Page 7 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
Honestly, I don’t see a single thing wrong with what appear to be Sherry’s double G breasts that sit at pert attention just below her chin. How I miss the days my boobs were pert in any capacity. They’ve been operating as udders for the last two years straight, and you’d be surprised to learn what can happen to both size and shape.
“Ladies, please.” Chuck steps in quickly like a referee jumping between heavyweight boxers. “It appears you can both use a little time and space to cool off. Let me remind you that the Bellanova provides an extra kitchen through that door to the left of the ballroom. You’re welcome to help yourselves to ingredients and kitchenware as needed.” He gestures toward the general facilities as if trying to redirect a tornado. “Every station is equipped with an oven and the basic ingredients you specified in your entry forms, assuming no one is planning to weaponize them.”
He offers us all a professional smile that reminds me of a salesman trying to close a deal after the customer discovered the car was previously owned by a family of skunks. “I wish you all the very best of luck, and may the best baker win without requiring medical intervention.”
“I’m sure some of us will need luck more than others,” Jolene says with a pointed look at Sherry that could be classified as a threat in several states. She then turns to Chuck with a smile that crosses several state lines into flirtation territory. “And you can bet having you oversee things certainly sweetens the pot, Sugar Chuck.” She winks with the subtlety of a neon sign advertising adult entertainment. “I’ll be seeing you later, if you know what I mean.”
Chuck returns the wink before walking away with his shoulders squared like a man with places to be and people to intimidate leaving behind a wake of confused sexual tension and maybe a few OSHA violations.
Sherry turns back to her station, but not before delivering a parting shot over her shoulder with the precision of atrained sniper. “Try to rip me off again, Jolene, and I’ll murder you without an ounce of regret. They’ll never find all the pieces, and the ones they do find will be marinated and seasoned to perfection.”
Jolene gives a dismissive sniff that somehow conveys volumes about her opinion of both Sherry and humanity in general. I make a mental note to check Sherry’s station for any suspicious-looking meat grinders later. If I were her, I’d invest in a good life insurance policy.
As the women separate like opposing armies retreating to plan their next assault, Carlotta sidles up to me with her eyes fixed on Chuck as he takes off, because obviously, she’s genetically programmed to find inappropriate relationships.
Here we go again.
“What’s the deal with you and the hotel hottie?” she asks Jolene, who’s still watching him go with the intensity of a food critic inspecting a cinnamon roll for the perfect spiral. “That surname alone has set visions of you two long-necking together dancing in my head like a badly choreographed ’80s music video.”
“Oh, for the love of all things ’80s,” I groan. “Please ignore her,” I tell Jolene. “She’s got the impulse control of a teenager on prom night with a fake ID and Daddy’s credit card at a strip club.”
Wow, that summed Carlotta up nicely. Only it’s my credit card she’s wielding these days. It’s a long story.
Jolene lets out a laugh that sounds like a goose being startled—a honking, abrupt sound that catches everyone in the vicinity off guard and possibly alerts migrating waterfowl.
“Honey, I was born with the same condition,” she confides, leaning in as if sharing secrets that could topple governments and bakeries alike. “The difference is, I’ve turned it into a lifestyle.” She holds up her left hand, wiggling her fingers to showcase a diamond the size of a small country. “That hotel hottie is my soon-to-be mister, assuming he survives the engagement period.”
“Oh wow, your ring is gorgeous,” I coo spontaneously, although secretly I think the ring looks like it’s trying too hard, much like its wearer. It’s the jewelry equivalent of someone sayingdon’t you know who I am?at a restaurant when demanding the best seat. Or the equivalent of that neon orange spray tan she’s currently rocking.
Before we can continue this riveting conversation about Jolene’s matrimonial prospects and questionable taste in both men and jewelry, a buzzer shrieks through the ballroom like an air raid siren announcing the apocalypse, signaling the official start of competition prep.
“Duty calls!” I dash back to my station, grateful for the escape from Carlotta’s matchmaking and Jolene’s smugness. There aren’t enough antacids in Vegas to deal with more of either.
I throw myself into work, pulling out ingredients for my signature cinnamon rolls and mentally cataloging what I’ll need for a quicker dessert—something that won’t require hours of rising time or a degree in chemistry. Maybe a chocolate lava cake with a whiskey-infused ganache center? Wait, I know! Marzipan roses set on chiffon cupcakes!
My hands fly through the familiar motions of measuring, mixing, and kneading, a dance my fingers know better than my brain knows which twin is which at three a.m. during a diaper emergency.
As I’m gathering ingredients for my signature cinnamon rolls, a very pregnant blonde woman stops by my station, admiring my display of marzipan roses with genuine interest that doesn’t seem motivated by competition or homicidal intent. Her baby bump stretches the fabric of her floral maternity dress so tautly I’m worried one deep breath might send buttons flying like shrapnel.
“Talk about upstaging the competition. These are gorgeous,” she says, gesturing to my handiwork with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. “I’ve never seen such delicate detail in food decoration. Marzipan roses? Did you train under someone famous, or are you just naturally gifted at making the rest of us look incompetent?”
“Thanks,” I reply with a laugh while wiping flour from my hands. “When are you due? And please tell me you’re not planning to give birth during the competition because I’m pretty surethatwould upstage everyone.”
She rests a hand on her impressive bump and gives a good-natured laugh. “Not for another two months, assuming this little one doesn’t decide to make an early appearance at an inconvenient moment.” Her eyes travel to my midsection with curiositythat makes me want to hide behind my mixing bowl. “How about you? When are you due?”
My mouth falls open and the entire world seems to freeze for a moment.
“I actually just had twins,” I manage, fighting the urge to confirm that yes, this body that looks six months pregnant actually evicted its tenants four weeks ago and is still confused about its current occupancy status.
Her cheeks flush pink with embarrassment that would be charming if it weren’t highlighting my postpartum body issues. “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe I did that to another woman. Please accept my apology.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I wave her off with a laugh that’s only slightly hysterical. “My uterus hasn’t received the eviction notice yet. Either that or it’s still expecting new tenants to move in any day now. I’m Lottie, by the way, and this is my body’s ongoing identity crisis.”
“Margo,” she offers with a relieved smile that suggests she was genuinely worried I might report her to the pregnancy police. “I totally understand. I already have three under five at home, which is why I practically needed a permission slip from my husband and possibly the National Guard to escape today.”
“Three under five? And another on the way?” I can’t hide my incredulous tone that borders on awe and terror. Oh good grief, this could be me in a couple of months if Everett and I aren’t careful. “Your reproductive system deserves a medal. Or therapy. Possibly both and a really good vacation.”
The need for therapy seems to be a running theme as of late. And perhaps a real need on my part.
