Page 51 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“Ms. Lemon,” he greets me with his voice pitched low. “Enjoying the show?”
“It’s very... hip-centric,” I reply, casually positioning myself between Pacy and the exit. “Although I’ve been wondering about something else entirely.”
His perfect smile doesn’t waver. “Oh? And what might that be?”
I lean in hard. “Poor Chuck looked pretty upset earlier. Since he’s coordinating the Flavor Frenzy and you’re in charge of security, I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. You know, for the safety of all us innocent bakers and Elvis enthusiasts.”
He gives a stern look to his left and in the distance, I spot Chuck Longnecker bobbing along to the music in the direction of the stage.
“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know about that man,” Pacy says with the kind of venom that suggests Chuck Longnecker has just moved to the top of someone’s hit list.
And just like that, my investigation is back on track.
LOTTIE
The refreshment area of the Gilded Songbird Theater buzzes with intermission energy as I lean closer to Pacy and the scent of artificial butter and overpriced cologne creates a uniquely Vegas perfume in the air.
The boisterous sounds of the Elvis competition vibrate all around us, punctuated by occasional shrieks that can only be Carlotta expressing her appreciation for swiveling hips. We can see the stage from here, but not nearly as well as the seats Carlotta’s winnings procured.
“What exactly is there to know about Chuck Longnecker?” I ask, seizing on Pacy’s unexpected willingness to gossip about his colleague.
The air beside me suddenly sparkles with familiar pink and blue stars, materializing into Ray-Ray Tupowski in full Elvis regalia. His white jumpsuit seems even more bedazzled than before, if such a thing is possible in this dimension or the next. I’m starting to think he’s been shopping in the afterlife’s craft store section.
“Howdy, sugar cube.” He greets me with a spectral hip thrust that would make the actual King proud and concerned for his posthumous reputation. “Just checking in before—” He stops mid-sentence, his ghostly ear perking up at the sound of the music. “Why, that’s ‘Hound Dog’! My favorite song!” And just like that, he’shalfway toward the stage, completely abandoning his detective duties for musical appreciation.
So much for supernatural assistance. Apparently, even dead Elvis impersonators have ADHD—or at least they do when it comes to paying homage to the king.
Pacy gives a quick glance around before leaning closer. “Chuck and I don’t really know each other on a personal level. He keeps that stuff to himself.” He pauses, his gaze drifting toward the stage. “I was surprised he got a girl like Jolene, but you know what they say—even a blind squirrel finds an acorn now and again.”
The bitterness in his tone reveals more than his carefully chosen words and I file that away under potentially important emotional baggage that could lead to bullets flying.
“You knew Jolene well?” I press, though I already know the answer based on the way his expression just shifted from professional courtesy to barely contained heartbreak.
His face softens, vulnerability replacing the professional demeanor for just a moment. “She was mine once. She’ll always be mine in my heart.” He taps his chest with surprising emotion that would be touching if it weren’t also slightly terrifying. “Love never dies.”
I nod sympathetically. “So I keep hearing,” I mumble way below a whisper, although the mounting body count in Vegas might just contest his theory.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say out loud. “It must be difficult working through the competition she was so involved in.”
“It’s terrible,” he admits, his perfect teeth disappearing behind a grimace that suggests genuine pain beneath all that dental work. “But if I’m being honest, it was as if she died a few years back when we broke it off—or more to the point, when she did. I never wanted things to end between us.” He hesitates, then adds with the sheepish expression of a man about to confess something embarrassing, “I wasn’t faithful. Alcohol and a couple of showgirls were involved.”
“A couple?” I can’t help but repeat as my eyebrows climb toward my hairline.
He shrugs with the casual remorse of a man who’s rationalized his behavior extensively and maybe with the helpof a very good bartender. “It was all at once, so it wasn’t like I cheated on multiple occasions.”
Gee, that makes it better, I think, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. Nothing says true love like a group discount on infidelity.
“What about Sherry Smoot?” I ask, shifting the conversation. I need to get as much in as I can before the stage erupts in fireworks and everyone’s hair catches fire. With my luck, my hair will be included. “Did she and Jolene have issues beyond professional rivalry?”
Pacy nods, running a hand through his suspiciously perfect hair. “Sherry is shady, no doubt about it. Before the Flavor Frenzy kicked off, I heard her tell Jolene she was ‘drawing the line at that threat.’” He shrugs. “I guess Jolene threatened her.” He chuckles at the thought, a sound containing equal parts fondness and regret. “That was my Jolene, feisty right to the end.”
Another song comes on, and Ray-Ray zooms back with his ghostly form bubbling with excitement.
“Sugar cube! You’re missing the ’68 Comeback Special tribute! The leather! The raw energy!” He twirls in a spectral circle, showing off his own rhinestone interpretation.
I catch a glimpse of the stage where—oh sweet merciful carbs—my mother, Carlotta, and Suze are now standing alongside the Elvis performers. Carlotta looks like she’s died and gone to bedazzled heaven, gyrating with the enthusiasm of a woman possessed. My mother, surprisingly, matches her energy, though with more rhythmic clapping and less pelvic endangerment. Suze stands rigid as a board, shooting death glares at anyone who dares to look amused by this spectacle.
I frown at Pacy, forcing my attention back to the investigation. “Did you know Joe Tuggle?”
