Page 21 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“A double homicide that Noah is being investigated for,” Everett adds, his blue eyes fixed on Noah with an intensity that could melt titanium.
“What?” I look at Noah, really look at him, and notice the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes that suggests he’s about to be arrested for crimes he didn’t commit. “Why would they think you killed anyone? Your biggest crime is usually leaving dirty dishes in the sink and refusing to acknowledge our divorce papers.”
“Because Foxy was seen threatening Elvis in the purple jumpsuit who’s now wearing a rhinestone toe tag instead of blue suede shoes,” Carlotta helpfully adds, as her attention is momentarily diverted from her crooner crush to the more immediate drama unfolding in front of her. “The whole hotel saw them going at it like two roosters in a henhouse fighting over the last kernel of corn.”
My heart sinks faster than an overbeaten soufflé in a cold kitchen. “Noah, tell me you didn’t?—”
“Of course, I didn’t,” he cuts in, those dimples nowhere to be seen and his expression serious enough to suggest this isn’t the time for our usual banter. “But Dirty Joe and I did have a... disagreement earlier today. In front of witnesses who apparently have excellent hearing and strong opinions about appropriate conflict resolution.”
“A disagreement loud enough for the people in the parking garage to hear,” Everett adds. “With threats included.”
“They weren’t threats,” Noah insists. “They were forceful suggestions delivered with passionate intensity.”
“Forceful suggestions that ended with him getting a bullet in the chest,” Carlotta whistles with glee. “Looks like Lot Lot’s curse is rubbing off on you, Foxy! Pretty soon you’ll be tripping over bodies in your sleep and wondering if you need to start charging finder’s fees.”
“I sort of do that already,” I mutter, thinking of the twins’ midnight feedings and my zombie-like state as I navigate the obstacle course of toys Lyla Nell leaves in our bedroom like some kind of small-scale booby trap designed totest my reflexes.
“What’s this about my son?” A sharp voice slices through our huddle like a hot knife through buttercream, and I don’t need to turn around to know that Hurricane Suze has just made landfall.
I turn to see Suze Fox marching toward us, her short blonde hair with those ridiculous bangs practically vibrating with maternal indignation and possibly enough static electricity to power a small appliance. She’s wearing a blouse with shoulder pads that could double as landing strips for small aircraft, and her expression suggests she’s ready to take on the entire Las Vegas Sheriff’s Department single-handedly while still having energy left over to lecture them about proper investigative techniques.
“Mom,” Noah starts, his voice taking on the patient tone that alerts us to the fact he’s been explaining himself to this woman for over three decades and has learned that resistance is futile. “It’s nothing. Just a misunderstanding that will hopefully be cleared up before anyone gets arrested or makes it onto the evening news.”
“A misunderstanding about what?” Suze demands, reaching us with the determination of a missile programmed to find and destroy any threat to her offspring. “What’s happening? Why was that handsome bald man questioning you? Noah Corbin Fox, you are my baby and can do no wrong, so help me explain why you look like you’re about to be arrested!”
The speed and efficiency with which Noah fills his mother in on the situation would be impressive if it weren’t so alarming and potentially incriminating. Two dead bodies. Noah’s argument with Dirty Joe that apparently reached decibel levels typically reserved for rock concerts. The suspicious timing that makes him look guilty of everything except good judgment. And Detective Morrison’s obvious interest in Noah as a suspect who conveniently found the second body.
Suze’s face transforms with each revelation, cycling through confusion, and horror, and finally settling on righteous maternal fury. “This is outrageous!” she declares with her hands planted firmly on her hips in the universal pose of mothers everywhere who are about to go to war for their children. “My son is a decorated detective! He doesn’t go around shooting Elvis impersonators, no matter how badly they butcher the classics!”
“Unless they really butcher ‘Blue Suede Shoes,’” Carlotta adds. “Even the King has standards in the afterlife, and some crimes against music are unforgivable.”
Suze zooms in on me so fast I take an instinctive step back. “This is all your fault, Lottie Lemon,” she accuses, jabbing a finger in my direction like she’s identifying me in a police lineup. “You and your...yourbody-finding ways! Before Noah met you, he never once stumbled across a corpse—and he’s a homicide detective. Now he can’t walk through a hotel without tripping over one or two—or heaven forbid,three! You’re like some kind of supernatural murder magnet!”
“To be fair,” I counter, “I’m usually the one doing the tripping. Noah generally maintains his detective dignity and professional composure.” Mostly.
“He face-planted right into the carpet like a drunk freshman,” Everett offers with a barely suppressed smirk that suggests he’s enjoying this way more than he should. And we all know he so is. “So much for dignity and professional composure.”
“You’re not helping,” Noah mutters. It’s obvious he’s taken enough hits for one evening.
“I wasn’t trying to help,” Everett shoots back. “I was providing context and some much-needed perspective.”
“Well, here’s some more context,” Suze snaps. “My son is being framed for murder, and instead of supporting him, you’re all standing around teasing him mercilessly! Some friends you are.”
“In our defense,” I say, “humor is how we process trauma in Honey Hollow. That and excessive baking, but I don’t see any ovens handy.” Or cookies. And heaven knows I could use a cookie or twelve right about now. The stressed-out zipper on this dress be darned.
“This isn’t Honey Hollow,” Suze reminds me, clearly frustrated with our coping mechanisms. “This is Las Vegas, where they lock people up and throw away the key, especially when those people are out-of-town cops who stumble over dead bodies! And that’s only if you’re lucky.”
“That’s more of a general American justice system thing than a Vegas-specific policy,” I point out, which earns me a glare that could strip the gold leaf rightoff the ceiling.
“Suzie Q, don’t lose your marbles over this,” Carlotta is quick to tell her while slinging an arm around Suze’s rigid shoulders, assuring us she’s about to make things worse. “Foxy is innocent—well, of murder at least. His other sins are between him and whatever deity tracks bed-hopping and dangerous decision-making in the romance department. You’d better watch your naked back, Foxy. The next time you’re crawling under the sheets with Lot Lot, Mr. Sexy has a bullet with your name on it.”
“Carlotta,” Noah and I protest in unison. Oddly, Everett is silent.
She waves us off. “What? Like it’s a secret? Half of Honey Hollow has a betting pool on which of you two—” she points between Noah and Everett “—will end up permanently in Lot Lot’s bed by Christmas. My money’s on both. Simultaneously. The odds are surprisingly good.”
Does nobody realize that I’m married to Everett?
“And this conversation officially needs to end,” I declare, feeling heat rise to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the casino’s temperature and everything to do with my family’s complete inability to maintain appropriate boundaries in public spaces.
