Page 42 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“This better not be some oddball Vegas prank show,” Keelie mutters, adjusting her towel.
“If cameras pop out, I’m suing,” Suze agrees, because she’s always thinking practically about legal ramifications—and a quick buck to make via the legal system.
“If cameras pop out, I’m charging extra,” Carlotta counters.
Just as we’re all seated, Seraphina returns with several assistants. They place small copper pots beneath each of our boxes, into which they pour steaming water infused with herbs.
“Ladies, welcome to our Sacred Feminine Steam,” Seraphina announces with a reverence typically reserved for religious ceremonies or really good chocolate. “An ancient practice to cleanse and rejuvenate your most intimate self.”
There’s a beat of silence as the realization of what’s happening dawns on me and my brain processes exactly what most intimate self means in this context.
“Wait,” I say slowly, “arewe getting our?—”
A warm rush of herb-scented steam rises through the heart-shaped opening directly between my knees, answering my question before I can finish asking it.
“This is a va-jay-jay FACIAL!” Carlotta shrieks with delight.
“It’s a traditional treatment dating back centuries,” Seraphina explains smoothly, as if this is a perfectly normal spa conversation. “The steam opens your sacred portal to receive the healing energy it craves.”
“My sacred portal wasn’t expecting visitors today,” I hiss to Keelie, who looks equally alarmed and possibly traumatized. “At least not this early in the day, and definitely not without an appointment.”
“I’ve paid good money to keep things closed down there since I had little Bear,” she whispers back.
Meg, meanwhile, adjusts her position like she’s finding the optimal angle for steam coverage. “This is actually kind of nice,” she muses. “Like a jacuzzi, but more targeted and with better intentions.”
“Is this sanitary?” Lily asks, eyeing the rising steam with the suspicion of a woman who alphabetizes her cleaning products and color-codes her medicine cabinet.
“More sanitary than that firefighter you were assaulting last night,” Carlotta points out helpfully.
“I was not assaulting—” Lily begins, then reconsiders. “Okay, maybe a little. But that was consensual assaulting.”
Poor Lainey has gone into full meditation mode with her eyes closed and deep breathing. “I’m embracing the experience,” she announces serenely. “My lady parts are being honored by ancient wisdom and expensive herbs.”
“My lady parts are confused and would like to speak to management,” I counter because someone needs to voice the obvious concerns here.
Suze, ever practical, looks as if she’s resigned herself to the situation. “Well, it can’t be worse than what Noah’s father did to it,” she mutters darkly.
“Suze!” I gasp, genuinely scandalized. And not only that, but he’s continuing his tirade onmymother.
“What?” she balks my way. “You’ve got three kids. We all know what happened. It’s basic biology, not state secrets.”
“Can we please not discuss my reproductive history while my lady bits are in a steam bath?” I plead, because there has to be some limit to the humiliation.
Carlotta, naturally, is having the time of her life. She’s reclined on her box like it’s a throne, her towel abandoned while she regales us with stories of previous intimate steam experiences that make this one seem positively clinical by comparison and definitely more legal.
“—and that’s when the wizard told me to stick to the yellow brick road, and that my ex-husband’s wallet wasn’t the road to riches.” She concludes a story I’ve been desperately trying to tune out for the sake of my mental health.
“So how long does this fun last?” I ask Seraphina, who’s busying herself adjusting the temperature of the steam pots like she’s fine-tuning a scientific experiment.
“Twenty minutes for optimal benefit,” she replies from her strategic post by the exit. “Then we’ll move to the crystal sound bath.”
“As long as the crystals stay external,” Suze mutters, voicing what we’re all thinking.
The minutes pass in a haze of steam and increasingly inappropriate conversation. Carlotta shares techniques for—well, never mind, because I’m fairly certain it violates several state laws. Meg discusses which wrestling holds can double as bedroom moves. Lily reveals surprisingly detailed knowledge about erogenous zones that has us all reconsidering her prim image. Not that I ever believed in it.
Just as I’m beginning to adjust to the sensation of having my nethers hot-boxed, Ray-Ray materializes in the center of our circle, his ghostly form flickering with evident confusion and what might be trauma.
“Sweet heavens above!” he exclaims, taking in the scene of a gaggle of naked women perched on steaming boxes. “What in the name of blue suede shoes is happening here?”
