Page 9 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
Murder, it seems, has officially entered the competition. And once again, I’ve just been awarded the blue ribbon for worst timing in the culinary cosmos and possibly the entire universe.
Jolene Nelson is dead.
LOTTIE
Jolene Nelson’s lifeless eyes stare up at the fluorescent kitchen lights of the Bellanova Casino & Spa Resort with her pupils fixed and dilated like a baker who’s just been told the sugar’s been replaced with salt.
The smell of industrial cleaner mingles with the metallic tang of blood and something sweet—her perfume, maybe, or the ghost of vanilla extract that clings to all of us baking warriors like a delicious but persistent ex-boyfriend.
The contrast between the silent kitchen and the cheerful chaos of the Vegas Flavor Frenzy in the ballroom just yards away would be jarring if I wasn’t so accustomed to death crashing my parties like an uninvited relative who brings their own drama and never helps with the dishes.
My scream must have carried because Noah and Everett burst through the door as if they’d been rehearsing this rescue scene for weeks.
“Geez.” Noah drops to his knees beside Jolene’s body, pressing two fingers against her neck with a precision that comes from years of dealing with my corpse-detection abilities. He shakes his head after a moment—a gesture I’ve seen too many times before—and whips out his phone. “I’m calling 911.”
Everett pulls me against his chest as his heartbeat thrums against my ear at double time. “Lemon, what happened? Did you seeanything out of the ordinary?” His voice drops an octave. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I assure him, thoughfinehas become a relative term in my vocabulary likea little pregnantorslightly deceased. “I didn’t notice anything unusual, except—” I wince, realizing that this would sound insane to anyone but these two. “There was a ghost. An Elvis impersonator was hovering over her body. He shed a tear and disappeared faster than my metabolism after the twins.” And my motivation to exercise, but I leave that part out.
Noah glances up from his phone call and his eyebrows shoot toward his hairline. “How do you know it wasn’t the King himself?” he asks after hanging up, because apparently in our world, this is a reasonable question requiring clarification.
I shake my head with the authority of a baker who’s become an unwilling expert in supernatural phenomena. “Unless Elvis developed a unibrow in the afterlife and started shopping at discount costume stores, it wasn’t him. The face was off. Like those bootleg Disney characters that pose for photos down in Leeds and probably violate several copyright laws.”
Leeds would be the seedy town just south of Honey Hollow. And boy, do I miss Honey Hollow right about now. Heck, I even miss Leeds.
The kitchen doors swing open again as a harried-looking Chuck Longnecker makes his way over. His professional demeanor cracks for just a moment as he takes in the scene, revealing something that looks almost like—calculation. Before I can analyze it further, another man rushes in behind him.
This newcomer is late thirties, model-handsome with perfectly styled dark blonde hair, and teeth so white they probably require sunglasses for maintenance. He gasps hard at the sight of Jolene’s body as one manicured hand flies to his mouth. Wait a minute, this is the blond man I saw arguing with Jolene back at her station.
“I’m Pacy Morgan, Head of VIP Security,” he says with a tight voice. His gaze sweeps over me like a spotlight searching for suspicious behavior. “Who found her?”
“That would be me,” I say just above a whisper, raising my hand like I’m back in grade school volunteering to clean the erasers,except instead of chalk dust I’m dealing with blood spatter. “Lottie Lemon. I came in looking for cardamom and found a corpse instead. Definitely not a fair trade, and I’m pretty sure the exchange rate is terrible.”
Both Noah and Everett shoot me a look for my meager attempt at levity. I can’t help it. My mouth takes on a life of its own whenever I’m around a corpse. Or more to the point, vaguely accused of landing that corpse in its inanimate state to begin with.
Pacy opens his mouth to question me further when the doors swing open once more and in speeds a bald man with red eyebrows that look like they’re a part of their own cartoon series and ears pointed enough to pick up satellite signals as he flashes a badge.
“Detective Reginald Morrison, Las Vegas Homicide,” he announces in a voice that sounds like it’s been dunked in whiskey and smoked for forty years.
Noah straightens as his professional instincts kick in. “Detective Noah Fox, Ashford County Sheriff’s Department, Homicide Division, Vermont.” He nods toward the body. “The victim appears to have been dead less than an hour. There’s a single gunshot wound to the chest.”
Morrison’s leprechaun-like ears twitch at this information as if he’s receiving radio transmissions from the mothership. “Another cop, huh? You’re a long way from home, Detective Fox. Las Vegas isn’t exactly known for its Vermont maple syrup and covered bridges.”
He’s charming. And also,right.
“I’m just here for the baking competition,” Noah replies smoothly, like finding dead bodies is a perfectly normal vacation activity for most families—and for us, it might be. “My wife is competing.” He gestures my way, and I resist the urge to wave jazz hands and announce,Ta-da! It’s me, the body magnet with a baking license!
Noah only ever references me as his wife, a detail that hasn’t escaped my notice or the notice of every person within a fifty-mile radius who has functioning ears.
I catch Everett averting his eyes when Noah calls me his wife. Face it, he’s watched this particular horror movie too many times to count and could probably recite the dialoguefrom memory. As Everett has pointed out with the patience of a saint teaching calculus to cats, Noah’s obsession with our technically defunct marriage has the staying power of a cockroach in a nuclear winter. The divorce papers might as well be written in invisible ink and filed underfairy talesas far as Noah is concerned.
Okay, confession: sometimes I feel the same. But it’s not my fault. Noah is really good at playing the part of a doting husband.
Within seconds, a uniformed sheriff’s deputy materializes at Detective Morrison’s elbow. “We need all non-essential personnel to clear the room.” His tone suggests we’re all about as non-essential as a snow shovel in July.
Before I allow Everett to guide me away from what is undoubtedly about to become the most thoroughly investigated kitchen, I glance back at Jolene’s body and something catches my eye—a shimmer of glitter on her blue apron, right near her collar. It’s not blood spatter, but something pink and sparkly, like?—
I discreetly snap a photo with my phone before Everett’s hand lands on the small of my back, guiding me toward the exit with the gentle but firm pressure as if he’s learned one too many times that I require physical direction away from crime scenes.
