Page 52 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“Dirty Joe?” Pacy ticks his head to the side. “Yet another tragedy, although he’s been a tragedy since the day he was born. I didn’t know him well. He was just another bookie who stalked the strip looking for marks.”
My mouth falls open. “Did you say bookie?”
Ray-Ray pulls down his rhinestone sunglasses to look my way. “Yeah, he was a bookie. Everyone knows that, sugar cube.”
“I didn’t know that,” I mutter as pieces of the puzzle rearrange themselves in my mind.
Pacy nods. “He was a bookie and a crooked one at that. It’s a wonder one of his clients hadn’t killed him sooner. Good thing the guy that did the deed was a cop. They’ll probably let him off. Someone had to do the deed. And I’m glad. It would be a shame to have anyone spend time in the big house because of that fool.”
He’s talking about Noah.
His walkie-talkie crackles to life, and he taps his earpiece. “Duty calls. Enjoy the show, Ms. Lemon.” With a flash of his too-perfect teeth, he melts into the crowd, leaving me standing by the refreshment counter with a ghost Elvis and a head full of questions.
On stage, the situation has evolved from enthusiastic audience participation to what can only be described as middle-aged burlesque. Carlotta has somehow acquired a feather boa that she’s using to lasso Johnny United like he’s a prize steer at a very glamorous rodeo, while my mother attempts a shimmy that threatens to test the integrity of her dress. Suze, meanwhile, stands with arms crossed, occasionally being bumped into choreographed motion by Carlotta’s exuberant hip checks.
I make my way back to our seats, where Everett watches the stage spectacle with the stoic expression of a man who’s seen too many bizarre things to be surprised anymore. Most of those are entirely my fault, and he’s developed an impressive tolerance for chaos.
“Your mother has an impressive range,” he comments as I slide in beside him.
“Rhythmically or morally?” I ask, watching as she attempts a move that looks like a cross between the twist and a seizure.
“Both, apparently.”
I sink into my seat, the red velvet suddenly feeling less comfortable as I process Pacy’s revelation. Everett’s hand finds mine in the dark, his fingers intertwining with mine and it feels both protective and questioning.
“What did you learn?” he asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear it over the music and audience reaction.
I lean close, my lips near his ear. “Dirty Joe was a bookie.”
The whites of his eyes widenmy way and I nod.
Up on stage, Johnny United starts a conga line that snakes through the audience. Carlotta is attempting to wrestle the microphone from a jumpsuited Elvis while my mother eggs her on. Suze has given up all pretense of participation and is checking her watch with the grim determination of a prisoner counting down to parole. I try not to think about how my family is currently providing entertainment for three hundred strangers.
But truthfully, I barely register the chaos anymore as my mind races with this new information. If Dirty Joe was a bookie, and Noah owed him money...
I can’t help but wonder if this mystery just got a lot more complicated—and a lot more dangerous for everyone I love.
LOTTIE
It’s less than an hour after the show ended and Everett and I have decided to succumb to the desire to eat our weight in French fries while we still had access to free babysitting services. Not only that, but we threatened Noah within an inch of his life if he didn’t show up to meet us.
The Goldmine Grill at the Bellanova sits in that sweet spot between fancy restaurant and casual eatery—upscale enough to charge seventeen dollars for a hamburger but relaxed enough that no one raises an eyebrow when you dunk your fries into three different sauces simultaneously.
The lighting hovers at that magical level between romantic ambiance and actually being able to read the menu without a flashlight, and the leather booths are just worn enough to suggest thousands of satisfied behinds have enjoyed meals here before us.
The crowd tonight consists of exhausted gamblers refueling between losses, honeymooners who can’t stop holding hands across the table, and at least six Elvis impersonators still in full costume, apparently experiencing a collective case of jumpsuit commitment.
One Comeback Special Elvis clad in leather chomps enthusiastically on buffalo wings with his carefully coiffed pompadour tilting dangerously with each bite. An Elvis in a white jumpsuit scrolls through his phone at the bar, his rhinestones catching the light like a mobile fireworks display.
The air smells of sizzling steaks, fresh baked bread, and just a hint of financial regret—the universal perfume of Vegas after dark. A soft jazz version of “Viva Las Vegas” plays through hidden speakers, setting a backdrop for a hundred conversations competing for airspace.
Noah finally slouches into our booth, looking exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep deprivation and everything to do with moral fatigue. His green eyes flick between Everett and me with the wariness of a man awaiting simultaneous verdicts from two different judges.
“You ordered without me?” he asks, eyeing my loaded nachos, Everett’s perfectly medium rare steak, and his own untouched burger—which I ordered because I know his preferences better than I know my own social security number.
“We took the liberty,” Everett says, cutting a piece of steak with surgical precision. “Considering your tendency to disappear lately, we couldn’t be sure you’d actually stay long enough to eat.”
“Nice of you to pencil us into your busy schedule of avoiding questions and looking suspicious,” I add, scooping up a nacho loaded with enough toppings to classify as its own food group.
