Page 36 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“I make no promises about my timing,” I shoot back, already heading toward a potential disaster with the confidence of a baker who’s survived multiple murder investigations and developed an immunity to common sense.
LOTTIE
Iweave through the tables right here in the Star Dust Lounge, my sparkly dress catching the light like a beacon announcingAmateur Detective Approaching. The air thickens with perfume, aftershave, and the distinctive scent of desperation that permeates every Vegas venue—a mixture of spilled drinks, lost fortunes, and the faint hope of hitting it big.
Just as I near Chuck’s trajectory, the air around me shimmers with now-familiar pink and blue stars, materializing into the spectral form of Ray-Ray Tupowski, Elvis impersonator extraordinaire and father of the dearly departed Jolene.
“Well, hello there, sugar plum!” Ray-Ray materializes fully, his white jumpsuit so bedazzled it practically radiates otherworldly light and definitely violates several laws of good taste. “You looking to shake down that slick-talking event fella like a martini at happy hour?”
“That’s the plan,” I murmur, trying to look like I’m not conversing with thin air. “Any ghostly insights before I go in? Preferably something more helpful than song lyrics about suspicious minds.”
Ray-Ray floats ahead, his transparent form passing through a waiter carrying a tray of martinis with the casual disregard for physics that comes with being dead. The waiter shivers inexplicably, nearly dropping his precious cargo and most likely wondering if the air conditioning system is malfunctioning.
“He’s waiting for someone, honeybun,” Ray-Ray reports, returning to my side. “Looking jumpier than a frog on a hot plate, too. Something’s cooking in that greased-back head of his, and it ain’t fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches.”
“Thank you for that culinary comparison,” I say, watching as Chuck checks his phone, frowning at whatever he sees. “Any idea who he’s waiting for? An ex-wife? Loan shark? Health inspector?”
“Can’t say for certain, but—” Ray-Ray starts, then breaks into the opening lines of “Suspicious Minds” instead of finishing his sentence. Knew it. It’s like conversing with a haunted jukebox that randomly changes tracks mid-conversation.
I approach the bar, positioning myself a few seats away from Chuck with the stealth of a baker who’s learned to blend into backgrounds while investigating murder.
He doesn’t notice me at first, giving me a precious moment to study him like a specimen under a microscope. Up close, the strain is more evident. His usual meticulous appearance is slightly rumpled as if he got dressed in the dark, and he has dark circles under his eyes partially hidden by what I suspect is concealer. So odd. The professional smile he wears like armor has slipped, revealing something raw and perhaps desperate underneath.
“Rough night?” I ask, sliding onto the stool next to him.
Chuck startles like he’s just been caught doing something illegal, his hand jerking so suddenly he nearly knocks over his whiskey. A trace of recognition ignites in his eyes, followed quickly by wariness.
“Lottie,” he says, recovering his composure with the speed of a detective accustomed to crisis management. “What an unexpected pleasure. Are you enjoying Johnny’s performance?”
“The show is great, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to give my condolences personally,” I say with the sincerity of someone who’s genuinely sorry but also needs information. “I’m so sorry about your fiancée. It must be devastating to lose someone you were planning to marry.”
His jaw tightens as I say it. “Jolene was a jewel through and through.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment as if he’s trying to block out painful memories. “But work helps with the grief, you know? I figure I’ll get through this week, then I’ll take a few days formyself to properly fall apart. Right now, staying busy is saving what’s left of my sanity.”
“That must be incredibly difficult,” I say as the music ratchets up in the room and Johnny United hits a high note that my twins would be envious of and will definitely try to replicate at three a.m. “Having to maintain professional composure while grieving someone you loved. Most people get bereavement leave for exactly this reason.”
“It’s more difficult than you can imagine,” he replies as genuine pain flashes across his face like lightning illuminating a storm cloud. “Jolene was so very special to me. I’m going to love her forever, you know? Love doesn’t die just because someone does. Death may have taken Jolene, but it will never take the love I felt for her. She was special indeed, one of a kind.”
My heart wrenches just hearing the raw emotion in his voice, because grief is universal even when the grieving person might be a suspect.
Ray-Ray floats behind Chuck, making exaggerated gagging motions. “Special like a rattlesnake in a baby crib. My little girl had her moments, but she was sharper than a tack and twice as pointy.”
I suppress a smile at Ray-Ray’s honest commentary about his own daughter. “I hear she was quite the recipe developer. Verycreativein how she sourced her material and developed her signature dishes.”
Chuck takes a careful sip of his whiskey. “Jolene was innovative, yes. She had a gift for elevating simple concepts and elevating them to something extraordinary.”
I cringe because I can feel the words bubbling up my throat without my permission. “There are some rumors circulating that Jolene borrowed more than a few of those not-so-simple concepts from other bakers.” I try to say it gently, butborrowedis just a nice word for plagiarism, and we both know it.
His eyes narrow slightly. “The culinary world is full of inspiration and homage. Lines can blur when it comes to creativity and influence.”
“Linescanblur,” I repeat thoughtfully, letting the words hang in the air like smoke.
Like the line between inspiration and theft? Ormaybe even the line between loving someone and killing them? But I don’t dare say those things out loud, because I’m rather fond of breathing and he might have access to sharp kitchen utensils.
Johnny United’s voice soars in the background, something about slot machines and heartbreak that sounds like it was written by someone who understands both intimately. Carlotta’s distinctive whoop carries across the room like a mating call, followed by what sounds like Mayor Nash trying desperately to keep her seated and possibly prevent an incident that involves the police.
Chuck sets his glass down with deliberate care. “Look, Lottie, I’m not sure what you’re implying. I can assure you my Jolene was as pure as the driven snow. She wouldn’t steal a recipe from anyone, let alone claim someone else’s work as her own.”
“I’m not implying anything,” I say with a smile that’s all sugar and razor blades. “I’m just here to express my condolences. Chuck, I think you might be one of the last people to see Jolene alive. Do you have any idea who she was planning to meet or confront that night?”
