Page 35 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“Says the man who abandoned us at dinner faster than Carlotta abandons New Year’s resolutions.” I narrow my eyes at him with focused intensity because I’ve reached the end of my patience. “By the way, your steak was delicious. We had them box up the leftovers for the coyotes stalking the parking garage, and they send their compliments to the chef.”
Everett suppresses a smile behind his glass of scotch. “It was an excellent cut. The coyotes send their regards.”
Noah has the decency to look sheepish, those dimples making a brief appearance. “I had something important to take care of.”
“More important than explaining why you’re Public Enemy Number One in a double homicide investigation?” I ask sweetly. “Because I’m pretty sure that tops the priority list, right after breathing and before personal hygiene but definitely above mysterious rendezvous with suspicious individuals.”
“It’s related,” he says cryptically, then checks his phone for what has to be the seventeenth time in three minutes likehe’s expecting either very good news or very bad news. “I’m working on something that might clear everything up.”
“You’re working on an ulcer is what you’re doing,” I mutter. “And giving me one in the process.”
The house lights dim, sending a ripple of anticipation through the crowd like an electric current, and suddenly everyone’s paying attention with the focused intensity usually reserved for natural disasters or celebrity scandals. Carlotta grips Mayor Nash’s arm with the fervor of a woman about to witness the second coming—if the messiah wore sequined suits and sang songs about gambling metaphors for love.
“Everybody shut your pie holes!” Carlotta shouts loud enough to be heard three tables over and possibly in the parking lot by those coyotes. “My future husband is about to perform the concert of a lifetime!”
“You’re already engaged to the mayor,” Everett points out reasonably.
Although inherently logic resonates with Carlotta about as much as the word commitment does. I’d say poor Mayor Nash, but they’re just two peas in a cheating pod.
“Details.” Carlotta dismisses with a wave. “Some women collect shoes or handbags. I collect potential husbands. It’s called having hobbies and keeping your options open, Sexy.”
The curtains part to reveal a stage bathed in blue light, a lone microphone stand gleaming like a beacon. A drum roll builds with the dramatic tension of someone announcing either a winner or an execution, and suddenly, there he is—Johnny United in the flesh, which there seems to be more of each year despite his suits getting tighter and more structurally challenged.
His dyed black hair is sculpted into an architectural marvel that could withstand hurricane-force winds, and his smile is whiter than a polar bear in a snowstorm who’s just had professional dental work.
“HELLOOOO, BELLANOVA!” he croons into the mic with his voice the perfect blend of a lounge lizard and aging rock star. “Are you ready to feel UNITED tonight?”
The crowd erupts with the enthusiasm of people who’ve been saving up their excitement for weeks, but no reaction matchesCarlotta’s, who lets out a sound somewhere between a squeal and a mating call that could probably be heard in three neighboring counties.
Mayor Nash looks simultaneously embarrassed and resigned, like a man who’s accepted that his romantic rival is a seventy-year-old crooner in a bedazzled suit and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.
As soon as Johnny launches into “Love Me Like Your Credit Card,” which is apparently a real song that someone wrote with a straight face, I scan the room as my murder-magnet radar begins to ping.
And there he is—Chuck Longnecker, sitting alone at a corner table, checking his watch repeatedly. His professional demeanor seems strained tonight, his usual polish dulled by what looks like genuine distress or an impressive imitation of it.
“I see our favorite event coordinator,” I murmur to Everett. “And he’s looking about as comfortable as a vegan at a brisket barbecue competition.”
Everett follows my gaze, his judge face immediately activating. “You’re not thinking of?—”
“Interrogating a grieving fiancé during a Johnny United concert? Absolutely.” I take a sip of my virgin daiquiri that tastes like artificial strawberry and missed opportunities. “Multitasking is my superpower. That and finding corpses, obviously.”
“Lottie—” Noah starts, but I cut him off because I’ve reached the end of my rope.
“Unless you’re about to tell me what you and Dirty Joe were arguing about or why you’ve been as forthcoming as a clam with lockjaw, save it,” I tell him with the patience of an ex-wife who is officially out of patience. “I’m working a case here, and someone needs to be making progress.”
“So am I,” he says, and the frustration is evident in his voice. “If you’d just trust me?—”
“Trust is earned with communication, Detective, not cryptic disappearances and secret meetings with suspicious security directors,” I counter with the logic that comes from being married twice and learning a few things about relationshipdynamics.
Noah’s eyebrows shoot up. “How did you?—”
“I have eyes everywhere,” I say mysteriously, although the truth is I just happened to spot him with Pacy at the bar. Sometimes the universe drops evidence in my lap like an overeager cat bringing dead mice as gifts, and I’ve learned to pay attention to these cosmic hints no matter how rancid they smell.
Johnny transitions to a ballad that has Carlotta practically levitating with emotion and experiencing some kind of religious awakening, and that’s when I notice Chuck sliding away from his table like a man on a mission, moving toward a quieter area near the bar where the lighting is dimmer—and just my luck, conversations are harder to overhear.
“I’m going in,” I announce as I jump to my feet. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, assume I’ve either cracked the case or been murdered. Either way, order me another virgin daiquiri and possibly call security.”
“Lemon,” Everett says with his tone a perfect blend of exasperation and resignation, “at least try not to accuse him of murder during the chorus. Carlotta may never forgive you.”
