Page 65 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“Second place!” Carlotta announces, throwing her arms around both of us with enough force to qualify as minor assault. “My girls are culinary geniuses! Although, Lot Lot, your cinnamon rolls lookedlike they were cremated rather than baked. Were you trying a new technique called arson chic?”
“I was busy solving a double homicide,” I remind her while adjusting my trophy, which is surprisingly heavy. “The rolls were collateral damage.”
“What matters is you caught the killer and secured a spot on the podium,” Everett says, wrapping an arm around my waist with the protective gesture that makes me feel like I can handle anything.
Lily shakes her head. “But I am curious how you placed second with baked goods that resembled archaeological artifacts more than they did anything we sell at the bakery.”
“Pity points,” I tell her with a laugh. “Plus, my marzipan roses apparently brought tears to the judges’ eyes—though whether from emotion or smoke inhalation remains to be seen.”
Noah appears with Lyla Nell on his shoulders as her little hands clutch his hair for balance. “Mommy win!” she announces, pointing to my trophy with impressive authority.
“Second place,” I correct her gently.
She shrugs, proving that she’s unimpressed by such distinctions. “Mommy catch bad guy AND win. Best mommy ever!”
“Can’t argue with that logic,” Noah says, his dimples making an appearance for what feels like the first time in days.
Suze examines both our trophies with a critical eye. “At least these will be useful for something. You can use them as doorstops for your offices.”
“Or as weapons next time you stumble across a killer,” Keelie suggests as she fingers the heavy base of Charlie’s trophy. “This could do some serious damage.”
“I’m just glad everyone’s safe,” my mother interjects with the voice of reason that cuts through all the celebration and reminds us what’s important. “And I do expect copies of those oversized checks for my refrigerator.”
“The only thing that matters,” Mayor Nash declares, puffing out his chest, “is that Honey Hollow was represented with distinction on the national stage! This calls for a civic celebration when we return home. I’m thinking parade, commemorative t-shirts, possiblya small statue?—”
“Of what?” Carlotta laughs. “Lot Lot burning her baked goods while tackling criminals?”
“That sounds about right,” Lily chimes in. “It would capture the Honey Hollow spirit perfectly—or at least Lottie’s.”
My family continues to banter around me like a loving, loud, slightly dysfunctional support group, and I can’t help but smile with the satisfaction of someone who’s discovered that life doesn’t have to be perfect to be pretty wonderful.
As far as victories go—second place in a national baking competition, another killer behind bars, and everyone I love safe and sound—well, it doesn’t get much sweeter than that.
Even if my cinnamon rolls did taste like asphalt.
LOTTIE
My eardrums may never recover from the sonic assault of the Grand Championship Wrestling Revival taking place here in the Bellanova Casino and Spa just a few hours after the Flavor Frenzy ended in a blaze of justice-coated glory.
The arena vibrates with screams from bloodthirsty fans as Meg—or rather, Mad Madge the Badge—climbs the corner of the ring in her patriotic bodysuit with her biceps flexing beneath red and blue glitter. The Widowmaker lies sprawled on the mat like a mountain of defeated villains in patent leather and smeared makeup.
“FINISH HER!” Carlotta shrieks beside me, her volume somehow managing to rise above the collective roar of five hundred wrestling enthusiasts. She’s standing on her seat with her sequins catching the spotlight as she pumps her fist with enough enthusiasm to dislocate a shoulder.
Meg launches herself from the corner with the grace of a bald eagle and the impact of a freight train. Her body becomes airborne, her stars and stripes glitter under arena lights as she drops an elbow directly onto The Widowmaker’s chest. The referee slaps the mat three times, and the crowd erupts as if they’ve just witnessed the second coming—but with more spandex and much more body glitter.
Half an hour later, we all spill into the Bellanova’s main lobby like survivors of a very entertaining natural disaster, riding high onMeg’s championship victory and probably suffering from mild hearing loss.
The usual Vegas glitz has been cranked to eleven—crystal chandeliers competing with strobe lights, marble floors reflecting more sequins than should legally exist in one place, and enough Elvis impersonators to populate a small nation of Kings. The air smells of expensive cologne, cheap hairspray, and the lingering aroma of triumph.
“That finishing move!” Carlotta shouts with glee for the seventeenth time, still riding the high of Meg’s victory. “When Mad Madge the Badge dropped that freedom elbow from the top rope, I swear I heard The Widowmaker’s spine play ‘The Star-Spangled Banner!’”
“It was pretty spectacular,” I agree, adjusting Lyla Nell on my hip. My daughter’s eyes are still wide with the wonder of watching her aunt transform into a star-spangled vengeance machine. “Although I am a little concerned about how enthusiastically Lyla Nell cheered for all the violence.”
“Get her! Squish her like a bug!” Lyla Nell shouts, squeezing her tiny fists in a gesture that would be adorable if it weren’t so bloodthirsty.
“Future WWE material right there,” Noah says as he ruffles our daughter’s hair. “She comes by it naturally.”
“From the Fox side of the family, clearly,” I counter. “The Lemon genes contribute only sweetness and light—with the exception of Meg.”
