Page 23 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
Carlotta adjusts her black sequined blazer, because she believes mourning should involve sparkles, and grins at me like we’re about to attend a party instead of pretending to grieve while hunting for a killer.
The Bellanova’s secondary event venue assaults my senses before I even cross the threshold. The carpet—a dizzying vortex of geometric nightmares in colors that shouldn’t legally be allowed to coexist—seems designed to induce vertigo or possibly seizures. It’s the kind of pattern that screamswe want you awake enough to keep gambling but disoriented enough to forget you’re losing money.And they are so achieving their goal.
The constant symphony of slot machines creates a cacophony that’s part carnival, part robot apocalypse.
Bells chime in triumphant announcement of minor wins that barely cover the cost of a gas station coffee, electronic jingles play in hypnotic loops designed to bypass rational thought, and the mechanicalwhirr of spinning reels provides the persistent backbeat to this orchestra of financial delusion and broken dreams.
The machines themselves pulse with cartoon-bright colors—pinks so vibrant they border on violent, blues that burn the retina, and yellows that could land a 747.
The air smells of recirculated oxygen pumped with some unidentifiable floral scent, mixed with the potential for severe poverty, coffee that’s been brewing for two presidential terms straight, and the lingering ghost of last night’s cocktails.
And everywhere I look, people sit like zombies feeding the hungry machines with a mechanical repetition that suggests the apocalypse might already be upon us and nobody bothered to send a memo.
“Would you look at that?” Carlotta’s eyes light up as she spots a row of slots with cartoon leprechauns dancing across their screens in what can only be described as culturally insensitive choreography. “Those little green men are practically begging me to make their acquaintance while robbing them blind.”
“I’m pretty sure they’re begging for your money, not your company. And the only one who will be getting robbed in the equation is you,” I point out, but Carlotta is already rummaging through her purse, extracting a small plastic bag of quarters that I’m certain weren’t in her possession when we left Honey Hollow.
“Harry won’t even notice,” she says while dismissing me with a wave as if she’s discussing borrowed sugar, not stolen currency. “Besides, what’s his is mine and what’s mine is... well, also mine.” She shoos me away. “Now, you go handle that murder business you’re so fond of, and I’ll handle turning these meager offerings into our retirement fund.”
“If history is any indication, we’d have better luck funding our retirement by selling my organs on the black market,” I mutter, but Carlotta is already halfway to the slots, her sequined jacket catching the light like a rhinestone factory’s revenge fantasy.
I scan the room, navigating around a woman whose oxygen tank is almost certainly violating several fire codes, and spot Charlie near the entrance to the meeting space. She’s engagedin animated conversation with two young women who look like living embodiments of a campus brochure’smake fun friends!section. They’re wearing matching VEGAS, BABY t-shirts, have a matching set of oversized sunglasses perched on their heads, and cling to tote bags emblazoned with Greek letters that probably translate toWe’ve Never Made Our Own Coffee.
I weave my way through the human obstacles, dodging a man whose concentration on his slot machine borders on religious devotion and most likely requires intervention, and reach Charlie just as she throws her head back in laughter that suggests genuine amusement.
“Lottie!” Charlie greets me with sheer enthusiasm because obviously, she hasn’t seen me find two dead bodies in the past twenty-four hours. Poor thing is still under the guise that this is still a normal family vacation. “Meet Madison and Ainsley. They’re on spring break from UNLV and they’re competing in the Sugar Showdown, too.”
The girls turn to me with synchronized precision that suggests they’ve practiced this move for their Rickety Tok followers and possibly rehearsed it in front of mirrors while applying lip gloss. I should know, I once did the same with Keelie. The lip gloss part. Rickety Tok wasn’t even invented way back when. And I’m more than thankful for that.
“OMG, like, you’re the one who found Jolene’s body!” the blonde—Madison, I’m guessing— exclaims with the excitement typically reserved for celebrity sightings, winning lottery tickets, or finding out your ex got dumped. “We heard you’re, like, famous for finding dead people!”
“I prefer to be known for my cinnamon rolls, but apparently murder magnet is the personal brand that’s sticking,” I say with a hesitant laugh while shifting my bakery-themed tote bag to my other shoulder.
“We were just talking about the murder,” Charlie says with a meaningful look that communicates volumes ofI’m helping your investigation whether you want me to or notenergy that I’ve learned to recognize and perhaps fear.
My sister knows me too well. Nothing says happy family bonding like greasing the wheels of my unsanctioned murder investigation.
“It was literally the most insane thing ever!” Ainsley, the brunette, gushes as her hands fly in expressive gestures that threaten nearby personal space. “We saw Jolene and Sherry having this massive blow-up right before everything went down! Like, nuclear-level drama!”
Clearly, these sweet things never experienced anything more traumatic than running out of pumpkin spice lattes. Oh, how I miss those days.
“Like,nuclearlevel,” Madison highlights, nodding vigorously enough to test the structural integrity of her neck. “Worse than when Tiffany found out Jessica had been using her protein powder to make smoothies for Tiffany’s ex-boyfriend after hot yoga. And that was, like, relationship-ending level betrayal.”
I blink, trying to follow this sorority soap opera tangent that seems to involve more protein powder politics than most corporate mergers. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Oh, don’t mind that.” Ainsley waves the concept of relevance away dismissively. “But the point is, Sherry was furious. Like, seeing-red, about-to-commit-violence furious. She kept saying Jolene stole her bourbon maple glaze recipe, right down to the orange zest measurement.”
“Literally word for word from page sixty-four of her cookbook.” Madison’s voice jumps an octave for maximum dramatic impact. “We looked it up at the bookstore.”
“And Jolene was all like, ‘As if I’d need to steal anything from your little Okie operation,’” Ainsley continues, adopting a snooty tone that probably doesn’t do Jolene’s actual voice justice but captures the essence of condescending witchiness. “She was so mean about it, like really unnecessarily harsh.”
“Which is exactly what Marissa said when we caught her stealing Dani’s research notes for their biochem final,” Madison adds helpfully, because apparently every conversation must include a Greek life parallel.
I glance at Charlie, who shrugs as if to sayjust roll with it and try not to lose your mindin the process.
“So Sherry was upset about recipe theft?” I prompt, trying to steer the conversation back to actual murder relevance.
“More than upset.” Ainsley leans in as if she’s about to reveal the location of the Fountain of Youth. And you can bet your buttered buns I’d be hightailing it there with a map in hand. “She said, and I quote, ‘If you steal from me again, I’ll murder you without an ounce of regret. They’ll never find all the pieces.’”
