Page 5 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“They were educational, all right,” Charlie mutters as she nods my way. “They taught the boys a lot.”
I’m about to leave them to their bickering and navigate the crowded ballroom when I suddenly stop short before I even begin. A whole river of words dies in my throat as I spot a familiar figure across the room, engaged in what appears to be a heated argument with one of the Elvis impersonators dressed in a purple jumpsuit, and by the looks of it, it’s not the friendly kind of argument that ends with autographsand photos.
“Lemon, what is it?” Everett asks, following my gaze. His posture stiffens as he spots the same scene I’m watching.
“Why, that’s Foxy,” Carlotta points out, standing on her tiptoes for a better view.
Carlotta rarely calls anyone by their given name. She seems to think it’s her divine duty to give everyone on this spinning blue rock a nickname.
“ThatisNoah,” I say with concern while shaking my head at the sight before us.
Noah Fox, with his dark hair that turns red at the tips in the sun and those vibrant green eyes that could make a nun reconsider her vows, looks ready to commit an act of violence against the jumpsuited impersonator. Those dimples of Noah’s that are deep enough to swim in are nowhere to be seen; instead, they’re replaced by a scowl that could freeze fire.
Noah and I were hot and heavy until things took a turn for the worse, but things are better between us now. We work hard to co-parent Lyla Nell together. Some might argue we work a little too well together in just about every department, but we can’t help it. We really do have an affection for one another. Although Noah’s affection for me might just cross the line now and again—if now and again were every single day.
I tug at Everett’s arm with growing urgency. “Should we go over? I think Noah is ready to pull his weapon.”
Noah Fox is actually Homicide Detective Noah Fox with the Ashford County Sheriff’s Department, and from the way his hand is hovering near his hip, he’s remembering that fact with dangerous clarity.
“Why don’t I go over instead?” Everett says, landing a kiss on my lips. “You work your magic in the kitchen. I’ll tell Noah about the otherworldly visitor you saw earlier as well. Might as well get ahead of the curve.”
I nod, relieved to have someone else handle the potential Elvis-related violence. “Sounds good.”
“Knock ’em dead, Lemon,” he says as he takes off toward Noah and that purple jumpsuit sporting a mean pompadour.
“You know she never misses!” Carlotta calls after him, then turnsto me with a wink that suggests she’s already planning her next inappropriate comment. “Just leave me off your hit list, would you? I’m too pretty for prison orange. It clashes with my natural undertones and my spiritual aura.”
Her aura should be imprisoned along with the rest of her.
I quickly sign in at the registration desk where a jumpy blonde with a twitching smile that suggests she’s either extremely happy or being continuously electrocuted hands me a rhinestone-encrusted lanyard. A plastic name card dangles from it, bearing my name and the wordsCutie Pie Bakery and Cakeryin sparkling gold lettering that screams small-town baker in way over her head.
“You’re at station thirteen,” she chirps, pointing toward a kitchen set up near the back wall. “Good luck!”
“There’s that thirteen again,” Carlotta mutters behind me. “Well, at least when you inevitably chop off a finger, you’ll have a perfect baker’s dozen of digits left.”
“You’re not funny, and that makes no sense. In fact, your confidence in me is overwhelming,” I deadpan, heading toward my assigned work area as if walking to my own execution. The kitchen station is compact but well-equipped with a professional-grade oven, a stand mixer, and enough counter space for me to spread out my ingredients and my inevitable nervous breakdown.
“It’s not that I don’t have confidence in you, Lot,” Carlotta says, trailing behind me like an annoying chatty shadow. “It’s just that I don’t have confidence in the number thirteen. It’s practically begging for disaster. It’s like naming your boatThe Titanic IIor wearing white pants while decorating a chocolate cake with a toddler helping.”
“Wow, that was a visual I didn’t need.” I’m about to tell her another thing or two when the sound of raised voices cuts through the jazz music and ambient chatter like a knife through butter—or in this case, like a whisk through someone’s skull.
Two women at the station next to mine are engaged in what appears to be a culinary death match, their faces inches apart as they hurl accusations and threats with the intensity of gladiators in an arena.
“You stole my recipe, you backstabbing fraud!” shouts a fiery redhead with freckles across her nose and pretty emeraldgreen eyes that currently flash with murderous intent. “That’smysignature bourbon maple glaze!”
“I’ve never seen your pathetic cookbook in my life,” sneers the other woman, a thin blonde with over-processed hair and a spray tan that glows like a pumpkin. “Maybe if you spent less time accusing people and more time developing original flavors, you wouldn’t be stuck in a second-rate bakery in Oklahoma!”
“I’ll show you second-rate, you recipe-stealing witch!” The redhead grabs a whisk and brandishes it like a weapon. “I swear I’ll?—”
“Ladies!” A harried-looking event coordinator rushes over with the panic as if he were trying to prevent an international incident. “Please remember this is a family-friendly competition!”
But it’s too late. The damage is done. All heads have turned toward the commotion, mouths agape, some still mid-chew of the samples they’ve been enjoying. The tension in the air is thick enough to frost with buttercream.
“Well,” Carlotta whispers, not quietly enough, “looks like someone else might beat you to that whole knocking ’em dead business.”
As I watch the redhead’s hand tighten around the whisk with the grip of a woman who’s clearly thought about using kitchen utensils for non-culinary purposes, I can’t help but wonder if we’re about to witness the first murder-by-baking-utensil in Vegas Flavor Frenzy history.
And somehow with my track record for stumbling into crime scenes, I don’t think it’ll be the last death that colors this competition before the week is through.
