Page 63 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
Everett reaches me in three long strides and pulls me against his chest with the kind of desperate relief that makes my knees weak despite the adrenaline.
“Are you okay?” he pants into my ear, his voice rough with emotion.
“Just another day at the office,” I manage, even though my throat feels like I’ve swallowed sandpaper. “However, most offices don’t come with falling cookware as a security feature.”
Carlotta claps her hands with delight and whoops at the top of her lungs. “Talk about divine intervention!”
Ray-Ray floats down to eye level, his rhinestone jumpsuit twinkling with ghostly satisfaction. “Told you I had your back, honey bunch. Looks like my time here is through again, but my baby girl awaits!” He strikes a dramatic pose with one hand pointing skyward. “Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true, and remember—it’s always better to rock around the clock than to get all shook up over heartbreak hotel! The afterlife express is leaving the station, and this time I’ve got a VIP ticket to see my Jolene!”
He begins to fade, and his form becomes increasingly transparent as he rises toward the ceiling. “Thank you, thank you very much,” he calls as his voice grows fainter. “Elvis has left the building!”
With a final shower of blue and pink stars, Ray-Ray vanishes,leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches.
Morrison handcuffs a groggy Chuck, reciting his rights as Noah helps haul him to his feet. “CharlesChuckLongnecker, you’re under arrest for the murders of Jolene Nelson and Joseph Tuggle.”
Everett keeps his arm firmly around my waist as if he’s afraid I might disappear if he lets go or possibly run off to investigate another murder before this one is fully processed.
I lean into him, suddenly exhausted now that the danger has passed and my adrenaline is crashing like a sugar high after too much candy.
Then, from the distance, a sound cuts through the aftermath of chaos—the distinctive buzz of a timer going off with the urgency of something that cannot be ignored.
“Oh my word!” My eyes widen with panic as reality comes crashing back. “My cinnamon rolls and cake!”
Because in my world, even catching killers takes a backseat to perfectly baked goods. Or at least they should.
After all, you can’t serve justice if it’s burnt around the edges.
LOTTIE
The acrid scent of scorched sugar hits me in the face the moment I yank open the oven door.
A plume of smoke escapes, sending nearby competitors into coughing fits while I stare in horror at what should have been my winning entries.
My cinnamon rolls haven’t just browned. They’ve transformed into carbon-based hockey pucks that could double as defensive weapons in a pinch. The cake hasn’t fared much better with its edges blackened like it spent a week vacationing too close to the sun.
“Well,” I sigh hard, pulling out both trays with oven-mitted hands, “at least I caught a killer today. I guess it would be greedy to expect perfect baking, too.”
The grand ballroom has transformed yet again, this time from a crime scene back to a culinary showplace. The air smells of nervous sweat, burnt offerings (primarily mine), and the distinctive perfume of competitive tension. Camera crews dart between stations, capturing dramatic close-ups of final plating while commentators narrate the action in hushed, golf-tournament whispers that suggest they’re witnessing something sacred rather than people arranging food on plates.
I try my best to assess the damage with the clinical detachment of a baker who’s seen dessert disasters before, but truth be told, I want to wail like the twins at midnight—red-faced with lots of tears. Thecinnamon rolls might be salvageable with enough glaze to disguise their cremated state. The cake’s edges are scorched, but the center has somehow maintained a semblance of moistness—structural integrity is questionable, but with the strategic placement of my marzipan roses, I might just pull off a dessert resurrection miracle.
“Nothing a gallon of glaze can’t fix,” I tell myself in an effort to believe it while reaching for my maple-bourbon mixture. I pour it liberally over the cinnamon rolls, watching as it pools in the crevices and softens the crispy edges. It’s like putting makeup on a corpse. It improves the appearance without addressing the fundamental issue of being long gone and best forgotten.
Next, I tackle the cake, carefully trimming the most carbonized sections before applying a thick layer of fondant. My marzipan roses—meticulously crafted during the competition’s early hours—add strategic coverage to the worst areas, like decorative bandages on a baking wound.
From five feet away, you might actually believe they’re supposed to look like this. From two feet, the deception crumbles faster than my dreams of winning so much as an arm-wrestling competition today.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Chuck Longnecker’s replacement—a nervous event coordinator who keeps dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief—announces over the PA system, “we will begin the awards ceremony in ten minutes. Please complete your final preparations.”
While I’m busy arranging my disaster display on the judging plate, I spot Margo across the ballroom. She’s standing near the exit, one hand protectively on her pregnant belly with tears streaming down her face as Pacy Morgan speaks to her with what looks like hushed tones. Poor thing. Her expression carries the unmistakable shock of someone whose world has just imploded without warning.
My heart twists despite everything. She didn’t ask for any of this. She didn’t know her husband was secretly engaged to another woman, and she certainly didn’t know he’d murdered twice to keep his double life hidden. Now she’s left with a shattered marriage and a baby on the way, all because Chuck couldn’t keep his promises or hisGlock in check.
Pacy guides her gently toward the exit, his arm supportive around her shoulders. The irony doesn’t escape me. The security director who probably knew more about Chuck’s activities than he’s letting on is now comforting the primary victim. Vegas is nothing if not a city of contradictions wrapped in neon and served with a side of moral ambiguity.
“Five minutes to judging!” the nervous coordinator announces, his voice cracking on the final syllable.
I give my creations one final adjustment, mentally preparing acceptance speeches for bothMost Innovative Use of Burnt IngredientsandBest Crime-Fighting While Bakingcategories, neither of which officially exists but both of which I’ve clearly mastered.
