Page 34 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
Because if Noah is talking to Pacy, one of our prime suspects, then whatever he’s hiding might be more dangerous than I imagined.
And in Vegas, danger isn’t just a game—it’s a death sentence.
LOTTIE
Later that evening, Everett, Noah, Carlotta, Mayor Nash, and I congregate in the Stardust Lounge for the big Johnny United show.
The Stardust Lounge at the Bellanova pulses with anticipation that’s thick enough to spread on toast, while the intoxicating blend of expensive cologne, cigarette smoke that’s been banned but somehow lingers like a stubborn ghost, and the faint aroma of overpriced cocktails fills the air.
The soft jazz of conversation mingles with the clink of ice against crystal and the rustle of sequined gowns as patrons settle into their seats for what promises to be either the entertainment event of the decade or a complete disaster worthy of viral video status.
But I’m just here hoping I can stay awake through it all. Sleep deprivation feels like trying to frost a cake while riding a mechanical bull during an earthquake—everything’s moving, nothing’s cooperating, and you’re pretty sure you’re about to face-plant into something expensive.
My brain—a lumpy, undercooked mess—struggles to form coherent thoughts as I adjust the purple sparkly dress that’s doing its heroic best to contain my post-twin figure.
Crystal chandeliers dangle overhead like frozen fireworks, casting diamond-sharp reflections across the sea of expectant faces below. The room is populated with mostly large swaths of olderwomen, but there is a good smattering of Elvis impersonators wearing their colorful bedazzled jumpsuits, too. And for all I know, they could all be packing. But truth be told, I’m too tired to care about old crooners or fresh hot bullets.
The twins didn’t sleep last night. Not a wink. Not even a momentary eye closure that might be mistaken for slumber by an optimistic, delirious parent. As it turns out, my bundles of joy have an uncanny ability to tag-team their screaming sessions with the precision of Olympic relay runners. One stops and the other starts—a perfect system designed to ensure maximum parental zombification.
Strangely, their nocturnal symphony worked out well for me since I couldn’t sleep anyway. My brain kept performing mental gymnastics around what Noah might be hiding and whether I’ll get to bring Lyla Nell’s father back to Honey Hollow or if we’ll be making regular pilgrimages to Nevada to visit him behind bars. Nothing says family bonding quite like prison visiting hours and pat-downs by correctional officers.
“Lottie, are you even listening?” Carlotta waves her hand in front of my face with her new diamond rings catching the light so aggressively that I worry about retinal damage. “I asked if this neckline makes me look too desperate or just desperate enough to catch Johnny’s attention from the stage.”
“Is there a difference?” I ask, eyeing her sequined gown, which appears to have been designed by someone who believes fabric is merely a suggestion. The red sequins catch every light beam in the room, transforming her into a walking Christmas ornament. “You look like you’re auditioning to be the before in a rhinestone intervention.”
“Perfect!” she beams, adjusting her cleavage to maximum visibility. “Johnny United appreciates a woman who makes an effort and isn’t afraid to show her assets, literally and figuratively.”
Mayor Nash shifts uncomfortably in his new suit. It’s at least two sizes too small, making him look like an overstuffed sausage in a designer casing. The fabric strains against his expanding mayoral waistline with each breath, threatening a wardrobe malfunction of municipal proportions.
“Harry, stop fidgeting,” Carlotta hisses. “If you splitthose seams, I’ll have to introduce you as my pet walrus instead of my date, and that’s not the impression I’m going for tonight.”
“I can’t help it. This suit is cutting off circulation to vital areas,” he protests, tugging at his collar. “I think my spleen is being compressed into a diamond and my liver might be filing a formal complaint.”
“Good!” Carlotta snorts. “Maybe you can pawn it to fund the park renovations you keep promising Honey Hollow.”
Now that Carlotta has won that jackpot, she thinks everything can be solved with money. I glance over at Noah. If only.
Everyone else has scattered to the four corners of the Bellanova, each pursuing their own version of Vegas fun. Keelie and her husband Bear have taken over the poker tables, where Keelie’s innocent face and odd ability to count cards without moving her lips has already funded their son’s college education.
Alex and Lily hit the slots with Suze, forming an unholy trinity of luck, curses, and strategic button-pushing that borders on scientific methodology.
Charlie is at some late-night chef gathering, probably trading recipes for dishes that require ingredients I can’t pronounce and cooking techniques that defy physics.
Lainey and her husband Forest found some chakra-aligning sound bath—whatever that means—that promises to cleanse their souls while simultaneously giving them the giggles and possibly a spiritual awakening or at least a really good nap.
Meg is preparing for her next wrestling match as Mad Madge the Badge, likely applying industrial-strength glitter to areas that should never sparkle. And you can bet her husband Hook will be there cheering her on—even if she is just trying out a new costume.
Meanwhile, Lyla Nell has taken charge of the baby command center upstairs and is not only running the show with the efficiency of a tiny dictator but practically holding Mom and Wiley hostage—my mother’s exact words in her last text, accompanied by an SOS emoji and what might have been a cry for help.
Honestly, why so dramatic?
If anything, Lyla Nell is a very big helper who just has her own unique methods. She helps by testing if diapers are absorbent enough to flushdown hotel toilets, assists with feeding by redecorating the walls with pureed carrots in what she probably considers abstract art, and supports the twins by showing them how to scream at frequencies that could shatter champagne flutes and possibly register on seismic equipment.
“Lemon, you’re doing it again,” Everett says with his voice low and amused as he guides me to our front-row VIP table—a perk of Carlotta’s jackpot victory and subsequent spending spree that’s funding this entire evening of questionable entertainment. “That thousand-yard stare means you’re either plotting murder or calculating how many hours of sleep you’ve lost since the twins were born.”
“Both,” I confess with the honesty of someone who’s too tired to lie effectively. “I’m at negative three hundred and forty-two hours, and I’ve planned at least seven different ways to make sleep deprivation look like a natural death that wouldn’t require an autopsy.”
Noah slides into the seat on my other side, his green eyes scanning the room with the professional assessment of a detective and the personal interest of a man looking for escape routes. “Suspicious of everyone tonight, Lot?”
