Page 27 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“Murder has a way of reshuffling priorities faster than a deck of cards at a high-stakes poker game.” I agree, because let’s face it, I’ve had my life upended by homicide more times than any reasonable person should and that’s how I know it’s true. “Although I find it interesting that you assume that you’re suspect number one. Care to explain why? Did you fill out a suspect application, or is this more of a self-nomination situation?” I tease, slightly hoping she’ll warm up to me more than she already has.
Her mouth opens, closes, then opens again like a fish trying to decide whether the bait is worth the risk.
“I threatened her,” she admits finally, the words tumbling out like a church confession. “In front of witnesses. Multiple witnesses with functioning ears and possibly recording devices. I was just so angry about the recipe theft, I could have spit nails.”
She glances toward the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention or at least a good lawyer. “I’ve worked my whole life to build my brand, my recipes. Everything in my cookbook is original—family recipes I’ve modernized or completely new creations I’ve spent years perfecting in my kitchen while other people were out having social lives.”
“And Jolene stole from you?” I prompt gently, employing the same tone I use when trying to get Lyla Nell to admit she’s the one who drew on the walls with crayons. Although admittedly, sometimes it’s Carlotta who’s at fault.
“Her entire bourbon maple glaze recipe, word for word from page sixty-four of my cookbook. Down to the teaspoon of orange zest and the pinch of sea salt that makes it special.” Her emerald eyes flash with enough anger to power a small appliance. “It wasn’t the first time either. Her pistachio cream filling is suspiciously similar to mine, and don’t get me started on the cinnamon-infused caramel drizzle that she claimed was a ‘family secret’ when it’s actually from page one hundred twelve of my book.”
The air between us sparkles with a spray of pink and blue stars as Ray-Ray materializes with his signature theatrical pizazz—and this time with a donut halfway into his mouth as if he’s been caught mid-snack in the afterlife. He’s mid-bite and his jaws are stretched wide around what appears to be a glazed cruller that makes my stomach rumble twice as hard. I can’t help it. I’m basically a carb addict with no interest in recovery. Here’s hoping Sherry doesn’t notice the floating food.
“Mmrff—” He tries to speak around his pastry, then pauses to swallow with all the dignity of someone who’s never met a donut he didn’t love. “Sorry ’bout that, honey bun. Even in death, I can’t resist a good donut, especially not when they’ve got a whole tray of ’em sitting like a tower of glazed temptation calling my name from beyond the veil.”
Yes, the dead that visit me can almost always eat.And don’t think for a minute I’m not envious of the zero-calorie policy instated in the afterlife.
“But I swear I didn’t kill her,” Sherry insists, oblivious to our transparent guest. “I wanted to throttle her for sure, but murder? That’s taking competitive baking way too far, even for someone who once threw a stand mixer at a judge who insulted my éclairs.”
I would have been moved to do the same.
“Tell that to the producers of those cutthroat cooking shows,” I mutter. “Nothing boosts ratings like the threat of actual bloodshed and more than a few on-camera nervous breakdowns.”
Ray-Ray circles Sherry like a rhinestone-studded vulture, his spectral eyebrow raised in suspicion as he gives her the once-over with the intensity of a man evaluating a potential date. “Little Red here’s got the fire for it, I’ll give her that much. Look at those hands—steady enough for delicate pastry work, strong enough to wield a knife or a gun with precision.” He licks ghostly sugar from his transparent fingers. “But I can’t believe anyone would kill my Jolene over some recipe. Girl knew how to complicate just about everything from cooking instructions to romantic relationships.” He gives Sherry the once-over again. “And boy howdy, is this little firecracker a hottie. Do you think I have a chance with her?”
I take a moment to shoot him a look. He can’t be serious. But then you know what they say, the heart wants what it wants—whether or not its beating.
“If you didn’t kill Jolene,” I ask Sherry, trying to ignore Ray-Ray’s inappropriate supernatural hormone surge, “do you have any idea who did? Anyone else who might have had a motive involving more than recipe theft and wounded professional pride?”
She glances around furtively before leaning closer. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon clings to her like a permanent occupational hazard—one I’m all too familiar with. “I don’t know who did the deed, but Chuck Longnecker might have answers,” she whispers. “They were pretty close, getting married and all. In fact, I saw them arguing the night before. It was intense.”
“The event coordinator,” I say because I know exactly who she means. I saw them going at it, too, though I couldn’t hear the details over the ambient casino noise and general chaos. “What were theyfighting about? Money? Wedding planning? His questionable taste in venues for romantic proposals?”
“I couldn’t hear everything, but it sounded personal. Very personal.” Sherry’s voice drops even lower like she’s afraid someone might be listening with surveillance equipment. “She called him a liar, said something about breaking off their engagement and possibly ruining his life in the process.”
My eyebrows climb toward my hairline. “That’s pretty serious relationship drama.” But then I know exactly how high emotions can run during engagement periods. Suffice it to say, I’ve had my fair share of romantic complications these past few years, and that’s putting it mildly.
Ray-Ray snorts so loudly I’m surprised Sherry doesn’t hear it and possibly call security. “Engaged is putting it mildly, sugar pie. Those two were planning to tie the knot next month at the Little White Wedding Chapel, complete with Elvis officiant and everything.” He preens with ghostly pride. “Not the real King, of course. Nobody compares to the original—well, maybe except for me when I’m really channeling the spirit.”
“It was all very rushed if you ask me,” Sherry continues, unaware of Ray-Ray’s running commentary that’s providing more information than a celebrity gossip magazine. “But everyone in the competition circuit knew. Jolene couldn’t resist dropping hints about her ‘Vegas connection’ and flashing that enormous diamond the size of a glacier.”
“My baby girl was a master of the humble brag,” Ray-Ray adds with paternal pride mixed with exasperation. “She could drop more hints than a skywriter with a fuel leak and twice as much subtlety as a freight train in a library.”
I try to reconcile this information with the Chuck Longnecker I’ve observed—controlled, meticulous, and apparently engaged to a woman who ended up with a bullet wound in her chest. Not exactly the kind of relationship milestone most wedding planners include in their happily-ever-after packages.
“Did you notice anything else unusual about their interaction?” I press, hoping for more details that might point toward a motive that doesn’t involve baked goods. “Body language?Specific threats? Anyone throwing kitchenware?”
Sherry’s brow furrows in concentration like she’s trying to solve a complex mathematical equation. “Chuck seemed pretty angry, angrier than I’ve ever seen him. But then they parted ways and Jolene was back to smiling as if nothing had happened, like someone had flipped a switch and reset her to factory settings.”
“That’s an interesting reaction for someone who just had their engagement threatened,” I muse, more to myself than to Sherry, though it comes out loud enough that she nods in agreement.
Ray-Ray floats upside down between us, his pompadour somehow remaining perfectly coiffed despite defying gravity. “My Jolene had a nose for secrets sharper than a bloodhound at a perfume convention. And once she caught the scent of something juicy...” He makes a throat-slitting gesture that’s surprisingly menacing for a dead man in a rhinestone jumpsuit. “Career suicide for whoever crossed her.”
“Blackmail isn’t exactly a recipe for a healthy relationship,” I comment, thinking about the implications of someone who collects secrets like other people collect stamps.
“Or a long life,” Sherry adds grimly, apparently following the same train of thought.
“Did Chuck seem surprised when Jolene’s body was found? Like, genuinely shocked, or more like someone who was expecting bad news?”
