Page 48 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“Not if you ever want to look me in the eye again.” She shivers slightly. “Let’s just say my lady garden has been thoroughly irrigated and leave it at that.”
Before I can formulate a response to this somewhat disturbing revelation, Carlotta descends upon us like a sequined hurricane.
“Sexy!” She all but jumps onto me. “Are you here to worship at the altar of the King, too? Or just keeping an eye on Lot Lot in caseanother body drops? Vegas odds say we’ll hit a trifecta before the week’s out.”
“I’m simply enjoying the local culture,” I reply with a frown. And I’d be lying if that trifecta body count hadn’t crossed my mind, too.
“Well, you’re in luck,” Carlotta says, hooking her arm through mine with proprietary confidence. “We’ve got front-row seats, courtesy of my recent jackpot victory. You can join us for the full Elvis experience. I hear the one with the leather jumpsuit has buns you could bounce a quarter off of.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
The rest of the women catch up to us, creating a circle of feminine energy that parts the crowd like an estrogen-powered force field. My mother-in-law, Miranda, looks slightly dazed as if she’s still processing whatever spa treatment has left her daughter traumatized.
“Who has the kids?” I quickly ask Lemon.
“Wiley.” She wrinkles her nose at the thought. “But it’s just for two hours. My mother was about to lose her mind if she hasn’t already. And truth be told, Lyla Nell is actually in charge.”
“I feel oddly better about that.” Even at two, Lyla Nell is a powerhouse when she wants to be. And heaven knows she loves being in charge. I’m sure she’ll have Wiley dusted with baby powder and counting Cheerios in the corner before Miranda gets back to her post.
Lemon tips her head my way. “So what were you discussing with Chuck Longnecker?” She bats her lashes my way and I know full well she’s onto me. It’s fair to say my wife has a suspicious mind indeed.
“Let’s just say I’m cooking up a little something for you. For a lot of people.”
“Essex,” Suze groans. “Please tell me you’ve arranged some sort of wholesome, normal activity. Something that doesn’t involve steam directed at my private parts or men wearing jumpsuits three sizes too small.”
“I’ve been working on something,” I admit, thinking of Chuck’s proposal. “Though normal might be stretching it.”
“As long as it doesn’t involve naming body parts, I’m in,”Keelie declares.
“Or facials in Southern locales,” Lily adds with a shudder.
I decide immediately that I will never, under any circumstances, ask for clarification on either of these comments.
“Ladies, shall we find our seats?” I suggest, offering my arm to Lemon. “I hear the show is quite the spectacle.”
As we make our way into the theater, I catch a glimpse of Chuck across the lobby, deep in conversation with Pacy Morgan. Their body language suggests an argument rather than casual conversation—Chuck’s shoulders tense, Pacy’s finger jabbing the air between them.
I glance at Lemon and her eyes are peeled on the very same thing.
My wife doesn’t miss a thing.
I glance back and file the observation away for later discussion with Noah and Lemon.
For now, though, I’m content to escort my wife to a show featuring men impersonating a dead rock star, surrounded by a group of women who’ve apparently subjected themselves to spa treatments I dare not imagine.
Just another day in the extraordinary life I’ve built with Lemon—a life that, despite its chaos and occasional corpses, I wouldn’t trade for all the normality in the world.
Perhaps what Chuck has cooked up is exactly what we need. After all, when you’re married to a woman who finds bodies like other people find loose change, conventional romance doesn’t quite cut it.
In Vegas, as in love, sometimes you have to go all in.
LOTTIE
The evening marches on and the Gilded Songbird Theater vibrates with the collective anticipation of three hundred Elvis enthusiasts, their excitement perfuming the air with a heady blend of overpriced cologne, hairspray strong enough to withstand a category five hurricane, and the unmistakable scent of nachos covered with suspiciously neon orange cheese.
The velvet seats—upholstered in a shade of red that can only be described as bordello chic meets Renaissance festival gone wrong—cradle my exhausted postpartum body with unexpected kindness. Above us, the elaborate ceiling mural depicts Elvis-faced cherubs strumming golden guitars amid fluffy clouds, like a fever dream after mixing cough medicine with too many Graceland documentaries.
“Did those cherubs have plastic surgery, or were they born with Elvis’s face?” I whisper to Everett, who sits beside me looking as out of place in this rhinestone wonderland as a tax auditor at a children’s birthday party hosted by Liberace.
