Page 38 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
You’d think after discovering two bodies in one day, witnessing my biological mother attempt a Vegas showgirl routine on a dining table, and surviving on approximately eleven minutes of sleep, I’d be ready to call it a night. But here I am, chasing after Carlotta through the Bellanova Casino at midnight while she clutches Johnny United’s bow tie as if it’s the Hope Diamond.
“It’s a souvenir!” she shrieks as we weave through the blipping and beeping slot machines. “He threw it to me! It was a sign of our cosmic connection!”
“He didn’t throw it to you,” I pant, regretting every dessert I’ve ever stress-eaten. “You ripped it off his neck when you climbed onstage and security had to pry you away!”
The casino floor stretches before us in an endless sea of blinking lights and carpet patterns designed specifically to hide various bodily fluids. Elderly women with oxygen tanks and cigarettes perform the slot machine dance—lever pull, button push, disappointed sigh, repeat— like participants in some kind of geriatric ritual that’s been passed down through generations of gamblers who should probably know better by now.
“Details!” Carlotta waves dismissively, her sequined dress sending glittering light across the ceiling. “Johnny and I had a moment. He felt it, too. I could see it in his eyes!”
“The only thing he felt was your acrylic nails digging into his carotid artery and threatening his ability to hit high notes,” I mutter, finally catching up to her near the craps table where people are throwing dice and money with equal abandon. “Mayor Nash is mortified beyond repair. Everett had to talk security out of pressing charges for assault on an entertainer.Again. This is becoming a disturbing pattern.”
Carlotta stops so abruptly that I nearly crash into her. “Where is Harry, anyway? And why do you look like someone put salt in your sugar canister?”
I glance around to make sure we’re not being overheard. “Chuck Longnecker just pointed me toward two different suspects—Pacy and Sherry.”
“And? Isn’t that helpful for your little murder investigation hobby?” Carlotta adjusts her cleavage, which seems to have migrated during her escape from security.
“Too helpful. When someone points at everyone else that enthusiastically, it usually means they’re hiding something.”
“Like a body?” Carlotta asks with disturbing enthusiasm.
“Two bodies, in this case.”
Ray-Ray materializes beside us, his ghostly jumpsuit now featuring even more rhinestones, if that’s possible. “Sugar cube, that smooth talker is hiding more than just bodies. He’s juggling secrets like a circus performer with too many chainsaws!”
I resist the urge to respond to him directly, instead muttering to Carlotta. “I need to find Noah. He disappeared again, and I’m getting really tired of playing detective husband hide-and-seek when there are actual murders to solve.”
“Ooh! I love that game,” Carlotta chirps. “It’s like regular hide-and-seek but with more emotional baggage and the loser gets alimony!”
I think about it for a minute and my mind goes to all sorts of demented places that I’m positive Everett would not approve of. I blame the lack of sleep.
Before I can form a suitably withering response, my phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Everett.Noah is headedtoward the hotel backup kitchen. Said something about evidence. Mayor Nash is headed to a high-stakes poker room. Should I follow Noah or the Mayor?
I sigh. “Choices, choices.”
Ray-Ray hovers over my shoulder, reading the text. “Follow the fox, honey bun! That detective is onto something. I can feel it in my nonexistent bones!”
I text back:Follow Noah. I’m headed there, too. Carlotta is with me.
Carlotta peeks at my phone with the casual invasion of privacy that’s her specialty. “Why are we going to the kitchen? Is there cake? Please tell me there’s cake hiding somewhere. Stealing celebrity accessories always gives me an appetite for dessert and possibly more criminal behavior.”
“It’s not a bow tie heist. It’s assault and battery,” I correct her, already steering us toward the service elevators. “And no, there’s probably no cake. Noah has found something important, and I want to know what it is before he gets himself arrested or worse.”
“Maybe it’s a secret cake recipe,” Carlotta says hopefully because her brain operates on a completely different frequency from reality. “Criminals always have the best desserts. It’s because they have no moral compass weighing down their baking creativity. Everyone knows evil flour rises better.”
The service elevator smells faintly of cleaning supplies and broken dreams. As we descend to the kitchen level, Ray-Ray floats through the ceiling and back down again, his ghostly form flickering with excitement.
“I scouted ahead,” he announces. “Your detective is down there alright, but he ain’t alone. There’s a whole lotta shakin’ going on, and not the good kind!”
“That’s specific and helpful,” I mutter as the elevator doors open to reveal a dimly lit corridor that looks like the setting for every horror movie that ends badly for the people who investigate strange noises.
The Bellanova’s backup kitchen sprawls before us, a gleaming monument to industrial-scale food preparation that could probably feed a small army or at least a very large wedding reception. Stainless steel surfaces reflect the minimal emergency lighting, creating an eerie atmosphere that screams perfect murder location louderthan my twins scream during their three a.m. rock star performances.
The space feels unnervingly still—no line cooks cursing creatively, no servers rushing around with barely controlled panic, just the low hum of massive refrigerators and the occasional drip from a sink. The main kitchen, which isn’t all that far from here, is still hustling and bustling no matter what the hour. Room service and midnight buffets are a very real thing in Vegas.
“Where is everyone?” Carlotta whispers, for once showing appropriate volume control.
“It’s nearly one a.m.,” I remind her. “Even Vegas kitchens eventually close—or at least the backup ones.”
