Page 22 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
A commotion near the arena entrance saves us from further mortification and possibly the need to explain our relationship dynamics to anyone else within earshot. The doors have opened, and a surge of people—tourists with cameras, wrestling fans in elaborate costumes, and what appears to be every Elvis impersonator in a five-mile radius—begins flooding toward the event center as an unseen voice rumbles through the speakers alerting us that the first performance of the Grand Championship Wrestling Revival begins in ten minutes and will feature enough sequins to blind a small aircraft.
They’re not wrong.
“Well, the preliminary show is starting,” I say, grateful for the diversion and the chance to escape this conversation forever. “We should get in there before all the good seats are taken.”
“Fine,” Suze agrees reluctantly as if she’s making a major concession. “But this discussion isn’t over. Nobody accuses my son of murder and gets away with it. I don’t care if they’re wearing badges or shiny bald heads that I’ll be dreaming about for the next few nights, and maybe next few years.”
Eww.
“Except maybe Lottie,” Carlotta whispers loud enough for all to hear, including the people at the blackjack table ten feet away. “She accuses Foxy of all sorts of things and still gets away with it. Must be those dimples of hers—you know the ones where the sun don’t shine.”
“And on that note,” I say, pulling her along.
We join the flow of bodies moving toward the arena entrance like salmon swimming upstream, except with more sequins and considerably more potential for violence.
The crowd is a bizarre mix of tourists in casual vacation wear, wrestling enthusiasts in elaborate fan gear, and a startling number of Elvis impersonators in jumpsuits spanning every color of the rhinestone rainbow. They range from young and fit to old and those attempting to look fit with varying degrees of success, but not one of them is well past his prime—at least not in the ethereal sense.
The ghost Elvis is nowhere to be seen, which is both a relief and a source of anxiety because, in my experience, supernatural visitors don’t just pop in for a quick hello and disappear like polite dinner guests. They stick around until justice is served, preferably with a side of vengeance and possibly some dramatic special effects.
Noah falls into step beside me as we near the entrance, his fingers brushing against mine in a gesture that feels both casual and deliberate like he’s checking to make sure I’m still there and haven’t been arrested for something.
“I didn’t kill him, Lot,” he says quietly, his voice barely audible over the crowd noise and the ambient chaos of a Vegas casino during prime time.
“I know,” I reply, matching his volume and hoping no one else can hear us discussing murder while surrounded by Elvis impersonators. “Murder would clash horribly with your aesthetic. Not to mention the orange jumpsuit would wash out your complexion, and you’d look terrible in mugshots.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Always looking out for my best interests and my public image.”
“Someone has to,” I quip. “Clearly, you can’t be trusted to avoid getting into arguments with Elvisimpersonators.”
“He started it,” Noah says with mock defensiveness that reminds me why I fell for him in the first place.
“What did he have that was worth threatening him over?” I ask, unable to keep the curiosity from my voice because my investigative instincts are apparently stronger than my sense of self-preservation. “And don’t give me that it’s complicated line again. I’ve got twins, a toddler, two so-called husbands, and a mother who’s dating my ex-husband’s father while he’s technically still my ex-father-in-law. I wrote the book on complicated, had it published, and it’s probably being optioned for a very confusing made-for-TV movie.”
Noah’s expression sobers with the weight of whatever secret he’s carrying. “I’ll tell you everything. But not tonight, not here, not surrounded by people who might be recording this conversation for posterity or blackmail purposes.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart,” he says, making the childhood gesture that still somehow carries weight with me.
We reach the arena’s entrance, and the crowd’s energy shifts, becoming more focused and far more anticipatory. The smell of popcorn and hot dogs wafts from concession stands, mingling with the scent of perfume, aftershave, and the distinct aroma of nervous excitement that only live entertainment generates when there’s a real possibility someone might get hurt for your amusement.
“Just answer me one thing,” I say as we hand our tickets to the usher who’s dressed like a referee and has seen more violence than most emergency room doctors. “Is whatever Dirty Joe had worth being accused of murder? Because if it is, we need to have a serious conversation about your risk assessment skills.”
Noah’s eyes meet mine, green as summer leaves and just as warm. “Some things are worth any risk, Lot. You should know that better than anyone.”
The weight of his words settles over me as we enter the arena, its vastness momentarily overwhelming after the confined space of the casino corridor. Lights flash, music pounds, and the crowd roars as the announcer introduces the first competitors.
Somewhere in this building, my sister is preparing to launchherself into staged combat while dressed as a patriotic pinup who could probably beat up half the Las Vegas police force.
And somewhere in this city, a killer walks free, having claimed two lives in a single day and showing no signs of stopping their murderous Vegasslay-cation.
As I scan the crowd, wondering if the murderer could be sitting right next to us, enjoying the show, I can’t shake the feeling that this Vegas vacation has just begun its dangerous descent into chaos. Like a poorly timed cake, things are about to collapse in spectacular fashion, and I’m standing directly in the blast zone with my family, wearing a sparkly dress and completely unprepared for whatever’s coming next.
The only question is whether I’ll solve this mystery before it claims another victim. Or worse, before it claims someone I love and turns this family vacation into a family tragedy that no amount of humor or cinnamon rolls can fix.
LOTTIE
It’s the very next morning, and I’m standing outside the Bellanova’s Crystal Ballroom with Carlotta, both of us dressed for what the hotel is calling a “Competition Do-Over and Memorial Gathering”—because apparently, someone thought combining grief counseling with mimosas was peak Vegas hospitality.
