Page 4 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
Wiley, Noah’s father and my mother’s unfortunate relationship status, was already hiding in the bathroom when we left, probably wondering what he’d gotten himself into by dating a woman whose family reproduces like rabbits without trust funds.
As soon as we got to the suite, Ozzy projectile-spit milk onto my mother’s cashmere sweater with the accuracy of a military sniper, Corbin decided her pearl necklace was a chew toy, already practicing for those upcoming teething emergencies, and Lyla Nell proclaimed she’d be sleeping in the bathtub with her rubber duckyforever and ever, amen.
But Mom just laughed and shooed us out the door with the serene confidence of a woman who hasn’t fully processed that she’s now running what essentially amounts to an infant daycare center in a luxury Vegas hotel suite. We all pitched in. Landing my mother in the lap of luxury was the least we could do to pay her back for the effort.
But right now, the Grand Ballroom of the Bellanova Casino & Spa Resort stretches before us like a Pinterest board gone rogue designed by someone with too much money and a serious glitter addiction. It’s here where the Las Vegas Food Frenzy competitions will take place and I have to pause for a moment just to get my bearings.
Crystal chandeliers the size of compact cars dangle from a ceiling painted to look like the night sky, complete with twinkle lights winking at us every which way. Plush ruby-red carpet cushions our steps with the softness of a cloud, or at least what I imagine a cloud would feel like if clouds were dyed the color of Dorothy’s slippers and designed to hide evidence.
Kitchen stations dot the ballroom in perfect symmetry, each one equipped with appliances so shiny I can see my reflection in them—which includes the bags under my eyes from waking up with twins at three a.m., four a.m., and five a.m. like some kind of sleep-deprivation torture schedule.
The air is a battlefield of scents with cinnamon and nutmeg waging war with garlic and rosemary, while undertones of chocolate and caramelized sugar try to broker peace negotiations. Smooth jazz oozes from hidden speakers, attempting to class up an atmosphere already teetering on the edge of sensory overload.
Massive gold-fringed banners hang from the ceiling, separating the SAVORY SIZZLE section from the SIN CITY SUGAR SHOWDOWN with all the subtlety of a Vegas showgirl. Speaking of which, several actual showgirls weave through the crowd distributing programs, their feathered headdresses adding another foot to their already impressive height and making me feel like a hobbit who wandered into the wrong fantasy novel.
“I’ve counted nineteen Elvises so far,” Carlotta says, keeping score on her fingers like she’s conducting a very important census for the Department of Sequined Impersonators. “And three of them have buns tight enough to bounce a quarter off of. Number eight is my favorite. I might just have to accidentally fall into his lap later.”
“How about you stay away from all the Elvises, living and dead,” Everett says, adjusting his tie as he surveys the room with the careful precision of a judge sizing up a particularly chaotic courtroom filled with cooking utensils and potential weapons. “We don’t need a repeat of the last Elvis incident.”
The last Elvis incident would be the one that occurred way back when in Hollyhock, a town not too far from Honey Hollow. Let’s just say someone was arrested and landed in front of a certain judge she lives with. It ended well. Mostly.
“That Elvis was asking for it,” Carlotta huffs. “And the restraining order was completely unreasonable. How was I supposed to know he was actually a sen?—”
“I’m so nervous,” I say, cutting her off, but I can’t help it. “Look at this place! These people are the real deal.”
“Lemon, you, too, are the real deal,” Everett isquick to tell me, turning to me with that rare hint of a smile that still makes my heart skip. “You’re going to be incredible. Your cinnamon rolls are going to make the judges beg for your autograph on their insulin prescriptions.”
“Well, maybe, but that’s only if I can actually get to my station before the competition ends,” I mutter as we try to navigate our way around a crowd gathered to sample miniature quiches. “I feel like I’m already three steps behind, and I haven’t even started.”
“You’ll catch up,” Everett assures me with the confidence of someone who’s never had to bake under pressure while suffering from severe sleep deprivation and the lingering effects of postpartum brain fog. “You always do.”
We round a corner and nearly crash into my sister Charlie, who’s zipping around her kitchen station like a honeybee on espresso. Her caramel hair—identical to mine except for being a shade darker—is pulled back into a tight bun, and she’s sporting a frilly blue apron that looks like it came from a 1950s housewife catalog, assuming 1950s housewives were secretly training for the culinary Olympics.
Charlie is my full biological sister. She’s Carlotta’s other daughter, who happens to be one year younger than me and infinitely more organized when it comes to both life and kitchen management.
While I had the good fortune of being raised by Miranda Lemon—the most patient woman who ever lived—Charlie had the misfortune of actually being raised by Carlotta. A pack of wolves would have been friendlier, and they definitely could have given Carlotta pointers in the parenting department.
“There’s my favorite daughter who I raised from scratch!” Carlotta beams, opening her arms wide for a hug that Charlie neatly sidesteps with the grace that comes from years of perfecting evasive maneuvers.
“I’m the only daughter you raised from scratch,” Charlie shoots back, not looking up from the vegetables she’s dicing with a vengeance. “Lottie was smart enough to escape your clutches before she could form traumatic memories.”
“Lucky me,” I agree as I give Charlie a quick hug that doesn’t involve dodging sharp objects. “Your station looks amazing. What are you making?”
“A deconstructed lobster pot pie with saffron and truffle oil drizzle,” she says as casually as if she’s describing a peanut butter sandwich instead of something that sounds like it belongs in a five-star restaurant.
“Wow, that sounds both delicious and expensive,” I say, eyeing the pile of ingredients.
“Lottie, it’s the first day of competition,” Charlie says as if she were explaining basic physics to a toddler. “Today is all about showcasing our signature style for the judges and the public. We’re literally giving them a taste of what we can do.”
“Speaking of which,” I glance at my watch with growing anxiety, “I should probably get to my own station. I’m entry number thirteen in the Sugar Showdown.”
“Thirteen!” Carlotta gasps, clutching imaginary pearls. “That’s bad luck! Like really bad luck! Quick, we need to find a black cat to walk under a ladder while breaking a mirror and spilling salt.”
“I think you’re confused about how luck works,” I tell her, already scanning the room for my assigned spot like a bloodhound with culinary instincts. Although knowing Carlotta, those things would be an improvement to the luck she already has.
“Don’t worry,” Charlie says. “Carlotta’s confusion extends to everything, not just luck. Basic human decency, personal boundaries, appropriate clothing for a PTA meeting… The list goes on and on.”
“That principal needed to loosen up,” Carlotta is quick to defend herself. “And those leather pants were perfectly acceptable school attire. They were educational. They taught the children about fashion confidence.”
