Page 3 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
Mayor Nash points to another sign on the wall, with his face lighting up like the Vegas Strip itself. “Would you look at that! Johnny United is performing his residency here!”
Carlotta staggers toward the larger-than-life poster of the aging crooner with his overly dyed black hair and smarmy smile that suggests he’s been practicing that smirk in the mirror since the Carter administration. She collapses against it with her hand over heart, in what I can only describe as performance art designed to test the limits of public decency laws.
“Oh, Johnny! My one true love!” She swoons hard, dragging her hand across the poster in a way that probably violates several health codes. “Your song ‘Slot Machine of My Heart’ saved my life nine different times! And ‘Jackpot Heart’ got me through my ninth divorce—and possibly prevented my tenth!”
Suffice it to say, I’m not apprised of all or any of Carlotta’s marital blunders. And I like it that way.
“You mean all nine of your matrimonial lives have expired, and yet somehow you’re still here?” I quip, adjusting Lyla Nell on my hip. “That explains so much about your current relationship resurrection.”
Just then, an Elvis impersonator in a pristine white jumpsuit studded with enough rhinestones to blind a pilot strides directly toward us. His hair is styled in the perfect pompadour, and there’s something eerily familiar about his swagger—a confidence that comes only from being extremely talented, extremely delusional, or extremely dead.
“Well, hubba-hubba,” Carlotta murmurs, straightening her posture and somehow adding two inches to her height through sheer force of hormonal will.
The Elvis impersonator winks at Carlotta, then walks right through her, disappearing in a shower of red and blue stars that nobody else in the busy lobby seems to notice with the exception of Carlotta and me.
We gasp hard and look at one another with a special brand of horror that has become far too familiar over the years.
“What’s wrong, Lemon?” Everett asks, instantly alert as his free hand reflexively moves to his sidearm.
Yes, Everett is packing heat. I would be, too, but with the three littles, I thought it best that my Glock, Ethel, stayed home. Besides, Everett has Fred with him, and his aim is just as lethal. Don’t worry, Everett jumped through all the TSA hoops, declared it, and locked Fred up tighter than a Navy SEAL’s secrets. There’s not a law my hot husband doesn’t abide by and I find that sexier than just about anything.
“I just saw—” I begin, but get cut off by the most unexpected source.
“A ghostie!” Lyla Nell claps excitedly, finishing my sentence with the enthusiasm only a toddler can muster. “Pwetty ghostie!”
I look down at my daughter as her green eyes fill with wonder and feel that familiar mix of pride and concern. Like me, she can see the spectral visitors that others miss. Unlike me, she thinks it’s the greatest thing since sliced bread, or in her case, goldfish crackers.
“At least she stopped crying.” I sigh, exchanging a loaded glance with Everett that speaks volumes about our complicated supernaturalexistence.
Mayor Nash has already wandered off to the nearest slot machine, feeding it coins with the focus of a man on an important mission from The Man Upstairs himself—if The Man Upstairs were interested in three cherries lining up in a row.
Everett’s expression darkens as he surveys the casino floor. His eyes sweep the area with the precision of a security camera, or years of determining guilt or innocence. “You know what that means, Lemon.”
Carlotta cuts him off, already backing toward the entertainment hall where Johnny United’s poster beckons like a sequined siren. “Yeah, yeah, someone’s about to meet their maker, and we’re going to have a good time with Johnny United! Those tight pants aren’t going to ogle themselves!” She vanishes into the crowd before I can form a rebuttal, let alone deliver it.
I press my lips tight as I take in the opulence of the casino—the crystal chandeliers hanging like frozen ice storms, the plush carpeting in rich jewel tones that probably costs more per square foot than our entire house, and the bakery-themed slot machines created especially for the competition, complete with cherry pie jackpot symbols that seem designed to mock my professional aspirations.
“Carlotta’s not wrong,” I murmur, adjusting the triple stroller where all three children are finally settling down like tiny angels who definitely weren’t just testing the acoustic properties of a five-star lobby. “But she forgot one thing.” My eyes track the path where the ghostly Elvis vanished, and a chill runs down my spine despite the carefully regulated casino temperature. “It also means murder.”
The word seems to hang in the air between us, heavier than the scent of luck and lost dreams that permeates the casino floor.
Somewhere in this glittering palace of excess, someone’s time is running out faster than an all-you-can-eat buffet at dinnertime.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my years of ghostly encounters, it’s that death never takes a vacation—not even in Vegas.
LOTTIE
“If I had known there’d be this many swivel-hipped hunks in bedazzled jumpsuits, I would’ve worn my good underwear,” Carlotta announces, loud enough that three passing Elvis impersonators turn and wink at her simultaneously. “It’s like a rhinestone buffet, and Mama’s hungry.”
I shoot her a look that could curdle milk faster than leaving it in a Vegas parking lot. “Please don’t make me regret bringing you. I’m already operating on decaf coffee fumes and whatever’s left of my rapidly depleting maternal instincts.”
Dropping off the kids with my mother Miranda went about as well as expected—which is to say, complete and utter chaos wrapped in a bow of good intentions and sealed with a kiss of inevitable disaster.
Miranda Lemon, the angel who raised me after Carlotta wisely deposited me at the Honey Hollow Fire Department, had initially volunteered to watch my sister Meg’s new baby girl Piper while Meg returned to Vegas for a special wrestling performance. Because yes, my sister Meg is back to dominating the female wrestling circuit as her alter ego Madge the Badge—sometimes referred to as Mad Madge—and as she put it, she’s here to crack a few skulls for old time’s sake.
But, of course, my sister Lainey couldn’t miss out on the fun. As soon as she heard there was free babysitting involved, she let it beknown that she wasn’t about to be left out of a Vegas adventure. So now my poor mother has her hands full with Lainey and Forest’s sweet two-year-old daughter Josie, plus their newest addition, little Mimi, who’s only a month older than my twins and apparently just as fond of three a.m. crying marathons.
Which means my mother is currently in charge of five children under the age of three—my sweet Lyla Nell, my twin boys Ozzy and Corbin, Meg’s three-month-old baby Piper, and Lainey’s Josie and Mimi. Wait, that’s six! Oh dear.
