Page 56 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“Meg!” Lainey gasps with mock scandal. “You’re terrible. And Married.”
“Terribly accurate,” Carlotta counters, craning her neck to get a better view. “I’ve had my eye on the silver fox at station twelve myself. Something about a man who can flambé without setting his eyebrows on fire just does it for me.”
“Your standards continue to both fascinate and terrify me,” I tell her.
“The free food isn’t bad either,” Lily comments, appearing with her own plate of samples. “Though the Mexican-Japanese fusion guy might be regretting his wasabi guacamole. I’m pretty sure I saw one of the judges weeping.”
“From joy or pain?” I ask.
“Based on the way he was fanning his mouth, I’m going with pain,” Lily replies.
The ten-minute warning for the next phase blares through the ballroom. I pass Lyla Nell back to Keelie, my body already shifting into high-gear competition mode.
“Duty calls,” I say before leaning in toward Charlie. “Although if you see Elvis’s ghost floating around, send him my way. I could use some supernatural quality control.”
“Elvis’s ghost?” Lily raises an eyebrow and I gasp because that was definitely meant for Charlie’s ears only.
“Don’t ask,” Charlie tells her with a wink. “Butif you do see him, send him my way instead. I could use another sous chef. Living or dead, I’m not picky.”
“You just tagged me in,” Lily says, hopping over to help my sister with whatever culinary needs might arise.
I dash back to my station, eyeing the dough that’s risen beautifully and looks exactly like it should, which is honestly more success than I’m used to in most areas of my life. It’s ready to be rolled out, filled with my signature cinnamon-sugar-butter mixture, and formed into perfect spirals that will hopefully impress judges rather than cause medical emergencies.
The preparation timer ticks down with the menacing persistence of a bomb in an action movie, except instead of saving the world, I’m trying to save my dignity and possibly win enough money to pay for three college educations. Not that Everett doesn’t have those covered, but it would be a thrill if I could cover them, too.
Charlie glances over from her savory creation—something involving lobster and enough butter to lubricate a small vehicle. “How do you think the family circus is going?” she asks.
“Carlotta is hitting on contestants, Suze is critiquing my milk production, and Lyla Nell thinks baking competitions are primarily about making messes,” I summarize. “So, business as usual.”
“At least no one’s dead.” Charlie laughs, then winces. “Sorry, that was tempting fate, wasn’t it?”
“In this family? Absolutely.” I check the consistency of my cinnamon-sugar filling, which promises sugar-induced euphoria. “Though I maintain that finding bodies is just an unfortunate hobby, like extreme couponing or collecting thimbles, but with more involvement from homicide detectives.”
As I begin to roll out the dough, I notice two familiar figures hovering near the edge of my station—Madison and Ainsley, the college students who’ve been competing in the Sugar Showdown. Their matching Vegas, Baby! t-shirts have been upgraded to custom aprons with their sorority letters emblazoned in glitter because apparently even competitive baking requires Greek life branding.
“OMG, Lottie!” Madison exclaims, her blonde ponytail bobbing with enthusiasm. “Your dough elasticity is, like, totally goals!”
“Thanks,” I reply, unsure if I’ve just been complimented orturned into some kind of millennial baking terminology that I’m too old to understand. “How’s your competition entry coming along?”
“We’re doing strawberry cheesecake cupcakes with champagne buttercream,” Ainsley explains with her brunette waves meticulously styled despite the kitchen heat in a way that defies both physics and common sense. “They’re our signature for, like, all our mixers and formal events.”
“That sounds delicious,” I say sincerely because it actually does. “And complex enough to impress judges.” Or cause complete disaster, but I leave that part out.
“Not as complex as that whole Jolene situation,” Madison says, dropping her voice to a whisper that could probably be heard in the next county. “We totally know she swiped those recipes straight out of Sherry’s book. And this time we’re positive.”
My hands pause mid-roll like someone just hit the pause button on my entire nervous system. “How can you be so positive?”
“We put both e-books through our plagiarism checker,” Ainsley explains with casual confidence as if she were discussing weekend plans rather than potential copyright infringement that could lead to murder. “It came back, like, totes red. Like, the same sentences and everything.”
“You have a plagiarism checker?” I ask, genuinely curious about the technological resources available to modern college students and slightly impressed by their investigative thoroughness.
“Duh.” Madison rolls her eyes like I’ve just asked if water is wet. “How else would we get through Comparative Literature? Professor Martinez is, like, super strict about that stuff and has zero tolerance for academic dishonesty.”
“We use it for our sorority newsletter, too,” Ainsley adds with the pride of someone who’s found practical applications for academic tools. “Had to make sure Brittany wasn’t copying content from other Greek organizations for our rush materials. Intellectual property theft is, like, totally not cute.”
“Speaking of Brittany”—Madison leans in, her voice dropping another octave—”she is definitely pregnant and totally lying about it to everyoneincluding herself.”
“Completely.” Ainsley nods vigorously. “And we bet she doesn’t even know who the dad is because she’s, like, a total skank.”
