Page 39 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“Not the ones in my experience,” she says with a wink. “I once spent a very educational night with a sous chef who showed me exactly how to properly handle a?—”
“If the next word out of your mouth is anything but spatula, I’m walking away,” I warn her.
Ray-Ray zips ahead, then back, his transparent face pinched with concern. “Your man is in the back storage area, sugar. And he’s got company—the chomper with the magazine-white teeth and the personality of a used car salesman!”
“Pacy?” I whisper, moving cautiously through the kitchen, trying not to bump into the hanging pots and pans that would announce our arrival like the world’s most inconvenient alarm system.
“That’s the one,” Ray-Ray confirms. “And he’s looking as nervous as a turkey in November.”
We edge closer to the storage area, where a sliver of light escapes from beneath a door like evidence trying to reveal itself. Voices drift out—Noah’s familiar tones mixed with another man’s more polished cadence. I motion for Carlotta to stay quiet (a Herculean task under normal circumstances) and press my ear against the door.
“It doesn’t add up,” Noah is saying. “The timestamps on these security logs show you weren’t where you claimed to be when Jolene was killed.”
“And I’m telling you it’s a technical error,” comes Pacy’s smooth reply. “Systems glitch all the time.”
“All the cameras on that floor glitchedsimultaneously? For exactly seventeen minutes? During which time someone shot Jolene Nelson?”
There’s a pause, then Pacy’s voice again, lower and more threatening. “Look, Detective, you’re in no position to be making accusations. Not with your own situation.”
“Is that a threat?” Noah’s voice has that dangerous edge I know all too well.
“Consider it friendly advice. You’ve got your own secrets to protect.”
I’ve heard enough. I push the door open, causing both men to whirl toward me with matching expressions of alarm. Noah stands by a metal desk, holding what appears to be a stack of security printouts. Pacy leans against a shelf of dry goods, his too-perfect smile nowhere to be seen.
“Lottie?” Noah recovers first. “What are you doing here?”
“Following my suspiciously secretive ex-husband,” I say cheerfully. “It’s a hobby I’ve recently picked up, along with sleep deprivation, unexpected confrontations with murder suspects, and stress-eating everything in sight.”
Okay, so that last one is nothing new.
Carlotta pops her head in behind me like a jack-in-the-box with questionable timing. “Hello, boys! Don’t mind us—just two ladies out for a late-night kitchen tour that definitely isn’t suspicious. Say, do you know where they keep the cheesecake? I have a sudden craving for dairy products and petty theft.”
Pacy straightens before frowning at the two of us. “I’m sorry, ladies, but this is a restricted area.”
“So is the stage during a Johnny United performance,” I counter. “But that didn’t stop Carlotta from attempting an impromptu duet.”
“I was providing backup vocals,” Carlotta defends herself. “Johnny needed the support.”
Pacy takes a moment to examine the three of us. “I’ll be stepping out to make a call,” he says. “I’ll give you all a few minutes to follow suit.” He takes off and I shake my head at Noah.
Before Noah can launch into what’s sure to be a master class in creative evasion, the door swings open again. Everett strides in, looking every bit like a lean, mean, far too sexy judge who’s justcaught someone in contempt of court. Hopefully, that someone is me. And I am ready for my sentencing.
“Fancy meeting everyone here,” he says dryly, his gaze sweeping from Noah to me to Carlotta, who’s already rummaging through a nearby refrigerator. “I see our midnight kitchen excursion has turned into a group activity.”
“Everett!” I exclaim. “Perfect timing. Noah was just about to explain what he was doing with security logs and why Pacy Morgan practically sprinted out of here like his glowing teeth were on fire.”
Noah carefully sets down the stack of papers, tucking them into his jacket.
“Everything is under control,” he says with a confidence that would be reassuring if I hadn’t heard variations of it right before disasters struck in the past. “I’ve got a few leads I’m following up on.”
“Leads that involve secret kitchen meetings?” I press.
Noah’s dimples make a brief appearance as he grins. “What can I say? I work better with a little mystery.”
“Oh, look! Cheesecake!” Carlotta’s voice echoes from inside the walk-in fridge, followed by the distinctive sound of plastic wrap being enthusiastically removed and destroyed. “And it’s the good stuff, Lot—New York style with what appears to be a chocolate drizzle!”
Noah checks his watch. “You know what? We should get out of here. Alex, Bear, Forest, and Hook are killing it at the blackjack tables. Let’s show them who’s boss.”
