Page 46 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
Carlotta has somehow managed to take control of one of the security joysticks and is panning a camera around the poker room. “There’s Harry!” she exclaims, zooming in on Mayor Nash, who’s hunched over a dwindling stack of chips. “Look at him trying to bluff with a pair of twos. Bless his heart, he couldn’t lie his way out of a paper bag even if the exit was marked in neon and had a mariachi band playing beside it.”
Rodney gently but firmly reclaims the controls. “Ma’am, please don’t touch the equipment. Union rules.”
“Spoilsport.” Carlotta pouts, but her eyes are already roving for her next source of entertainment. “So, Foxy, found any good suspects yet? Besides yourself, obviously. Because from where I’m sitting, you look guilty of everything except good judgment.”
I sigh, glancing at the door and wondering if anyone would notice if I made a run for it. Probably. Between Lottie’s detective wife instincts, my mother’s supernatural parent radar, and Carlotta’s uncanny ability to be everywhere at once while causing maximum chaos, I’d be caught before I reachedthe elevator.
“I’m working a few angles,” I say vaguely because the truth is too complicated for present company.
“Angles?” Lottie raises an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling secret meetings with Pacy Morgan now?”
Rodney’s eyes snap to me with renewed interest. Great.
“It’s complicated,” I begin, which earns me synchronized eye rolls from all three women.
Mom huffs at the thought. “Honey, if I had a dollar for every time you’ve said that this week, I could buy this casino,” she trills.
“And if I had a dollar for every time he’s actually explained what’s complicated, I’d have exactly zero dollars,” Lottie adds because apparently, we’re keeping score of my communication failures.
“Maybe we should help uncomplicate things,” Carlotta suggests, eyeing the security monitors like a kid in a candy store. “I’ve always wanted to be a detective. I’ve got the trench coat and everything.”
“You have a faux leopard print trench coat that’s three sizes too small,” Lottie points out.
“It’s called fashion, Lot Lot. Look it up sometime.”
“I have, considering the trench coat was excavated from my closet.”
I run a hand through my hair, a habit when I’m stressed that Lottie once claimed made me look like I’d stuck my finger in an electrical socket. “Look, I appreciate the offer to help, but?—”
“Before you finish that sentence with something dismissive,” Lottie interrupts, “remember that I’ve solved more murders than most detectives see in their entire careers. And I do it while baking perfect cinnamon rolls and raising three children, one of whom belongs to you.”
“I’m making progress,” I insist while gesturing toward the monitors as if they contain the secrets of the universe instead of hours of mind-numbing surveillance footage. “I just need more time.”
“That’s what they all say right before disaster strikes,” Lottie observes with wisdom, because let’s face it, she’s witnessed my decision-making process up close. “And that’s usually followed by ‘what could possibly go wrong?’ And then, inevitably, everything goes spectacularly wrong in ways that defy probability.”
“Don’t forget the ghost Elvis,” Carlotta stage-whispers, loudenough for Rodney to hear. “Ray-Ray’s been spilling all the postmortem tea.”
“Carlotta!” Lottie hisses.
Thankfully, my mother is too absorbed in studying the bells and whistles this room has to offer to care about any conversation that might contain a ghost in it.
Rodney looks between us with the expression of a man who’s seen enough Vegas weirdness that nothing surprises him anymore. “I’m going to check the perimeter cameras,” he announces, clearly eager for an excuse to escape. “I’ll be back in ten.”
The door closes behind him, and I turn to Lottie. “Ray-Ray? As in, Raymond Tupowski? Jolene’s father?”
“And Dirty Joe’s former manager,” she confirms. “He’s been surprisingly helpful when he’s not breaking into song mid-sentence.”
“Or appearing during our lady bits steam treatment,” Carlotta adds with a cackle.
I hold up a hand. “I don’t want to know.”
“Trust me, you really don’t,” Lottie agrees. “But the point is, I’ve been gathering information while you’ve been skulking around security rooms and having secret meetings with Pacy Morgan.”
My mother settles into Rodney’s abandoned chair, spinning it to face me. “Noah, whatever you’re hiding, it’s time to come clean. If not for your own sake, then for Lyla Nell’s. That child deserves to have her father around.”
It’s a low blow, but effective.
I sigh, rubbing my temples. “It’s... I can’t talk about it yet. Not until I’m sure.”
