tosses up her hands, nearly dislodging poor Mimi. “How are you always in the middle of these things, Lottie Lemon? It’s like you have some kind of supernatural homing device for murder.”
“It’s a gift,” I mutter.
“More like a curse,” Lainey counters. “One that comes with a body count higher than the casino’s profit margins and significantly more paperwork.”
“You’d think the dead would give you a break at least until those twins are sleeping through the night,” Meg adds, adjusting her star-spangled headband with the casual air of a woman discussing the weather rather than my apparent magnetism for murder victims. “But no, they’re like ‘Hey, Lottie’s in town! Let’s all drop dead around her and make her vacation memorable!’”
