Page 54 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“Sherry Smoot, the redhead with a fiery personality to match, threatened Jolene over recipe theft, but seems more the destroy-your-reputation type than the destroy-your-ability-to-breathe type.”
“Next?” Noah asks, and don’t think for a minute I’m not aware that he’s diverting from himself.
“Chuck Longnecker.” I tick them off on my fingers, leaving nacho cheese prints on my thumb. “Our event coordinator extraordinaire who was engaged to Jolene. Very organized, access to both crimescenes, suspiciously efficient at directing attention away from himself—as are most of my suspects.” I nod to Noah and he sighs.
“Anyone else?” he asks.
“Pacy Morgan,” I finish with my middle finger, which feels symbolically appropriate. “Security director with teeth so white they probably have their own Insta Pictures account, dated Jolene until an incident involving a couple of showgirls—simultaneously—and has the technical knowledge to tamper with security footage. Plus, access to weaponry and both crime scenes.”
“Don’t forget Ray-Ray,” Noah adds, reaching for a nacho. “But I guess he’s more of a helper and less of a suspect.”
“Ah yes, our friendly neighborhood Elvis impersonator from the other side.” I nod. “I’ve been thinking of bringing him home with us. He could hang out at the bakery and eat all the desserts he wants without worrying about his triglyceride levels. Plus, his spontaneous musical numbers would really enhance the customer experience. Nothing saysbuy another cinnamon rolllike a spooky rendition of ‘Burning Love.’”
“The health department might have opinions about ghostly health code violations,” Everett points out.
“Only if they can see him,” I counter. “And based on how most health inspectors deliberately avoid looking too closely at anything, I think we’re safe.”
Noah’s phone chimes with an incoming text. He glances at it, then immediately straightens as all humor vanishes from his face.
“I’ve got to go,” he says, sliding out of the booth. “That’s a lead I need to follow up on.”
“Now?” I ask, not bothering to hide my frustration. “We’re in the middle of a late dinner and a murder investigation.”
“It can’t wait,” he insists, then does something that stops all conversation at our table. He leans down and kisses me goodbye, right on the lips, as casually as if we were still married.
Everett growls. It’s a low, almost imperceptible sound, but I feel it reverberate through the booth where our legs touch.
“See you back at the hotel,” Noah says, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the seismic event he’s justtriggered, then disappears through the restaurant doors faster than an Elvis impersonator’s white jumpsuit on laundry day.
I turn to Everett, whose blue eyes have taken on the arctic quality they get when he’s suppressing something powerful.
“So,” I say, pushing the remainder of the nachos toward him as a peace offering and proof that I’m on his side, “now we know what happened between those two. Do you think that’s all there is to the story?”
“Not for a minute,” he replies with his voice controlled but with an edge that could slice through titanium.
“Me either,” I say, watching as White Jumpsuit Elvis at the bar receives his burger, which comes with a side of fried peanut butter and banana sandwich.
The partial truth is often more dangerous than a complete lie. It satisfies just enough curiosity to discourage further questions while leaving the most important parts hidden. And Noah Fox, despite his many excellent qualities, has all the transparency of a brick wall when he wants to keep a secret.
I think about this as I watch Leather Clad Elvis accidentally dip his pompadour into his blue cheese dressing. What would make Noah, a decorated detective with an almost pathological commitment to justice, act so secretively?
“Whatever it is,” I say finally, “it has to involve someone he’s protecting.”
“You?” Everett suggests even though I can tell he doesn’t believe it.
I shake my head. “Noah knows I can handle myself. No, this is someone more vulnerable.”
We both come to the realization at the same moment.
“Lyla Nell,” we say in unison.
The pieces start falling into place. Noah isn’t protecting himself; he’s protecting our daughter. The only question is—from what? Or from whom?
A waitress stops by our table, her Vegas-mandatory smile firmly in place. “Any dessert for you folks tonight?”
“Just the check,” Everett replies. “We have a mystery to solve.”
“And a child to protect,” I add under my breath as the waitress walks away.
