Page 64 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
The judges—a collection of celebrity chefs, food critics, and industry professionals who look like they’d rather be anywhere else after a day of tension and an arrest of one of their own—make their way to the central stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, contestants and guests,” the coordinator begins, mopping his brow again, “despite the, uh, unusual circumstances of today’s events, we are proud to continue the tradition of the Vegas Flavor Frenzy and announce our winners!”
The crowd applauds with the manic energy of people who’ve been running on adrenaline and sugar for too many hours.
“First, the Savory Sizzle competition results!”
Charlie, standing at her station across the ballroom, straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin. Her lobster creation had looked spectacular—before I’d gone off chasing murderers, anyway.
“In third place, from Angelini’s in San Francisco, Chef Marco Pirelli!”
Polite applause follows as a bearded man in chef whites makes his way to the stage.
“In second place, representing the Honey Pot Diner in Honey Hollow, Vermont, Chef Charlie Sawyer!”
The cheer that erupts from our family section threatens to shatter glassware—and certainly be heard all the way back in Honey Hollow. Carlotta jumps up and down howling and honking, while Mayor Nash whistles loud enough to be heard on the moon.
Charlie’s face blooms with pride as she accepts her trophy andoversized check, her eyes scanning the crowd until they find mine. She points at me and mouths “you’re next”with unshakable confidence that my burnt offerings wouldn’t seem to warrant.
“And our Savory Sizzle champion,” the coordinator continues, building dramatic tension with a prolonged pause, “Chef Dominique Laurent from Maison in New Orleans!”
More applause, more photos, more ceremonial oversized checks. I clap enthusiastically for Charlie, who looks pleased despite missing the top spot.
“Now, for the Sin City Sugar Showdown!”
My stomach performs an acrobatic routine that would qualify me to join just about any circus troupe. Not from competitive nerves—those fled the moment I pulled charcoal from the oven—but from the sheer absurdity of standing here after the day’s events, pretending that baking contests still matter after catching a double murderer.
“In third place, from Kappa Pi Sorority at UNLV, Madison Chen and Ainsley Roberts!”
The college students squeal with delight, hugging each other with such force I worry they might fuse into a single entity. Their strawberry cheesecake cupcakes with champagne buttercream had looked genuinely delicious—and more importantly, not cremated or used as evidence in a criminal investigation.
“In second place, from Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery in Honey Hollow, Vermont, Lottie Lemon!”
Wait,what?
I blink in surprise as another cheer erupts from my personal cheering section with enough volume to register on seismographs. Carlotta has now climbed onto her chair for better visibility and possibly to claim the high ground, and Suze is doing absolutely nothing to discourage this behavior, which suggests either approval or resignation.
I make my way to the stage in a daze, accepting the trophy and check with the bewilderment of someone who’s been handed someone else’s mail by mistake and isn’t sure whether to correct the error or just go with it.
“And our Sin City Sugar Showdown champion,” thecoordinator announces, “from Sugar & Spice & Everything Nice in Tulsa, Oklahoma, Sherry Smoot!”
Sherry’s red curls bounce as she practically skips to the stage, her face lit up with genuine joy that suggests she hasn’t spent the day investigating murders or nearly getting strangled by hotel employees. Her bourbon-infused cake with intricate piping had been a masterpiece—and more importantly, not prepared while simultaneously apprehending a killer.
As the photographers arrange us for the obligatory winner’s photo, Sherry leans toward me.
“Your cinnamon rolls looked like you baked them on the surface of the sun,” she whispers, “but those marzipan roses were the most beautiful food art I’ve seen in years. Plus, the judges were informed of your, um, extracurricular activities today. Apparently, catching murderers earns bonus points in Vegas.”
“I’ll add that to my baking tip sheet,” I whisper back. “For best results, solve homicides between proofing and baking. Warning: may result in carbonized baked goods.”
Once the ceremony concludes, Charlie and I make our way through the crowd with our second-place trophies clutched proudly in our hands.
“Look at us,” she says, bumping her hip against mine. “The runner-up sisters from Honey Hollow. We’re like a matched set of almost-winners.”
“You’ll always be first place in my book,” I tell her, meaning it. “Your lobster creation looked incredible before I abandoned my station to play detective again.”
“And you’ll always be first in mine,” she shoots back while dotting a kiss on my cheek. “But maybe next time, try solving the murderbeforethe finals? Just as a timing suggestion.”
“Where’s the challenge in that?” I laugh, just as our family descends upon us in a wave of congratulations and chaos that feels like being embraced by a very enthusiastic tornado.
