Page 6 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
LOTTIE
The scent of sugar hangs in the air like an invisible cloud, mingling with butter, vanilla, and the faint metallic tang of competitive tension. My teeth practically ache just from breathing in this bakery-themed battleground. The cacophony of mixers whirring, pans clattering, and nervous chatter creates a symphony of culinary warfare that’s oddly comforting to my baker’s soul—if you can call the chaotic mess between my ears a soul these days.
“You wouldn’t know an original recipe if it smacked you in your overinflated ego and left bruises!” The redhead’s voice cuts through the ambient noise like a serrated knife through chilled butter. Her fiery curls bounce with indignation as she leans toward her nemesis, with her emerald eyes flashing with the intensity as if she’s clearly given considerable thought to creative ways to dispose of recipe thieves.
“And you wouldn’t know success if it served itself to you on a silver platter with a side of fame and a garnish of actual talent!” the blonde rages right back, and her salon-tortured hair doesn’t move an inch despite her dramatic head toss—a feat that defies both physics and good taste. Her spray tan makes her look like she’s been dipped in pumpkin puree—a shade that would be lovely on a dessert, but makes her look like she fell asleep in a vat of artificial food coloring during a particularly ambitious DIY project.
I sigh as I loop my frilly pink apron over my head—it’s the oneEverett got me last Christmas withBaking up Troubleembroidered across the front. The man knows me too well. If he’d addedand finding bodiesbelow it, he’d have summed up my entire résumé.
“Should I bring popcorn or fire extinguishers?” I mutter to myself, making my way toward the verbal inferno. “Maybe both, with a side of liability waivers.” Both contestants look like they’re one snide comment away from using their piping bags as weapons of mass destruction.
The redhead—whose rhinestone-studded pin glitters on her lapel declaringReigning Championin sparkly letters that could probably be seen clear back in Honey Hollow—jabs a finger toward the blonde. “You stole my bourbon-infused maple glaze recipe! It’s on page sixty-four of my cookbook, right down to the teaspoon of orange zest!”
“Please,” the blonde scoffs, her bright blue apron a stark contrast to her orange-colored skin in a way that suggests colorblindness might run in her family. “As if I’d need to steal anything from your little Okie operation. I have food scientists developing my recipes!” Her tone suggests these scientists might also be building a nuclear arsenal on the side and possibly working on world domination through dessert.
A man steps between them with ease as if he regularly prevents homicide by way of baking utensils and probably has the therapy bills to prove it. He looks to be in his early forties, with short dark hair graying at the roots and permanent frown lines etched around a forced smile that seems as though it’s been surgically installed. He quickly physically creates a barrier with his body—a human Switzerland in the land of culinary warfare and questionable arguments regarding sacred recipes.
“Ladies, please,” he says, his voice smoothed with a professional calm that sits in stark contrast to that wild look in his eyes. “This is a prestigious competition, not an episode ofThe Pastry World: Blood, Butter, and Bad Decisions.”
I snort before I can stop myself and manage to draw his attention as his sharp eyes flick my way, assessing and calculating in a way that makes me instinctively want to check that my wallet is still in my purse and possibly run my credit report for good measure.
“Ah, a fellow competitor,” he says as his smile strains at thecorners like overworked fondant about to crack under pressure. And who could blame him? “Perhaps you can help me remind these exceptional talents why we’re all here.”
“To give America diabetes in the most creative way possible?” I offer before my brain can institute its rarely-used filter. “Or maybe to prove that passive-aggressive behavior can be expressed through pastry?” The words tumble out once again before I can help myself.
My mouth operates on a separate circuit from my brain—one that lacks both a brake pedal and insurance coverage for verbal accidents.
But regardless of the fact, my comment earns a genuine chuckle from the redhead and a glare from the blonde that can melt steel faster than a blowtorch.
“Chuck Longnecker,” the man introduces himself while extending a manicured hand that’s probably moisturized better than my entire body. “Executive Director of Special Events and Culinary Experiences at the Bellanova. Essentially, I’m the man who makes sure nobody ends up wearing the dessert instead of serving it, although the night is still young.”
I shake his hand, noting the firm grip that lingers just a second too long. He’s either very friendly or checking for a pulse.
“Lottie Lemon, Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery from Honey Hollow, Vermont.” I gesture to Carlotta, who’s eyeing Chuck like he’s the last chocolate éclair at a church bake sale and she’s been fasting for a week.
“And this is my mother, Carlotta, who should come with her own warning label.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Carlotta purrs, offering her hand as if expecting it to be kissed rather than shaken. “I must say, Mr. Neck Me for a Long Time, you certainly know how to command a room. That kind of authority must come in handy in all sorts of situations.” She waggles her brows in the event he doesn’t pick up on exactly which situations.
How I long for the day I find Carlotta’s off switch.
Instead, I resist the urge to gag. Only Carlotta could turn a baking competition into a hunting ground for her next regrettable relationship choice. The woman collects inappropriate menlike I collect stretch marks—frequently, abundantly, and with shocking speed that defies medical explanation.
Chuck clears his throat as if he’s either choking on Carlotta’s innuendo or trying to restart a conversation that’s gone completely off the rails. “Perhaps we should all introduce ourselves properly. Clear the air before someone calls security.”
The redhead straightens, and her petite frame expands with confidence like a soufflé in a perfectly calibrated oven. “Sherry Smoot, owner of Sugar & Spice & Everything Nice bakery in Tulsa. Author ofOklahoma Sugar Rush: Down-Home Desserts with a Modern Twist.” She tosses her cascade of curls and her freckles dance across her nose as she smiles, although her sharp emerald eyes suggest she’s mentally calculating the best angle for a sneak attack. “I’m known for my creative use of local wholesome and organic ingredients and nostalgic flavor combinations that don’t require theft.”
“Well, I’ve never needed to steal,” adds the blonde with a saccharine smile that could fund a dentist’s vacation in the Hamptons. “Jolene Nelson, author ofSweet Success: Desserts That Will Make You Famous and Possibly Rich Enough to Buy Your Soul Back.” She smooths down her already wrinkle-free outfit with the precision of a woman who’s ironed her personality flat a time or two. “Perhaps you’ve seen me on the Cooking Network? I’m something of a regular.”
“Like heartburn after bad Chinese food.” Sherry snickers.
“I’m sure both your work is absolutely amazing,” I say as diplomatically as I can, channeling the peacemaking side of myself that usually hides behind the sarcasm like a scared child behind their mother’s skirt. “Your creations must be as distinctive as you both are.” Translation: uniquely terrifying in completely different ways that probably require different types of therapy.Expensivetherapy.
Sherry softens slightly at the compliment, but Jolene’s smile remains plastered to her face like it might crack if she moves a muscle. Botox: it’s not just for breakfast anymore.
“Lottie, hon,” Sherry begins. “Jolene here is known for stealing recipes and passing them off as her own,” she says bluntly, her rhinestone champion pin catching the light as she crosses her arms like someone preparing for battle. “It’s practically her brand at this point.”
Jolene gasps so loud I half expect her to require smelling salts and an Oscar nomination. “You’re the only fake here, and I can prove it! At least I admit when I’ve had work done.” She gestures vaguely toward Sherry’s chest area with a meaningful glance that could probably be classified as workplace harassment.
