Page 2 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
His mischievous blue eyes dart from casino to casino as we pass the Flamingo’s pink neon paradise, the towering Stratosphere that looks like it’s auditioning for a role as the world’s most expensive pogo stick, and the Venetian’s faux canal system complete with gondoliers who probably dream of actual Venice while singing “That’s Amore” for the thousandth time.
“Think of all the potential winnings just waiting for me,” he says, rubbing his hands together with glee that borders on concerning. “Ican practically hear the slots calling my name.Harry, Harry, make us sing!”
Everett raises an eyebrow. “I hope you’re not gambling with the good people of Honey Hollow’s tax dollars. That sidewalk repair fund seems to shrink whenever the Honey Bees play.”
The Honey Bees would be what Honey Hollow High’s student body refers to themselves as, and yes, the mascot’s official name is Sting.
“Oh, please.” Carlotta waves dismissively, accidentally whacking a pretzel against the window. “What’s the point of being mayor if you can’t dip your fingers into the town cookie jar now and then? It’s practically in the politician’s handbook—chapter one, steal a little, lie a lot, and always blame the previous administration or the weather, whichever has a lower approval rating.”
“Carlotta!” I gasp, although I can’t help but laugh. “You can’t say things like that in public. There are impressionable ears present.” I gesture toward Lyla Nell, who’s currently trying to eat her shoelace with the determination of a toddler who’s discovered a new food group.
Mayor Nash puffs up indignantly, his cheeks reddening to match the neon sign we’re passing outside the Circus Circus. “I’ll have you know, I’ve never stolen a dime from?—”
“Save it for the voters, Harry,” Carlotta cuts him off with the efficiency of a guillotine. “Your campaign promises don’t work on me. I’ve seen where those hands have been—specifically in the church donation basket looking for change for the vending machine.”
I peer over at Ozzy—or is it Corbin?—strapped into his car seat as sudden panic grips me as if realizing I forgot to pack diapers for a week-long trip. Which I totally didn’t forget. That would be suitcases four, five, and six.
“Oh, good grief.” I sigh hard. “I’m actually starting to doubt my color-coding system. What if I’ve already mixed them up? What if I’ve been calling OzzyCorbinand CorbinOzzysince that diaper blowout in the airport bathroom?” The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through me. “And which one had the blue toe again? My lack of sleep has relegated me to one final brain cell, and even that one seems tobe on the fritz.
“It’s okay, Lemon,” Everett says, leaning over to examine both babies with the same scrutiny he applies to particularly tricky legal documents. “Ozzy has the dimple on his right cheek, Corbin on his left. They’re right where they should be.”
I exhale with enough relief that it could power a small wind farm. “Thank goodness for genetic dimples. They’re like nature’s name tags.”
Which one was on the left again? Oh, never mind.
“I still can’t believe we’re here for a whole week of competition,” I say, changing the subject before another wave of maternal incompetence crashes over me. “The Vegas Flavor Frenzy is the biggest culinary event of the year, and the Sin City Sugar Showdown could put my cinnamon rolls on the map nationwide. Charlie is already practicing her savory dishes for her division. I just can’t wait to dig in.”
“And I can’t wait to dig in to all the handsome chefs,” Carlotta adds with a cheeky yet purely evil wink. She and Harry have an odd relationship, to say the least, but as of late he’s made it clear there’s to be no more roaming as far as other romantic partners are concerned. However, it’s taking Carlotta some time to get the memo. “I hear they really know how to handle their utensils,” she guffaws as she says it. “Those rolling pins aren’t the only things that rise in their kitchens.”
“Carlotta, please,” I groan, wondering not for the first time how this woman could possibly have contributed to my DNA without some kind of cosmic clerical error. “There are children present. And a mayor. And my husband, who happens to be armed with perfect recall and the authority to sentence people.”
“Oh, I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.” She shrugs with the innocence of a woman who’s never had an innocent thought in her life. “Besides, it’s Vegas, baby. What happens here will be extensively documented on my Insta Pictures account but with tasteful filters and strategic cropping.”
The shuttle finally lurches to a stop at the Bellanova’s grand entrance with all the grace of a walrus who’s had one too many drinks, and suddenly everyone’s scrambling for bags, babies, and dignity. The doors whoosh open, letting in a blast of dry heat that feels like opening an oven set tosurface of the sun.
“All right, folks, this is your stop!” the driver announces with the enthusiasm of someone who is clearly ready to be rid of our particular brand of chaos—and ready to be tipped excessively for it, too. “Bellanova Casino & Spa Resort—where dreams come true and wallets go to die!”
The Bellanova’s grand entrance is a stunning display of gold columns and crystal chandeliers that are visible even from the street. A bellhop in a pristine uniform rushes forward as the doors open, his smile so bright it could probably power half the Vegas Strip and still have energy left over for a few slot machines. Behind him in the foyer, the stunning display of gold columns and crystal chandeliers creates a backdrop that screams expensive in seventeen different languages.
Everett efficiently organizes our exodus like a military operation, while I juggle the twins and try to prevent Lyla Nell from launching herself headfirst onto the sidewalk. Mayor Nash bolts for the casino entrance before the shuttle even comes to a complete stop, and Carlotta somehow manages to reapply lipstick while simultaneously gathering her seventeen different bags.
“Welcome to paradise!” the bellhop chirps as we spill out onto the sidewalk in a tangle of diaper bags, suitcases, and what I can only describe as organized pandemonium.
And as if sensing the worst possible moment for a meltdown, all three babies decide this is the perfect time to exercise their lungs in unison. The wailing carries across the elaborate entrance like an air raid siren announcing the arrival of chaos as Everett and I frantically try to soothe them.
“Welcome to paradise,” Everett mutters as if he’d much rather have a root canal, trying to rock Corbin while I struggle with both Ozzy and a squirming Lyla Nell.
“Paradise with a veryhangrychoir,” I agree, bouncing gently and making shushing noises that only seem to inspire more impressive vocal gymnastics from my offspring. “At least they’re performing in harmony. That’s got to count for something.”
And I think that something is a very stiff drink—for Everett at least.
Inside the lobby, we’re immediately greeted bycompeting signs: WELCOME VEGAS FLAVOR FRENZY COMPETITORS, THE KING LIVES ON: ELVIS TRIBUTE ARTIST CHAMPIONSHIP THIS WEEK! and DON’T MISS THE GRAND CHAMPIONSHIP WRESTLING REVIVAL!
The lobby itself smells like expensive perfume, freshly minted money, and the particular brand of reckless optimism that comes with being one pull away from a jackpot. The black granite floor is so shiny I can practically count my split ends in the reflection, and the sound of slot machines creates a chaotic-sounding musical backdrop along with the occasional bells and whistles.
A group of Elvis impersonators in various stages of authenticity strut through the lobby in their jumpsuits and pompadours. Some look impressively like the King himself, while others seem more like Elvis’s distant cousin who maybe caught a glimpse of him once during a particularly hazy family reunion.
“The King lives!” Carlotta screams, clutching her chest in a way that sends several nearby tourists reaching for their phones—probably to dial 911 or capture her inevitable collapse for social media fame. I bet they’re hoping for the latter.
