Page 55 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
Whatever Noah is hiding, whatever danger lurks in the glittering shadows of the Bellanova, one thing is certain—nobody threatens my family and gets away with it. Not in Honey Hollow, and certainly not in Vegas.
Not even if they’re hiding behind a rhinestone jumpsuit and a suspicious mind.
LOTTIE
The finals for the Las Vegas Flavor Frenzy have finally arrived as the biggest culinary event of the year. The Sin City Sugar Showdown and the Savory Sizzle are underway right here in the Bellanova’s Grand Ballroom.
The space itself has transformed from a glitzy casino showplace to a culinary battlefield. The air hangs thick with competing scents—caramelizing sugar waging war against roasting garlic, cinnamon locked in mortal combat with rosemary, and the unmistakable perfume of stress rising above it all.
The sounds of metal whisks against bowls, knives against cutting boards, and the occasional profanity create a riot of competitive chaos. Overhead, spotlights beat down with the intensity of a police interrogation, making the whole room feel like a giant Easy-Bake Oven operated by a sadistic child. Lyla Nell comes to mind, but don’t tell her I said that.
“Two hours remaining, competitors!” announces Chuck Longnecker, his professional smile firmly in place as he works the room with a microphone in hand. His carefully styled hair doesn’t move an inch as he navigates between stations, projecting enthusiasm that seems manufactured.
The crowd of spectators—a mix of genuine food enthusiasts, bored tourists, and people who wandered in looking for the slot machines—ripples with anticipation.
I knead my cinnamon roll dough with laser focus, working in the butter like I have a thousand times before. My station looks like a flour bomb detonated, then got into a fight with a butter grenade. Various utensils lie scattered like casualties of a particularly vicious baking war.
“Looking good, Lot Lot!” Carlotta screeches from behind the spectator barrier, her voice at a volume typically reserved for warning ships away from rocky shores or announcing the apocalypse. She’s wearing a t-shirt with my face printed on it, surrounded by the wordsTEAM LOTTIE: SHE’LL KILL THE COMPETITION (NOT LITERALLY THIS TIME). The parentheses were her idea, not mine. Although I appreciate her attempt at legal disclaimers.
Beside her, Lyla Nell bounces in Lainey’s arms, her dark curls bobbing with each movement. Her little hands clap with delight every time I look her way, which is both adorable and slightly distracting when I’m trying not to accidentally add salt instead of sugar.
“Mommy make yummy!” she calls out, prompting anawwfrom nearby spectators who don’t realize my toddler has witnessed more crime scenes than most police academy graduates—or at least been subject to them by proxy.
“That’s right, sweet pea,” I call back, wiping my hands on my apron. “Mommy’s making her special rolls. The ones that make people happy enough to confess to murders! Or at least I wish they would,” I tease, although I may have said that a little too loud. I can’t help it, I’m working like a loon and this entire place is buzzing with nervous energy and it’s actually making me nervous, too.
This earns me confused looks from the judges’ table and a sharp look from Charlie at the next station over, who apparently has opinions about my public relations strategy.
“Maybe don’t mention your connection to multiple homicides during a nationally televised baking competition,” she suggests, chopping herbs with alarming precision. “Just a thought.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Force of habit.”
My breasts twinge in that now-familiar way that signals its feeding time again because apparently, my bodyoperates on a schedule that has nothing to do with national television or competitive baking.
I’ve already nursed the twins three times since the competition began four hours ago, ducking into a supply closet like some kind of dairy ninja. Everett has been on twin duty, pushing the double stroller with the skill of a man who’s learned that parenthood is 90% logistics, 10% praying nothing explodes, and 100% math that doesn’t add up.
I glance at the clock, confirming I have exactly twelve minutes before my dough needs to be rolled out, and slip away to the quieter edge of the competition floor where my cheering section has assembled like a support group for people who love someone with lethal hobbies.
“How’re those milk factories holding up?” Suze asks with her typical tact, eyeing my chest like she’s assessing livestock. “At this rate, you could supply a small cheese operation.”
“Thanks for the career suggestion.” I scowl while trying to adjust my bra discreetly.
I’ll add human dairy cow to my resume right after baker and amateur sleuth.
“Those babies eat more than Mayor Nash at an all-you-can-eat pancake fundraiser,” Carlotta points out while popping yet another sample from a nearby competitor into her mouth. “And that man can put away flapjacks faster than I go through husbands.” By husbands, she means one-night stands.
“Considering your marital track record, that’s saying something,” Keelie chimes in, bouncing a surprisingly content Lyla Nell on her hip. “Evie would be here, too, but she decided college finals were marginally more important than watching you roll dough.”
Evie is the daughter I share with Everett. I may not have given birth to her, but she’s my daughter in every way that counts.
“The nerve.” I laugh, taking a quick break to reach for my sweet baby girl who practically launches herself into my arms. “Hey, munchkin. Are you having fun watching Mommy make a mess in front of important judges and national television?”
“Messy!” Lyla Nell trills while patting my flour-covered cheekwith surprising tenderness that almost makes up for the fact that she’s now covered in baking debris.
“Everett just took the boys back up to Mom,” Lainey explains, tucking a strand of caramel hair behind her ear. “They were getting fussy, and your mother claimed she was experiencing Glam Glam withdrawal. I think she just wanted to rescue Wiley, who looked like he was one diaper away from faking his own death.Again.”
“Not his specialty,” Suze mutters. “Faking death requires commitment, not whining.”
“Speaking of commitment issues,” Meg says, appearing with a plate piled high with sample bites, “have you seen the pastry chef from station eight? Biceps like brioche and hands that could knead me any day.”
