Page 57 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“She hooked up with three different Sigma Chis in one weekend,” Madison elaborates. “The Valentine’s Day mixer, the post-game party, AND the charity car wash.”
“A charity car wash?” I can’t help but ask. “That’s a hook-up venue?”
“You’d be surprised what happens behind a soapy sponge,” Ainsley says with an expression suggesting she speaks from extensive personal experience and maybe some regret.
“Anyway,” Madison continues, determined to get back to the important gossip, “we think it’s either Tyler with the man-bun, Derek from the lacrosse team, or that exchange student who’s always talking about his family’s vineyard in France.”
“It’s definitely not the vineyard guy,” Ainsley counters with absolute certainty. “He only hooks up with Kappas. He’s all about legacy.”
“So helpful of him to limit his genetic contributions by Greek affiliation,” I comment dryly, returning to my dough. The conversation has taken a turn that makes me grateful Lyla Nell is out of earshot. “Not that I don’t appreciate the sorority gossip and detailed reproductive analysis, but was there anything else you could think of about Jolene?”
“Oh!” Madison’s eyes widen like she’s just remembered the original point. “We totally overheard Jolene and Chuck Longnecker arguing the day before she died.”
I’m pretty sure they mentioned this the other day, but I don’t dare stop them in the event this crazy train leads to a whole different set of tracks—and potentially crucial clues.
“What were they arguing about again?” I ask while spreading my cinnamon mixture because multitasking is apparently my superpower.
“Something about a promise he made,” Ainsley says, clearly an authority when it comes to eavesdropping. “She kept saying he told her they would announce it after the competition.”
“Announce what?” I press because this sounds like it could be important.
Madison shrugs. “No idea. But she was, like, super mad. Said something about not being the other woman anymore.”
Ainsley nods. “And then he was all like, ‘You need to be patient’ and she was all like, ‘I’ve been patient for months,’ and he was all like?—”
“Ladies!” The competition host’s voice cuts through our conversation like a knife through butter, except less pleasant and more anxiety-inducing. “Please return to your stations! Judging of the preliminary round begins in forty-five minutes!”
The girls jump as if physically startled. “We gotta go!” Madison says as if she just remembered where she is and why. “Our champagne buttercream isn’t going to pipe itself!”
“Good luck with your cinnamon rolls!” Ainsley adds as they scurry away as if they were late for a mixer with the hottest frat on campus. “May the best baker win, but also, like, we hope it’s us because we really need the prize money for Spring Formal!”
I watch them dart back to their station, their conversation replaying in my mind. The other woman? A promise to announce something after the competition? Chuck and Jolene had been arguing the day before her murder...
I carefully spread my cinnamon-sugar mixture across the rolled dough and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve just received a crucial piece of the puzzle. Something worth killing for, which in my experience usually involves money, love, or secret recipes.
I begin rolling the dough into a tight spiral, my hands working on autopilot while my mind races. Across the ballroom, I notice Chuck and Pacy having another intense conversation, their body language suggesting this isn’t about security protocols or event planning but something much more personal and potentially dangerous.
Chuck gestures sharply, his professional persona slipping to reveal genuine anger that makes him look less like a hotel events coordinator and more like someone capable of violence. Pacy responds with a cold smile that suggests he’s enjoying whatever discomfort he’s causing.
The competition clock ticks down as I slice my roll into perfect rounds and arrange them in the baking dish. Soon, they’ll go into the oven, and I’ll have another brief window toinvestigate before judging begins and I have to pretend I’m not mentally solving murders while baking pastries.
In a room full of culinary creations, the recipe for murder might be the most complex dish of all, and I’m starting to think I have most of the ingredients.
And then I see her—Sherry Smoot—staring off into space with a distant expression as if she’s contemplating deep philosophical questions or how to dispose of evidence and I can’t seem to resist the investigative urge, so I just go with it and make my way over.
Either here goes nothing or here goes justice.
LOTTIE
The Bellanova’s Grand Ballroom on finals day makes the preliminary rounds look like a kindergarten cupcake contest where everyone gets a participation ribbon and juice boxes.
The lighting has been cranked up to televised sporting event levels—the kind that shows every pore, wrinkle, and nervous sweat bead in merciless high-definition that would make a supermodel reach for concealer and possibly a paper bag. And how I wish I had both.
Camera crews buzz between stations like hummingbirds, capturing every flour spill and butter mishap for the viewing pleasure of America’s couch-bound culinary critics. The air smells like a bakery and butcher shop had a baby—sugar and spice battling with savory herbs and roasting meats in an aromatic cage match.
The noise level rivals a stock exchange during a market crash with whisks clanging against metal bowls, knives rat-tatting against cutting boards, and the occasional expletive when someone realizes they’ve forgotten a crucial ingredient. Underneath it all runs the constant hum of the ventilation system desperately trying to prevent the room from reaching rainforest levels of humidity.
My cinnamon rolls are prepped and ready to go with the dough rising under a clean kitchen towel like a carb-heavy security blanket. And I have exactly eighteen minutes before they need to go into the oven, which gives me just enough time for some strategic sleuthing.
