Page 50 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
As the show progresses, we’re treated to a chronological journey through Elvis’s career, each performer bringing their own interpretation to the King’s signature moves. Some are surprisingly authentic, while others seem to have learned their hip rotations from watching a washing machine on the spin cycle.
“The one in the gold lamé jacket moves as if someone installed his pelvis backward,” Suze points out.
“Be nice,” my mother chides. “Not everyone can be blessed with natural rhythm.”
“Or unnatural rhythm, in Carlotta’s case,” I add, watching as my birth mother bounces in her seat with enough energy to launch herself into orbit.
“You’re just jealous because I still have all my original parts,” Carlotta retorts. “Having twins has rearranged your rhythm section, Lot Lot.”
“My rhythm section works just fine, thank you very much,” Iinform her with as much dignity as one can muster while discussing one’s postpartum pelvic floor function. “It just plays at a different tempo these days. Think jazz instead of rock and roll.”
Everett’s hand finds mine in the dim light, giving it a gentle squeeze that sends warmth spreading up my arm and into regions that haven’t felt particularly warm since the twins made their grand exit. Or since that steam spa.
“Your rhythm section is perfect,” he whispers close to my ear, with his voice low enough that only I can hear it and warm enough to make me forget we’re surrounded by three hundred Elvis enthusiasts.
And just like that, I’m blushing like a teenager instead of a mama of three and a seasoned corpse collector. The man has a true gift.
On stage, a particularly enthusiastic Elvis in a white jumpsuit with more rhinestones than the jewelry district is belting out “Burning Love” with impressive lung capacity and irresponsible levels of hip flexibility. The women in the front rows have entered a state of collective hysteria that makes me wonder if smelling salts might be needed before the finale, and maybe medical intervention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the white jumpsuit Elvis announces after his final note, “please give a warm Bellanova welcome to our guest judge—the one, the only, JOHNNY UNITED!”
The crowd explodes like we’re witnessing the second coming of Elvis himself as an aging crooner with suspiciously over-dyed black hair and a smile that costs its equivalent in diamonds strolls onto the stage. Carlotta launches to her feet with a shriek that could shatter crystal and summon supernatural forces at the very same time.
And heaven knows that’s the last thing we need.
“JOHNNY! IT’S ME! YOUR FUTURE WIFE!” Carlotta belts it out like the threat it is.
I shrug over at my mother and Suze. “At least Mayor Nash isn’t here to witness the spectacle,” I point out because someone needs to find the silver lining in this rhinestone-encrusted cloud.
Suze snorts. “Someone should tell him marriage to Carlotta would be like joining a circus—entertaining for the audience but exhausting for the performers.” She and my mothershare a quick laugh that suggests they’re bonding over Carlotta’s romantic disasters.
“I heard that!” Carlotta shouts without taking her eyes off Johnny United. “And for your information, my marriages are less circus and more carefully curated disaster tours. Limited engagement only!”
“Limited engagement, unlimited drama,” I quip. “Now that should be your dating profile tagline.”
As Johnny United begins his critique of the Elvis performances, I notice Pacy Morgan has taken up position by the refreshment stand, his eyes scanning the crowd with the vigilance of a security guard who’s calculating the threat level of every sequin in the room. His perfect teeth gleam under the ambient lighting as he speaks into his wrist microphone, reporting something to unseen security personnel.
My curiosity tingles like a sixth sense—or maybe it’s just my detective-adjacent instincts kicking in. After all, the man had a motive to kill Jolene, access to both crime scenes, and criminally perfect teeth. If that doesn’t spell person of interest, I don’t know what does.
“I think I need some popcorn,” I announce while bolting out of my seat with a determination that definitely doesn’t involve corn in any of its iterations.
Everett gives me a look that says he knows exactly what I’m doing and isn’t fooled for a second.
“Popcorn? Now?” Mom tries to tug me back into the velvet cushion I just escaped. “In the middle of Johnny United judging Elvis number four’s suspicious lip curl?”
“It’s a medical necessity,” I insist. “My blood butter levels are dangerously low. Doctor’s orders.”
“Which doctor would that be?” Suze asks dryly. “Dr. Nosy or Dr. Can’t-Stay-Out-of-Trouble?”
“I have a dual specialty.” I lean down to kiss Everett’s cheek and whisper, “Just going to engage in some casual conversation with our toothy friend over there. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“With your track record? A third body before the finale,” Everett mutters, but he releases my hand with a resigned sigh. “I’m keeping an eye on you.”
Carlotta shoos me off with an impatient wave. “Just try not to get murdered during ‘Blue Suede Shoes.’ I’ve always wanted to hear that one live, and I don’t want any interruptions from inconvenient corpses.”
I squeeze past knees and handbags, navigating toward the refreshment stand with the single-minded determination of a woman on a mission. Or a mother of three who rarely gets a moment of adult conversation that doesn’t involve bodily functions or murder investigations. Sometimes both.
Pacy Morgan notices my approach and his professional smile clicks into place like a switchblade. His teeth are so unnaturally white they almost give off their own light source—useful in a power outage, I imagine, but disconcerting up close. It’s as if he’s morphing from human to cartoon.
