Page 53 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
Noah sighs with the weight of a man carrying secrets that could sink ships. “I deserved that.”
“That and a side of straight answers,” I counter, “which coincidentally is what we’re ordering for dessert, and unlike everything else in this place, it better not cost extra.”
“You want answers?” Noah looks between us again. “Fine. Ask away.”
Poor guy looks as if he’s about to jump off a cliff and hopes there’s water below instead of jagged rocks.
Everett and I exchange a glance as our marital telepathy kicks in. He gives me a slight nod, granting me the first shot at the interrogation. We’ve perfected this good cop, bad judge routine over the years—especially in the bedroom.
“Dirty Joe Tuggle was a bookie,” I say, watching Noah’s face like a hawk eyeing a particularly suspicious field mouse.
His chewing slows, then stops completely. He sets down his burger with the careful precision of a man trying not to wake a baby.
“Where did you hear that?” he asks, voice deliberately casual in a way that screams not casualat all.
“From our toothy friend Pacy Morgan,” I reply. “He was quite chatty about Dirty Joe’s professional activities. Almost as if he wanted to make sure I knew.”
Noah’s expression darkens. “Pacy needs to learn to mind his own business.”
“Unlike you, who’s been minding your business so thoroughly it’s practically under twenty-four-hour surveillance,” Everett points out with the dry delivery that makes him so effective in the courtroom.
“It’s complicated,” Noah begins, then stops as both Everett and I groan in perfect unison like a married chorus of frustration.
“If you say it’s complicated one more time, I’m dumping these nachos in your lap,” I warn him. “And they’re extra spicy.”
Noah runs a hand through his hair—always a sign of severe distress. “Fine. Yes, Dirty Joe was a bookie. And yes, he was my bookie. But not in the way you’re thinking.”
“So you weren’t gambling?” Everett asks, his voice tight as steel.
“I was, but—” Noah holds up a hand to stop our reactions. “I won. Big. I had winnings that totaled up to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
I nearly choke on my nacho. “A quarter million dollars? As in, enough money to buy a house or send three children to college?”
He nods. “But Dirty Joe, in keeping with his theme of being dirty, never paid up,” Noah continues, his voice raw with old anger. “That’s why I was arguing with him. I knew I’d never see the money, but since I was in town, I thought I’d give him a piece of my mind.”
“Not a piece of your service weapon?” Everett asks, arching an eyebrow. “I hear bullets make more effective arguments than words.”
“Very funny,” Noah mutters, then squints at our expressions. “Wait, you don’t actually think I?—”
“Killed him? The thought may have crossed our minds.” I wrinkle my nose as I say it. “You have to admit, it looks suspicious. You argue with a man over a huge sum of money, and hours later he’s found with a bullet-sized hole where his life used to be.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Noah insists and his green eyes flash with genuine offense. “I was frustrated, not homicidal. Besides,if I killed everyone who owed me money, half of Honey Hollow would be wearing toe tags.”
“Fair point,” I concede. “The interest on Carlotta’s borrowing alone would justify multiple homicides.”
Noah takes a large bite of his burger, clearly buying time to recompose himself. The three of us eat in silence for a moment, the background noise of the restaurant filling the gap in our conversation. A jumpsuited Elvis at the next table belts out a spontaneous “Thankyouverramuch” to his waitress, causing several nearby diners to applaud.
“So now that we’ve established you merely threatened a man who later turned up dead rather than actually killing him—gold star for restraint, by the way—maybe you can put your detective hat back on,” I suggest, pushing my nachos to the center of the table as a peace offering. “How’s your investigation going, Detective Fox?”
Noah’s lips twitch just shy of a smile. “I was about to ask you the same thing. Any breakthroughs in the case?”
I blow out a hard breath. “I’m stumped. No idea if the two murders are even related.”
Noah tilts his head, dimples making a tentative reappearance. “According to ballistics, they are. The same gun killed both victims. And get this—the bullet that hit Jolene had a partial print on it. They’re running it now.”
“Wow,” I say, genuinely surprised. “I hope they find the killer and fast.”
“What about your suspects, Detective Lemon?” Everett asks, his steak now half gone with the same methodical attention he applies to legal briefs.
