Page 19 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
I laugh, crouching down to her level despite the dress’s protests and the very real possibility that I might split a seam. “Is that so? I’m pretty sure I’m the one who pushed them out of my body after nine months of pregnancy and labor that lasted longer than some small wars.”
“No,” she says with the absolute certainty only a toddler can muster. “They my babies. I a mommy now. I take care of them.”
“Well, that’s convenient,” I tell her, smoothing down her dark hair. “Does that mean you’ll be handling the two a.m. feedings from now on? Because that would really help my sleep schedule.”
She nods solemnly as if she’s just accepted a position of great responsibility. “I feed them cookies and juice and maybe ice cream.”
“It sounds like a solid nutrition plan,” I approve. “Though we might want to supplement with, you know, actual milk.”
“My milk,” she insists, patting her chest with far too much pride and this time I can’t help but give a little laugh.
“You drive a hard bargain, kid, but I think we’ll stick with the factory-installed equipment for now,” I say, standing back up and hoping my dress survives the movement. I turn to my mother with the expression of a mother about to leave their children with the SWAT team. “We won’t be late. The show is only an hour, and then we’ll be right back to relieve you and assess the damage.”
“Take your time,” she says, waving us off. “Wiley and I can handle a few little children.” She’s either very brave or the liquor is kicking in. “Relax, I have everything under control.”
The last time someone said that to me, I ended up with twins. But I choose to believe her, if only because the thought of adult conversation and non-baby-related entertainment for a few hours is too tempting to resist. Not to mention my sanity depends on it.
Lainey, Meg, and I squeeze into the elevator, which promptly fills with the scent of Meg’s industrial-strength hairspray and whatever body glitter she’s doused herself in that probably contains enough sparkles to be classified as a navigational hazard. It’s like beingtrapped in a perfume factory explosion with a side of craft store incident.
“This is going to be epic,” Meg promises as the elevator descends. “I’m facing off against The Widowmaker in the preliminary. If I pin her, I move on to the next event tomorrow against Bertha the Bone Crusher.”
“Those names are terrifying,” I say. “And I bet they violate several rules regarding psychological warfare. But I love it.”
“Wrestling names are like drag names but with more threat of bodily harm, and quite possibly fewer sequins,” Lainey points out.
The elevator dings at the mezzanine level, and the doors slide open to reveal a scene I wasn’t expecting. It’s Everett, Noah, and a bald man with red eyebrows who screams cop so loudly he might as well have a neon sign over his head. Wait a minute, I do know that man… It’s Detective Morrison.
The three men turn toward us, and the expressions on Everett and Noah’s faces transform from serious to panicked faster than I can saywhat now?
“Lemon,” Everett says, his voice strained in the way it gets when he’s about to deliver bad news wrapped in legal jargon. And why do I get the feeling whatever is going on is about to require legal representation? “We were just coming up to find you.”
“Why?” I ask, already feeling my stomach sink. Experience has taught me that the combination of those two men plus an additional detective leads to nothing good and possibly requires bail money. “What’s happened now? And please tell me it doesn’t involve another crime scene investigation. I’m really not dressed for it.”
Noah steps forward, his green eyes troubled in the way that suggests this conversation is going to ruin my evening and more than likely my entire week. “We need to talk. It’s about the second body.”
“A second body?” My voice hikes to sky-high levels.
Detective Morrison’s eyes narrow as he takes in my sparkly attire. “Ms. Lemon? I’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband.”
“Which one?” I blurt before I can stop myself. My brain and any sense of self-preservation I might have once possessed has clearly leftthe building.
The detective’s eyebrows climb so high they nearly meet his nonexistent hairline. “Excuse me?”
Meg snickers behind me with the kind of barely contained laughter that suggests she’s enjoying this way more than any decent person should. “Oh boy, here we go. This should be good.”
Lainey’s hand squeezes my arm with a warning, but it’s too late. I’ve already opened the door to the most complicated aspect of my personal life, and now I’m standing in the middle of the Bellanova Casino, dressed like a reject fromDancing with the Stars, about to explain my unconventional domestic situation to a Vegas detective who clearly thinks one of my husbands might be a killer.
Just another day in the life of Lottie Lemon, baker extraordinaire and magnet for murder, mayhem, and awkward questions about my relationship status that require flowcharts and spreadsheets to properly explain.
LOTTIE
Noah steps forward, positioning himself slightly between Detective Morrison and me with the subtle protective stance he’s perfected over years of playing my personal knight in rumpled detective’s clothing.
The casino’s ambient noise—slot machines chiming their siren songs of potential fortunes, tourist chatter, and the constant background music that seems to follow you everywhere in Vegas like an overeager stalker—suddenly feels too loud and too quiet all at once.
“Detective,” Noah says as his voice carries that official cop resonance that makes most civilians snap to attention, “my wife has been through enough tonight.” The way he emphasizeswifemakes me both roll my eyes and feel a flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with postpartum hormones. “She’s got three children under her care upstairs and hasn’t slept more than three consecutive hours since the twins were born a month ago. Whatever questions you have can wait until tomorrow, or preferably until I’ve had enough coffee to deal with this situation rationally.”
Detective Morrison’s red eyebrows twitch like angry caterpillars who’ve just been told they’ll never become butterflies. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Detective Fox, but according to my notes, aren’t you divorced? Either that or your marital status is currentlyit’s complicatedwith a side ofplease don’t ask for details.”
