Page 40 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“Gambling? Now?” I ask incredulously. “With everything that’s happening?”
“Why not? It’s the best cover for continuing our investigation,” Noah says with a wink that does inconvenient things to my heart rate. “Plus, I hear the dealers at table seven are particularly informative.”
Carlotta emerges from the refrigerator, her mouth full of what is clearly stolen cheesecake. “Mmm-mmph-mmmhi!” she contributes helpfully.
“Use your words, Carlotta.” I sigh.
She swallows dramatically. “I said,whereare the women at?”
Noah shrugs. “Probably still at that spa thing Lainey was talking about.”
Carlotta’s eyes light up with mischievous glee. “Well, Lot, I guess we’ve got to hunt them down. Another mystery to solve!”
“Because we don’t have enough of those already,” I mutter.
Before Carlotta can formulate a rescue plan that would undoubtedly involve more property damage and potential arrests, the kitchen lights suddenly flip to full brightness, momentarily blinding us. A voice booms from the entrance.
“Security sweep! Who’s in here?”
“Time to go,” Noah says urgently, heading toward the back exit. “Blackjack tables in fifteen?”
“Make it thirty,” I call after him. “Some of us need to return stolen dairy products.”
As Carlotta hastily stuffs the remainder of the cheesecake into her mouth, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk preparing for nuclear winter, I catch Ray-Ray’s ghostly self shaking his head.
“Sugar cube,” he says with a wisdom only the afterlife can provide, “that detective of yours is hiding more secrets than my rhinestone closet—and that’s saying something!”
Something tells me the real gambling tonight has nothing to do with cards and everything to do with whatever Noah Fox is playing close to his chest.
LOTTIE
It turns out, Charlie, Keelie, Lainey, Meg, Suze, and Lily were not at the spa last night as Noah suggested.
They were at a very naughty male review—to which Carlotta quickly bought us a couple of tickets. And boy, were they pricey, but Carlotta didn’t mind. She paid with her credits that the Bellanova gave her as part of her winnings. I’m curious as to how much of that money she’s already torched through, but I’m afraid to ask. Carlotta’s financial restraint has all the discipline of a sugar-high toddler in a candy store, which is to say, absolutely none.
The male strip show was exactly what you’d expect in Vegas—men with bodies sculpted by protein shakes and prayers, gyrating in costumes that started as noble professions such as fireman, construction worker, and doctor, and ended as dental floss with aspirations.
Both Lily and Keelie were pulled on stage and coerced into activities that would make a marriage counselor blush. Lily, normally so composed, found herself using a whipped cream can in ways that would void the warranty.
Keelie was instructed to perform a safety inspection on a firefighter’s hose—a task she approached with such enthusiasm that her husband Bear might need to consider a career change.
Not to be outdone, Carlotta demanded to get in on the action and physically dragged me to the stage, too. Before I could protest, I was sandwiched between two men with abs you could grate cheese on,being instructed to perform a heart examination on a doctor who clearly skipped anatomy class but made up for it with baby oil.
Carlotta, meanwhile, was living her best life with a cowboy whose lasso skills suggested years of practice on willing volunteers.
“Give him CPR!” Carlotta shouted at me while demonstrating mouth-to-mouth with the cowboy in a way that definitely wasn’t medical protocol.
“I’m married!” I protested uselessly.
“So?” Carlotta yelled back. “I’m engaged, and I just put a twenty in this man’s G-string with my teeth!”
The memory still makes me question if we’re actually related. DNA has a lot to answer for.
But that was last night. It’s late afternoon now, and I’ve spent the morning doing normal mother things—cuddling with my babies, sharing French toast from room service with Lyla Nell, and nursing the twins. You know, the kind of activities that don’t involve loose dollar bills and questionable hygiene practices.
Everett and Noah vanished early, mumbling something about investigating leads that sounded suspiciously likeescaping baby chaos. And just when I thought I’d get a moment of peace, Carlotta offered the girls and me a spa day. Charlie couldn’t come. She cited something about perfecting her recipes and knowing better than to follow Carlotta anywhere else.
But who am I to refuse the siren song of hot stones and cucumber water, especially when someone else is paying?
