Page 49 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“I believe it’s a divine miracle,” he replies dryly. “The Immaculate Impersonation. Less biblical, very Vegas.”
I snort out a laugh. Everett has this unexpected talent for deadpan humor that sneaks up on you like a ninja in a judge’s robe.
Our front-row seats—courtesy of Carlotta’s slot machine jackpot and subsequent spending spree—offer an unobstructed view of the stage where soon, a parade of grown men will compete to see whocan swivel their hips and curl their lips most convincingly. Vegas entertainment at its finest.
“I can’t believe I’m not knee-deep in diapers right now.” My mother sighs from my other side. “An entire evening without a single bodily fluid emergency. It’s like being released from baby jail on good behavior.”
“Don’t jinx it,” I warn her. “The twins have an uncanny ability to sense when you’re enjoying yourself and immediately require a feeding, a diaper change, or an existential crisis that only breast milk can solve.”
“Wiley has everything under control,” she assures me with the confidence of someone who’s left a pyromaniac in charge of a fireworks factory. “He’s surprisingly good with babies.”
“That’s because he shares their emotional maturity level,” Suze mutters from Mom’s other side, her eyes narrowing like a sniper zeroing in on her target. Suze has never forgiven Wiley for cheating on her with half the town, much less for now dating my mother. Actually, I’m not sure if Suze cares at all that Wiley is with my mother. They do all live in the same B&B together.
“Now, Suze,” Mom begins with a placating tone as if trying to prevent a bar brawl, “we agreed to a truce for the evening.”
Huh. Maybe she does care more than she lets on.
Charlie winks my way. “And you’re still trying to convince me that I missed out on a good time at the spa?”
I shoot her a wry look. She’s got me there.
“I agreed not to stab him with my cocktail fork,” Suze clarifies as she continues. “That doesn’t mean I can’t verbally eviscerate the man from a distance using only my words and superior vocabulary.”
Ah, well, that is Suze’s specialty—verbal surgical strikes with verbal surgical precision.
“Ladies, ladies.” Carlotta leans across three seats, her sequined outfit catching the light like a solar flare with questionable fashion sense. “Save the family drama for intermission. The real show is about to begin, and I do not mean the one on stage!” She gestures across the theater where Chuck Longnecker and Pacy Morgan appear to be having a heated discussion by the emergency exit.
I follow her gaze, taking in the tense body language between thehotel’s event director and head of security still going strong. Chuck’s professional veneer has cracked, revealing something raw and angry beneath, while Pacy’s ever-perfect smile has vanished entirely, replaced by a hard line that makes his cosmetically enhanced teeth look more threatening than friendly. It’s like watching a nature documentary about predators, except with better suits and worse intentions.
“Trouble in paradise?” Everett murmurs, his courtroom demeanor activating as he observes the two men with the analytical precision of a judge who’s spent years watching people lie under oath.
“More like trouble in potential murderer land,” I whisper under my breath because calling a spade a spade is apparently my specialty. “They look about two seconds away from a rhinestone rumble with casualties.”
The house lights dim before I can analyze their interaction further, and the crowd rustles with excitement. A spotlight hits the stage, illuminating a microphone stand adorned with what appears to be—I squint to make sure I’m seeing correctly—tiny blue suede shoes. Because apparently, even the microphone stands need to keep with the theme in this place.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” an announcer’s voice booms through the theater with the enthusiasm of a host who’s either genuinely excited or being paid very well to fake it, “the Bellanova Resort and Casino proudly presents... THE KING LIVES ON!”
The crowd erupts into applause. And Carlotta lets out a whoop so enthusiastic I’m surprised it doesn’t trigger the theater’s smoke detectors.
“Save some energy for the actual show,” Keelie suggests. “You’re going to blow out your excitement-o-meter before the first hip swivel, and then what will you have left for the finale?”
“Honey, my excitement-o-meter has unlimited capacity,” Carlotta shoots back. “I’ve been training for this moment since I first saw Elvis on TV and decided men in jumpsuits were God’s gift to women everywhere. It’s that whole easy on and easy off thing happening.”
“I thought Johnny United was God’s gift to women,”Lily reminds her.
“I’m all-inclusive when it comes to entertainment crushes,” Carlotta shoots back with a dismissive wave. “My heart believes in keeping its options open.”
“And your brain has multiple restraining orders against it,” I mutter, earning a playful swat from Carlotta and a smothered laugh from Everett.
The curtain parts to reveal a lineup of Elvis impersonators—excuse me, tribute artists—spanning every era from young rockabilly Elvis to the white jumpsuit Vegas years when rhinestones were apparently considered a food group. Each one strikes an identical pose, their synchronized hip thrusts causing a ripple effect of sighs throughout the audience that could power a small city.
“Sweet heaven,” my mother whispers, fanning herself with her program as if she’s at a Southern church revival. “Do you think they make them pass a hip certification before they can enter this competition?”
“Absolutely,” Meg answers from behind. “It’s called thePelvis Exam.”
Suze groans, “That was terrible, even by Vegas standards.”
“I thought it was prettyhip,” Lainey shoots back, sending us all into a collective groan.
