Page 1 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
LOTTIE
My name is Lottie Lemon, and I see dead people. Okay, so rarely do I see dead people. Mostly I see furry creatures of the dearly departed variety who have come back from the other side to warn me of their previous owner’s impending doom. But the only thing I’m seeing now is the glittering expanse of Las Vegas through our shuttle window, a neon wonderland that makes Honey Hollow’s Christmas light competition look like a single birthday candle. It’s early evening, but the glittering lights have already taken over the landscape and perhaps our good senses.
The air in the shuttle is thick with anticipation, baby powder, and the faint scent of the airplane pretzels Carlotta smuggled into her purse for snacking emergencies. And she’s currently crunching on her fourth emergency as we cruise down the Strip, because apparently arriving in Vegas without contraband carbohydrates is some kind of mortal sin.
Carlotta and Mayor Nash traveled along with Everett, the kids, and me as we made the flight from Vermont to Nevada, and let’s just say traveling with three kids under the age of two is a heck of a lot easier than dealing with Carlotta and the Mayor.
We pass the Mirage with its volcano that erupts on schedule, because nothing says authentic natural wonder like pyrotechnics that punch a time clock. The Luxor pyramid rises ahead with its light beam so bright it probably confuses migrating aliens. And Caesar’sPalace sprawls across an entire city block, as if the Roman Empire had been designed by someone with serious impulse control issues and an unlimited credit line.
“Would you look at that?” I point to a massive gold-encrusted fountain at the Bellagio that shoots water twenty feet into the air. “Who needs nature when you can build it yourself and slap some gold leaf on it? It’s like Mother Earth, but with better financing.”
The Bellanova Casino & Spa Resort comes into view with its gleaming towers reaching skyward like the architectural equivalent of someone trying way too hard to compensate for something. I shift slightly in my seat, careful not to disturb the precious cargo on either side of me—my one-month-old twins, Ozzy and Corbin, who miraculously decided that this thirty-minute shuttle ride was the perfect time for their first synchronized nap.
I quickly check their breathing and their toenails—one painted blue, one green—my makeshift identification system for two identical bundles of joy who both inherited their father’s cobalt blue eyes and shock of dark hair. The pediatrician called my color-coding method unconventional but effective. I call itplease God, don’t let me mix up my children before they can answer to their own names.
“Look at that,” I gasp, pointing to the Bellanova’s gold-plated entrance. “It’s so tall it stretches all the way to heaven!”
The Bellanova Casino & Spa Resort rises before us like a golden monument to excess, its twin towers gleaming under the desert sun. This is it—our home base for the next solid week while I compete in the Las Vegas Flavor Frenzy, the biggest culinary competition this side of actual professional cooking shows.
My cinnamon rolls are about to go head-to-head with the best bakers in the country, assuming I don’t accidentally cremate them like I did during the Honey Hollow Harvest Festival incident that we don’t discuss.
Carlotta, who could easily pass for my twin if not for the extra wrinkles framing her hazel eyes and the streaks of gray in her caramel waves, presses her face against the shuttle window like a kid at a candy store. Actually, scratch that. She presses her nose to it exactly like she did at the candy store on the way to the airport.
“It’s not just stretching to Heaven, Lot Lot,” she declares with thereverence usually reserved for all-you-can-eat buffets. “ItisHeaven! And a little bit of Hell considering the weather.”
It’s true. Vegas is pretty much a toaster despite the fact it’s merely April.
Everett, my tall, dark, and permanently serious and terminally handsome hubby, adjusts his watch, looking every bit like Mr. Sexy as his nickname suggests. Several women walking past the shuttle do a double take his way, and one actually stumbles on her stilettos, nearly taking out a tourist with a fanny pack. I can’t help but giggle. Women ogling him freely is basically an occupational hazard of Everett’s good looks.
“Just once, I’d like to go somewhere without women practically genuflecting in your presence,” I tease—mostly. “It’s like traveling with a Greek god in Brooks Brothers.” True as gospel, although Everett’s suits are imported straight from Italy.
“It’s just his good genes,” Mayor Nash points out. “And how I wish I had ’em.”
“Well, the boys do,” I say, running my fingers through their hair and Everett ticks his head to the side at the thought.
“They are in for a wild ride in this life,” Mayor Nash adds.
“I prefer to call it a carefully structured adventure with appropriate safety measures and parental oversight,” Everett says with that go-to serious expression of his that only makes him that much more cuttingly handsome. Everett is tall, has the aforementioned blue eyes and dark hair, and a body fit to fight crime in a cape. But as it stands, he chooses to fight crime in a judicial robe, thus the fact he’s better known as Judge Essex Everett Baxter. “Looks are fleeting; it’s brains that count.”
“Tell that to your groupies.” I nod toward a woman who’s now taking a selfie with our shuttle in the background. “I think she’s about to post your silhouette on her Insta Pictures account with the captionFuture Baby Daddy.”
I’m lucky enough to have already procured that feat myself.
Up ahead I can see throngs of people swarming in and out of the hotel, and most of which are holding a fruity looking cocktail in a flute the size of a trombone.
Carlotta is already eyeing those delicious-lookingdrinks, and truth be told, so am I. After a month of sleepless nights and baby-induced chaos, a drink that comes with its own flotation device sounds like exactly what my sanity ordered. Although that won’t be happening any time soon, because I’m still nursing the twins, and on occasion Lyla Nell. There might have been a few meltdowns concerning my boobs since the twins were born, and she’s currently staging a protest once a day, but her need for Mommy milk always wins out in the end.
My sweet baby girl Lyla Nell bounces in her car seat, her dark hair with those distinctive red tips—just like her daddy Noah’s—bobbing with each movement. Her verdant green eyes scan the colorful lights in front of us with wonder.
Noah.
Just thinking about him sends a familiar pang through my chest. He’s already here in Vegas. He arrived yesterday on business that sounded suspiciously cryptic when he mentioned it.
“Pretty!” Lyla Nell exclaims, clapping her hands with fervor. Her bright green eyes scan the colorful lights with a wonder that makes me slightly jealous. When did everything stop looking magical to me and start looking so darn pricey? “Mommy, it so pretty!”
“That’s right, baby,” I agree. “Everything in Vegas is pretty. And expensive. And probably sticky.”
Mayor Harry Nash, my biological father—a fact I discovered just a few years ago and still haven’t figured out how to feel about—is just about already counting imaginary chips in his hand. His balding gray hair catches the neon lights, and his expanding waistline strains against his lucky gambling shirt, which based on previous evidence, brings about as much luck as a chocolate teapot.
