Page 33 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
We sway together, and I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Despite the chaos of the last few days—the murders, the competition, the chaos of traveling with newborns—this moment feels perfect in its simplicity. Just Everett and me, moving together in a bubble of our own making.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“For what?”
“For this. For being the calm in my storm. For not running away when things get complicated or messy or dangerous, which seems to be my default setting these days.”
His arms tighten around me. “I’m not going anywhere, Lemon. Not now, not ever.”
“Promise?” I look up at him, suddenly needing the reassurance more than I’d care to admit.
“Promise,” he says, his voice carrying the weight of an oath. “Though I can’t guarantee I won’t occasionally remind you of your uncanny ability to find trouble in the mostunlikely places.”
“It’s a gift,” I say with a dramatic sigh. “Or a curse. The jury is still out.”
“Speaking of juries,” Everett says as his tone shifts just enough, “what do you make of our suspects?”
Leave it to Everett to turn a romantic moment into a crime discussion. Yet strangely, it only makes me love him more. This is our normal—swaying on a dance floor while dissecting murder motives.
“Sherry had a motive, but I don’t think she did it,” I tell him. “Chuck is acting suspicious, and apparently, he and Jolene were engaged, which she was threatening to end. And then there’s Pacy, the security director, who had some kind of history with Jolene.”
“Engaged?” Everett’s eyebrows lift. “That’s interesting. And potentially damning.”
“Plus, our friendly neighborhood ghost Elvis 2.0.” I quickly give him the rundown on Jolene’s estranged father, Raymond “Ray-Ray” Tupowski, who also managed Dirty Joe’s Elvis career. “He has a habit of breaking into song at inappropriate moments and seems excessively fond of rhinestones, even in the afterlife.”
Everett tilts his head to the side. “Of course. Because a regular murder investigation would be too straightforward without ghosts.”
“Hey, you knew what you were getting into when you married me,” I remind him. “The package deal includes ghostly visitors, an uncanny knack for finding bodies, and frequent brushes with death. The plus side? Amazing baked goods and a never-ending source of stories for dinner parties.”
“The pastries make it worth it,” he deadpans. “And so do your kisses.” He lands a wet one on me to prove his point.
The music changes to something with a slightly faster tempo, and Everett adjusts our pace accordingly. He’s better at this than I expected; perhaps judges have more fun than they let on.
“So what’s our next move?” he asks, expertly maneuvering us around an elderly couple who appears to be doing more arguing than dancing.
“I need to talk to Chuck,” I decide. “Find out what he’s hiding. And maybe see what Ray-Ray can dig up on Pacy. Ghost reconnaissancehas certain advantages—like being able to pass through walls and eavesdrop without being detected.”
“Just be careful,” Everett warns, his expression serious. “Whoever killed Jolene and Dirty Joe isn’t playing games.”
“Neither am I,” I assure him. “I’ve got too much at stake to take unnecessary risks.”
“Says the woman who once confronted a murderer armed with nothing but a spatula and a questionable understanding of self-defense.”
“That spatula was solid oak,” I defend myself. “And it worked, didn’t it?”
“By sheer luck,” he reminds me.
“I prefer to think of it as strategic baking implement deployment.”
The song ends, and Everett dips me gently—a move so unexpected that I squeak in surprise. He pulls me back up until our faces are just inches apart, and I catch a glimpse of something over his shoulder that makes my blood freeze.
There, lounging at the bar with a perfect view of the dance floor, is Pacy Morgan. His too white teeth gleam in the low light as he raises his martini glass in a mocking toast.
And right next to him, looking significantly more disheveled than when we last saw him, is Noah, engaged in what appears to be an intense conversation.
“What?” Everett asks, noticing my expression.
“Don’t turn around,” I whisper. “But I think our investigation just got a lot more complicated.”
