Page 30 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
Unless, of course, you’re willing to break the rules and flip the table.
And I’ve never been one to play by the rulebook, especially when murder is on the menu.
A loud, shrill bell goes off and suddenly all eyes are feasted in the direction of those one-armed bandits, and to my surprise, it’s Carlotta jumping up and down in front of a machine that looks like it’s having a seizure as it explodes with color and light.
A robotic voice announces, “WINNER, WINNER, WINNER” on an endless repeat like a broken record stuck in celebration mode, and soon Carlotta is surrounded by security and staff members who appear out of nowhere like magic. One of the casino staff members grabs Carlotta’s arm and holds it high as if she’s just won the heavyweight championship of the world.
She’s won the jackpot, and according to the$100,000sign flashing on the monitor above her head in letters big enough to be read from the parking lot, she’s won big. Really, really big.
This day just got a lot more interesting.
LOTTIE
Just a few hours later, I’m all gussied up for dinner with not one but two of my favorite husbands—ex and, well, present and counting—in the Bellanova’s signature steakhouse, The Sizzling Steer.
Brass fixtures gleam against dark mahogany walls while the sounds of clinking crystal and hushed conversations create a symphony of expensive taste. A pianist in the corner plays instrumental versions of songs that probably originated with artists who’d be offended by the smooth jazz treatment. The whole place screams someone’s credit card is taking a beating tonight, and thankfully, that someone is Everett.
“This place makes the courthouse cafeteria look like a hot dog stand in a gas station parking lot,” I say as I slide into the plush leather booth across from Noah and next to Everett, trying not to think about how much my purple sparkly dress probably cost compared to the price of a single appetizer here. “I’m pretty sure that the waiter’s cufflinks cost more than my first car, and my first car was actually pretty decent.”
“It’s a special occasion,” Everett replies, his lips twitching with what might be a smile if he weren’t so constitutionally opposed to showing excessive emotion in public or anywhere else for that matter. “After all, it’s not every day we’re investigating a doublehomicide while attending a baking competition in a city that never sleeps and possibly never sobers up either.”
“Speak for yourself,” I counter, adjusting my dress—the aforementioned purple sparkly number that’s doing its best to contain my post-twin body modifications and losing the battle. “In my world, that’s basically a typical Tuesday.”
Red velvet booths curve around pristine white tablecloths that practically dare you to spill something. Soft golden lighting flatters even the most exhausted faces, while the music—a tasteful blend of classical and jazz standards—creates the perfect backdrop for both romantic whispers and suspicious interrogations that might end in arrests.
I’ve chosen the latter for tonight’s dinner entertainment.
“Okay, spill it,” I say, leaning across the table toward Noah with the determination of a woman who’s reached the end of her patience and is about to start throwing bread rolls. I’ve strategically positioned myself between my two favorite men in the world in a booth that’s both private enough for conspiracy theories and public enough to discourage outright homicide. “What exactly did Dirty Joe Tuggle have that was worth threatening him over?”
Noah’s green eyes flicker toward Everett before settling back on me. His dimples are nowhere to be seen once again, which is how I know this is serious. When Noah Fox hides his dimples, someone’s either dead, in jail, or about to be.
“Lot, it’s not that simple,” he begins, the familiar refrain that makes my eye twitch involuntarily.
“That phrase is officially banned from this conversation,” I declare, snatching a breadstick from the basket with enough force to scatter crumbs across our immaculate tablecloth. “Nothing is ever simple with you, Noah. I’ve accepted that reality like I’ve accepted that my post-baby body looks like I’m smuggling a beach ball under my dress. What I won’t accept is you being investigated for murder while keeping secrets that could help clear your name or at least make you slightly less suspicious to law enforcement officials.”
“The lady has a point. And she’s not the only one waiting for answers,” Everett says while swirling his glass of Cabernet with an elegance that can only be found in the rich and infamous. Not thatEverett is infamous in any shape or form, more like deliciously sexy at every turn. Trust me, I’ve seen this man from every angle.
Noah’s jaw tightens as if we’ve just challenged him to an arm-wrestling contest he knows he can’t win. “I know you both think I’m being difficult?—”
“Stubborn,” I correct.
“Obstinate,” Everett adds with judicial precision.
“Mulishly recalcitrant,” I offer, earning surprised looks from both men that suggest they’re impressed by my vocabulary. “What? I do crosswords sometimes when I’m nursing twins at three a.m. and need something to keep my brain from completely liquefying.”
Noah fidgets with his napkin, folding it into increasingly precise triangles with the focus of a felon avoiding eye contact. His green eyes dart around the restaurant as if mapping escape routes and I’m half afraid he’ll find one.
“Everything is fine,” Noah insists, though his voice has that strained quality it gets when he’s lying—like a guitar string tuned too tight and about to snap.
“Yes, and I’m secretly a supermodel who just happens to look like a ball of sourdough starter right now,” I retort. “Come on, Noah. Two people are dead, and for some reason, a big, bad, bald Las Vegas detective thinks you’re tied to both of them. What’s the deal with Dirty Joe? Did you owe him money? Did he owe you money? Did you have some kind of underground Elvis impersonator fighting ring that went wrong?”
Everett signals the waiter for drinks—whiskey neat for himself, the same for Noah, and a virgin strawberry daiquiri for me because the twins have commandeered my body, and alcohol is off the menu until they’re weaned or in college, whichever comes first.
“I told you, it’s complicated,” Noah says for what feels like the millionth time, though it could just be the sleep deprivation making me lose count of his evasions.
“So is assembling cheap furniture, but eventually, you figure it out or throw the Allen wrench across the room in defeat and call someone who knows what they’re doing,” I counter, because let’s face it, I’ve been through that particular nightmare. “Which is it going to be? Are you going to figure this out, or do I need to call in professional help?”
Noah takes a deep breath, looking like he’s about to confess to something truly terrible—like putting ketchup on steak or voting for the wrong singing competition contestant—when the waiter arrives with our drinks and an attitude that suggests he’s personally offended by our middle-class presence.
