Page 59 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“She’s in the clear,” Ray-Ray confirms, floating alongside me like a rhinestone-covered conscience. “But someone in this room isn’t, sugar cube. The killer’s here, watching every move, cool as a cucumber in a snowstorm.” He pauses to strike a dramatic pose that would make Elvis proud. “My Jolene-y deserves justice, and Dirty Joe, too!”
“I’m working on it,” I mutter under my breath, careful to keep my lips from moving too obviously. The last thing I need is to be caught on national television talking to thin air. The Batty Baker headlines practically write themselves.
As I round the corner toward my station, I collide with an immovable object—that’s definitely not following the laws of physics when it comes to center of gravity. My hands shoot out instinctively to steady the blonde woman who’s now teetering slightly off-balance, her impressive baby bump preceding her like the prow of a ship.
“Margo!” I practically shout, recognizing the woman I met on the first day of competition when everything was simpler and multiple corpses weren’t involved or I started taking investigative advice from dead Elvis impersonators. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” she assures me with a laugh and one hand resting protectively on her belly. “The little one is well-cushioned in there. Although if I go into labor during the finals, I’m naming the baby after your winning dessert.”
“Cinnamon Roll does have a certain ring to it,” I tease.
She laughs, a genuine sound that cuts through the tense competition atmosphere. “I came to cheer you on as promised. Between you and me, I’ve been craving cinnamon rolls this entire pregnancy, so I’m a bit biasedin your favor.”
“I’ll take support wherever I can get it,” I tell her gratefully.
“Three previous pregnancies have made me a certified dessert expert,” she confirms with mock seriousness. “The baby bump is basically a culinary credential at this point.”
Ray-Ray floats curiously around Margo, studying her with unusual intensity. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then shakes his head and zips away through the nearest wall, his rhinestones leaving a trail of sparkles that only I can see.
“I guess I should get back to it,” I say, gesturing toward my station. “But save room for a victory sample later?”
“I’ve been saving room for nine months.” Margo pats her bump with a grin. “You’ve got this, Lottie.”
“Do you need anything?” I ask, suddenly conscious of how long she’s been standing. “A chair? Water? A team of sherpas to help carry that impressive bump?” I tease good-naturedly. “Because heaven knows I could have used one a few weeks back.”
She laughs and waves off my concern. “Oh no, my husband Charlie is here working the room—I could always ask him. Although I sort of popped in to surprise him, too.” She glances around somewhat nervously like she’s not entirely sure this surprise is welcome. “He’s not so keen on me visiting him at work, so I try to lay low, or at least as much as I can with this built-in shelf preceding me everywhere I go.”
“Oh? Is your husband competing, too?” I ask, mentally scanning through the male contestants I’ve encountered and trying to remember if any of them mentioned pregnant wives.
“No, he’s the MC,” she says with a touch of pride.
I blink back at her, my brain momentarily shorting out like a mixer dropped in dishwater. “But the MC is Chuck Longnecker.”
The woman nods, her smile warm with affection and completely oblivious to the bombshell she’s just dropped on my already overloaded mental processing system. “That’s my Charlie—always turning up the charm. He works too hard, but that’s how he climbed the ladder so quickly at the Bellanova.” She pats her belly once more like she’s reassuring the baby about their father’s work ethic. “I should circle back to my seat before the next round starts. Good luck!”
She waddles away with surprising speed for someone in her third trimester, leaving me frozen in place, my jaw slightly unhinged, and my brain trying to process information that changes everything.
“He has a wife!” I gasp at Ray-Ray, who zooms up next to me. “A verypregnantwife! Not to mention three kids at home!”
Ray-Ray’s ghostly eyebrows shoot toward his spectral pompadour. “And the plot thickens faster than pudding on a hot stove, sugar cube.”
Chuck Longnecker has got himself a pregnant wife and a dead fiancée.
Now that’s what I call a complicated love life.
NOAH
The Bellanova’s underground security room hums with the electric tension of a dozen surveillance systems working in concert. Wall-to-wall monitors bathe the windowless space in a blue-white glow that makes even Morrison’s bald head look slightly otherworldly—which, given his personality, might actually be an improvement.
Each screen offers a different slice of casino life—elderly couples feeding retirement funds into hungry slot machines, dealers running cards with ballet-like precision, and drunk bachelor parties one cocktail away from security intervention.
“You have to admit it looks suspicious,” Morrison says, leaning back in his chair while keeping his eyes locked on the screen showing the baking competition as if he’s watching a particularly intense sporting event. “Two murders with the same weapon, and you with connections to both victims.”
“If I were killing people, Detective,” I reply, keeping my voice level despite the needling that would make a lesser man reach for his weapon, “I’d be smart enough not to use the same weapon twice. And I certainly wouldn’t have arguments with my intended victims in front of witnesses.”
It’s basic Criminal Behavior 101—don’t leave a trail of breadcrumbs leading directly to your own front door. The fact that I have to explain this to a supposedly experienced detective makes mequestion either his competence or his commitment to actual police work. Personally, I’m shocked he hasn’t asked to see my weapon yet. He’s not as sharp as he thinks.
Morrison grunts—not quite agreement, but not an outright dismissal either. Progress, of sorts, like getting a confession from a suspect who’s only willing to admit they were in the general vicinity of the crime scene around the time it happened.
