Page 62 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“There’s the partial fingerprint on the bullet that killed Jolene,” I counter, making an educated guess based on what Noah mentioned. “I’m betting it matches yours. And hotel securitycameras must have caught something useful, even with those convenient seventeen-minute gaps.”
Ray-Ray snorts. “Tell him you caught him following my baby girl that day just before the murder.”
I lift my chin. “Like the fact you were seen following Jolene into the pantry that day.”
A newfound rage flickers in Chuck’s eyes. “How did you know about the footage?”
I didn’t, but his reaction just confirmed it. Score one for the baker.
“Let’s just say a little ghost told me,” I reply, nodding slightly toward Ray-Ray, who responds with an enthusiastic hip swivel that would make the actual King proud.
“It was all Jolene’s fault,” Chuck says suddenly, his voice hardening like a felon who just decided that honesty is his best remaining option. “She wouldn’t be reasonable. I told her we needed to wait until after Margo had the baby. Just a few more months. But she threatened to march right up to my wife and tell her everything.” His laugh is brittle with a very sharp edge. “She even had this ridiculous idea about announcing our engagement at the winner’s ceremony. Can you imagine the scene that would have caused?”
“So you shot her,” I state flatly.
“I didn’t mean to!” he riots. “I just wanted to scare her into keeping quiet. But she laughed at me—laughed! Said I didn’t have the guts to pull the trigger.” His expression darkens with the memory. “Guess she was wrong about that.”
“And Dirty Joe? Was he wrong about your guts, too?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Joe was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Chuck shrugs. “He saw me leaving the kitchen after Jolene. Got it in his head that he could make some easy money blackmailing me. Plus, pinning it on that detective of yours was just good strategy. Everyone already knew they’d been arguing.”
Carlotta gasps with theatrical horror. “You killed two people because you couldn’t keep it in your pants? That’s the worst reason for murder since that guy who offed his neighbor for playing ABBAtoo loud.” She pauses. “Although, to be fair, there is a limit to how many times a person should hear ‘Dancing Queen’ in one day.”
“Not for me,” I mutter.
Chuck’s gaze shifts from me to Carlotta, then to the exit behind us. I can practically see the calculations running behind his eyes.
“You won’t make it,” I tell him calmly. “Security is already on the way. Detective Morrison knows everything.”
“Then I have nothing to lose, do I?” he snarls, lunging forward suddenly with the desperation of a man who realizes that all his careful planning has come to nothing.
I block his path, positioning myself between him and the exit. He’s taller, and stronger, but I’ve faced down scarier things than a middle manager with murder on his résumé. Like twins with simultaneous diaper blowouts at three a.m.
The sound of running footsteps echoes down the corridor outside. Chuck’s head snaps toward the noise and his expression hardens as he realizes his escape window is closing faster than a bakery on Sunday afternoon.
Before I can react, he grabs me and spins me around with my back against his chest. His arm locks across my throat in a hold that sends instant panic through my system.
“Nobody moves or the baker gets it!” he shouts as Noah, Everett, and Detective Morrison burst through the door, weapons drawn.
“Let her go, Longnecker,” Morrison orders, his gun trained on Chuck with unwavering precision.
Noah’s expression is deadly calm. His eyes are locked on mine with a silent promise that everything will be okay and that he’s probably planning Chuck’s demise in very specific detail.
Everett looks equally focused and I can see the barely contained fury in the way his jaw is set that suggests his judicial restraint is being severely tested.
“I’m walking out of here,” Chuck insists as his arm tightens across my windpipe. “Or she’s not walking out at all.”
“That’s my wife,” Everett and Noah shout in unison, which would be touching if I weren’t being used as a human shield by a double murderer with questionable negotiation skills.
“Really not the time for any marital issues,boys,” I rasp, my air supply diminishing by the second and my patience for any relationship dynamics reaching an all-time low.
Ray-Ray floats directly above us, his spectral face tight with concentration as he examines the array of copper pots hanging from the rack like someone planning a very specific type of supernatural intervention. “Hold tight, sugar cube. The King has got your back.”
With a ghostly roar, Ray-Ray passes his transparent hand through the chain securing one particularly massive copper pot. The links separate as if cut by invisible shears and send the pot plummeting directly toward Chuck’s head.
CLANG!
The sound reverberates through the storage room like a church bell, followed immediately by Chuck’s grip loosening as he crumples to the floor. I lunge forward, gasping for air as both Noah and Morrison tackle Chuck’s semi-conscious form.
