Page 24 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“Like, that was so harsh,” Charlie comments and I shoot her a look that sayset tu?
“Not as harsh as what Brittany said to Sarah after Sarah borrowed Brittany’s formal dress without asking and then spilled red wine all over it during homecoming,” Madison says with grave seriousness as if she’s recounting a war crime. “She threatened to?—”
“I’m sure it was terrible,” I interrupt before we descend further into Greek life vendettas. “Did either of you notice anything else unusual about Jolene that day? Anyone else she argued with or threatened to sue for recipe theft?”
The girls exchange a look laden with unspoken communication that involves years of coordinating their responses to adult questioning.
“Well,” Ainsley says slowly like she’s calculating the entertainment value of her information, “she did have this super intense conversation with that hotel event guy?—”
“Chuck Longnecker,” Madison supplies quickly as if she’s memorized the names of every attractive man within a fifty-mile radius.
“Right, him.” Ainsley nods. “They were in this corner by the dessert table, and it looked pretty heated.”
“But then she touched his arm and he, like, completely melted,” Madison adds with wonder as if she witnessed something magical. “It was weird. Like watching your professor suddenly turn into a puppy when someone mentions baked treats.”
“And then later,” Ainsley continues, clearly enjoying being the center of attention and possibly considering a career in investigative journalism, “she had this bizarre interaction with the security dude. The hot one who looks like he brushes his teeth with Whitestrips and probably flosses with unicorn hair.”
Unicorn hair? Now that’s one way to get Lyla Nell to floss more often.
“Pacy,” I say, remembering the too perfect, far too handsome security director.
“That’s him! He was all up in her space, whispering something that made her go completely pale, and then she slapped him! Right across his perfect face!” Ainsley’s eyes glow with the memory. “It was like watching a reality show, but with more sequins and better lighting.”
My brain whirs with this new information. Sherry with a death threat. Chuck with a suspicious relationship shift. Pacy with some kind of blackmail material. The suspect list is expanding faster than my waistline did in the last year alone.
I glance across the room and spot Sherry Smoot standing alone near a pillar, her fiery red curls impossible to miss even in a crowd of people who seem to have raided a costume shop. Her posture suggests someone trying very hard to look unaffected while feeling anything but, like someone who’s just received very bad news and is trying to process it without falling apart in public.
“We should totally compare notes later,” Madison says, pulling my attention back to the conversation, enthusiastic that she just discovered a new hobby. “We’re doing this whole true crime podcast thing on the side. Well, we will be. Once we figure out how to do podcasts and get equipment that doesn’t sound like we’re recording underwater.”
“It’s gonna be calledBaking Bad: Crime in the Kitchen,” Ainsley announces proudly.
“Or maybeThe Great Vegas Kill-Off,” Madison counters. “We’re still workshopping it.”
Before I can respond to this entrepreneurial venture, both their phones ding with incoming texts. They glance down in perfect synchronicity.
“OMG!” Madison gasps, staring at her screen as if it’s just revealed the secrets of the universe. “Emergency at the Kappa house!”
“Staci used Tara’s limited-edition Korean snail mucus face mask again,” Ainsley explains with the gravity ofannouncing an international incident. “We have to go mediate before someone gets their extensions ripped out.”
“We’ll catch you later!” Madison promises as they both back away like a couple of paramedics responding to a life-threatening emergency. “We have so much more tea to spill! Like, gallons of it!”
“Looking forward to it,” I say, watching them disappear into the casino crowd with the efficiency of two women on a mission of critical sorority importance. “I really like them.” I turn to Charlie. “That was...”
“Exhausting? Informative? A glimpse into why I’m glad I never went to college and had to navigate the complex social hierarchy of matching outfits and shared skincare products?” Charlie supplies with the wisdom of someone who’s avoided that particularly expensive circle of hell.
“All of the above,” I agree. “But they did give us some good leads, assuming we can filter out the sorority politics.”
I glance back toward Sherry, determined to make her my first—and possibly last—suspect interview, when the air in front of me suddenly sparkles with pink and blue stars materializing like miniature fireworks, dancing in the space between Charlie and me before forming into something that could only be described as spectacularly retro.
A man—or the ghost of one—strikes a pose that would make any Elvis impersonator get all shook up. His white rhinestone jumpsuit catches the casino lights, sending prismatic reflections across the hideous carpet in a way that somehow makes the pattern even more offensive. His perfectly coiffed pompadour defies both gravity and death itself, rising toward the ceiling like it’s reaching for the heavens, and the signature Elvis sneer plays at his lips with the confidence of a man who knows he looks fabulous even in death.
“Well, hello there, pretty ladies,” he croons in a voice that’s one part Memphis, two parts Vegas, and three parts theatrical affectation. “Raymond Tupowski at your service, but you can call me Ray-Ray. All the ladies do, and I’ve never met a lady I didn’t like.”
Charlie’s eyes widen to the size of dessert plates. This isn’t her first ghost rodeo, but it’s clear she wasn’t expecting the King himself to make an appearance—or at least a near miss.
It turns out, we’re something called transmundane, further classified as supersensual, which means we can see the dead. But not all the dead, mostly just those the man upstairs sends back to help solve a crime or two.
Mostly.
