Page 47 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“Sure of what?” Lottie presses.
“Sure that I won’t be making things worse by sharing what I know.” I meet her eyes with mine, hoping she can read the sincerity there. “Just trust me a little longer. Please.”
My mother makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a sigh. “Typical Fox man. Always thinking he knows best.”
She’s right, but she doesn’t understand the stakes. Because the alternative—explaining to Lyla Nell why her father won’t be coming home—isn’t an option I’m prepared to consider.
EVERETT
The Gilded Songbird Theater represents everything excessive about Vegas—from the twenty-foot crystal chandelier that hangs like a frozen explosion in the lobby to the plush crimson carpet so thick it practically swallows my Italian leather shoes.
Gold leaf adorns every possible surface, reflecting the ambient light with such enthusiasm it borders on the obscene. The air smells of money—that distinctive blend of expensive perfume, aged bourbon, and the subtle undercurrent of desperate optimism that permeates every corner of this town.
I straighten my tie, a habit from the courtroom that persists despite my best efforts as I step into the palatial theater where The King Lives On—Elvis Tribute Artist Championship will crown Vegas’s most convincing Presley in approximately thirty minutes.
Throngs of people rush through the doors behind me, most of whom are women, and most of those turn to give me a second look. But the only woman I’m interested in looking at is Lemon. However, I spot the man I came looking for instead. I raise a hand at him and Chuck Longnecker appears by my side with a smile.
“Judge Baxter! What brings a distinguished judge to our humble abode of sequins and hip gyrations?” Chuck Longnecker laughs as he waves a hand at the place.
“Nothing humble about this place,” I observe, nodding toward theceiling where cherubs painted in Elvis’s likeness play golden guitars amid cotton candy clouds.
“It’s true.” He nods at the ceiling as well. “I’m surprised the weight of all that gold leaf doesn’t collapse the roof. The Bellanova specializes in excess that somehow remains just this side of tacky. It’s a delicate balance.”
“Speaking of balance,” I say, lowering my voice slightly, “I’m looking to do something special for my wife while we’re here. Our relationship has been unconventional.” An understatement that would make even the most generous court reporter raise an eyebrow. “I thought perhaps Vegas might offer unique opportunities.”
“Ah!” Chuck’s expression brightens with genuine interest. “Relationship enhancement is our specialty—second only to separating tourists from their money.” He glances around where costumed Elvis impersonators in various stages of preparation hurry past us. Some of which sport impressive natural pompadours while others clutch elaborate wigs. All bear the determined expression of men about to battle for rhinestoned glory.
“What exactly did you have in mind?” Chuck asks with his event coordinator instincts clearly engaged. “The Bellanova offers everything from discreet couple’s packages at our Pink Lotus Spa to helicopter tours of the Grand Canyon with champagne service.”
“I was thinking something more...” I search for the right word, “memorable.”
Chuck’s eyes spark with understanding. “Say no more. Vegas specializes in memorable.”
He tucks his thumb to his chin for a moment to ponder the possibilities before looking my way with a budding smile.
He nods my way. “And I know just the thing.”
He leans in and explains his idea from start to finish.
“That’s a pretty big deal,” I say, considering it for less than a second. “Sold. Do what you need to do to make it happen. I’ll pay whatever I need to.”
“Are you kidding? An event like that? It’s on the house.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Stick around for the show if you want. These guys put on a pretty good performance.” He takes offinto the thick of it and I turn toward the exit just in time to see the most beautiful woman in the world. My wife.
And sure enough, Lemon is flanked by Carlotta, Keelie, Lily, Lainey, Meg, Charlie, Miranda, and Suze. They’re all dressed in varying degrees of Vegas glamour, with Carlotta leading the pack in a dress that appears to be constructed entirely of sequins and wishful thinking.
Lemon spots me immediately—a skill she’s honed through years of finding me in courtrooms, crime scenes, and the occasional hospital waiting room. Her face lights up with a smile that still makes my pulse quicken, and she weaves through the crowd toward me.
“Fancy meeting you here, Your Honor,” she says, rising on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek. She smells of vanilla and cinnamon, her baker’s perfume that no designer fragrance could ever replace. “Stalking Elvis impersonators on your own?”
“Tribute artists,” I correct with mock seriousness. “And I was actually conducting important judicial business.”
“In an Elvis-themed theater?” Her eyebrow arches skeptically. “Let me guess—you were sentencing someone to thirty days of mandatory hip-swiveling?”
“If that were within my power, half of Honey Hollow would be practicing their pelvic thrusts right about now.” I slide an arm around her waist and draw her closer. “What brings you ladies to the show? I thought I heard rumblings of a spa day.”
“It already happened,” Lemon confirms with a wince. “Let’s just say Carlotta’s Goddess Steam Experience turned into something that violated personal space and hygiene.”
“Do I want to know?”
