Page 26 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“It is Vegas.”
Chuck Longnecker stands on a small platform, his professional smile firmly in place despite the strain visible around his eyes that suggests he’s had about as much sleep as I have, which is to say practically none. His dark suit looks freshly pressed, not a wrinkle in sight as if chaos and double homicide are merely minor inconveniences in his meticulously ordered world where everything has a place and murder is just another item on his to-do list.
“Good morning, everyone,” he begins, his voice carrying the perfect blend of corporate warmth and condolence. “First, I want to acknowledge the tragedy that has touched our competition. The entire Bellanova family is deeply grieved by the loss of one of our comrades in culinary arms.”
His pause for effect is so perfectly timed it feels rehearsed, which it probably was, complete with coaching from the hotel’s PR team and perhaps a teleprompter hidden somewhere in the room.
“However, as they say in show business, the show must go on.” He straightens with his shoulders squaring. “Today, we invite each of you to submit your signature introductory dishes at your own pace. Take as much time as you need to create something truly spectacular that won’t be overshadowed by the unfortunate recent deaths.”
He paces across the platform, and his movements are as controlled as his speech. “The rest of the competition will proceed as planned, with seminars and events throughout the week, leading upto our grand finale on Saturday night when we’ll crown our winners and hopefully avoid any additional casualties.”
Chuck pauses dramatically, glancing to his right where two staff members stand near a curtained wall. “But before you return to your kitchens, the Bellanova would like to offer a token of our appreciation for your continued participation during these difficult circumstances.”
He nods to the staff, who pull on long cords, revealing what was hidden behind the curtain—a magnificent buffet spanning the entire wall, laden with dishes that span every cuisine imaginable. The presentation is nothing short of spectacular, with ice sculptures, elaborate fruit carvings, and tiered displays of pastries that make my professional baker’s heart skip a beat.
“Please, enjoy this feast prepared by the executive chefs of the Bellanova,” Chuck announces with a grand gesture. “Consider it fuel for your creative fires. After you’ve satisfied your appetites, I encourage you to return to your stations where you’ll find them fully stocked and ready for your artistic expressions to take form.”
His smile broadens into something that almost reaches his eyes. “Best of luck to all of you. May your whisks be quick and your ovens true.”
Charlie nods. “And your competitors stay alive long enough to finish the competition,” she whispers my way.
Amen to that.
The crowd breaks into applause before surging toward the buffet like a tidal wave of hungry humans.
“I need sustenance, STAT,” Charlie declares, already moving with the crowd. “Creating culinary masterpieces requires at least three plates of free food as a foundation, and possibly a fourth for good measure.”
“Save me some of those mini quiches,” I call after her, but she’s already disappeared into the throng of competitors jockeying for position at the carving station like it’s Black Friday at a high-end department store.
I crane my neck and spot Sherry Smoot still standing apart from the crowd. She hasn’t moved toward the buffet; instead, she’s hugging herself tightly and her posture suggestsshe’s carrying a weight too heavy for her shoulders alone and contemplating either flight or violence.
“Sorry,” I murmur to my rumbling tummy, “but our meal will have to wait. It’s time to interrogate a suspect.”
Some things can’t be postponed—like death, taxes, and murder investigations where the prime suspect is standing alone looking suspiciously vulnerable.
After all, justice, unlike the buffet table, won’t wait for seconds.
LOTTIE
The Bellanova’s Crystal Ballroom is knee-deep in its “Competition Do-Over and Memorial Gathering” as the competitors start in on a scrumptious buffet before hitting their stations. But the only thing I’m interested in hitting is my first suspect. And by hitting, I mean interrogating. No need to get arrested for assault so early in the morning.
The casino’s event venue thrums with the cacophony of slot machines chiming like demented church bells, the murmur of conversations mixing with the soft jazz music that follows you everywhere in Vegas like an overly persistent salesperson. The air hangs thick with the scent of recirculated oxygen, industrial-strength cleaning products, and the lingering aroma of that magnificent buffet that’s calling to my postpartum appetite like a siren song with carbohydrates.
I approach Sherry with cautious determination, sort of like walking up to a wounded animal—one with fiery red hair and possibly homicidal tendencies that might involve kitchen utensils as weapons.
Her freckled face is pinched with worry, and her emerald eyes dart around the room as if she’s calculating escape routes or plotting the demise of anyone who mentions recipe theft. She’s smaller up close, petite in a way that makes her previous threat to dismemberJolene seem both more absurd and somehow more terrifying, like a chihuahua threatening to take down a Great Dane.
“Not hungry?” I ask, gesturing toward the buffet where competitors are currently engaged in what could only be described as polite warfare over the last lobster tail.
Sherry’s head snaps toward me, her auburn curls bouncing with the movement. “Oh! You’re the one who found—” She stops herself and swallows hard enough that I can see her throat work. “I mean, you’re from the Vermont bakery. The one with the cinnamon rolls that everyone is talking about.”
“That’s me. Lottie Lemon, professional baker and amateur corpse detector.” I extend my hand. “My business cards would saySpecializing in pastries and postmortems, but I ran out of room.”
A surprised laugh escapes her, small and rusty like it hasn’t been used in a while. “Sherry Smoot,” she says, taking my hand with a grip firmer than I expected from someone who spends her days wielding whisks instead of weapons. “Though I guess you knew that, considering I’m probably all over the hotel gossip network by now.”
“Your reputation—and your champion pin—precedes you.” I nod toward the glittering accessory on her lapel that’s catching the casino lights like a tiny meteor. “Very impressive. I’m still working on earning one of those.” Assuming I can stop finding dead bodies long enough to actually win a competition, but I leave that part out.
“Funny how quickly reputations can change,” she says, her Oklahoma accent thickening with emotion. “Yesterday I was a champion baker with a bright future. Today I’m probably suspect number one in a murder investigation.”
