Page 58 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
I wipe my hands on my apron and casually make my way toward Sherry Smoot’s station. The fiery redhead is bent over her workstation, piping intricate designs onto what appears to be a bourbon-infused cake. Her freckles stand out against skin pale with concentration, and her emerald green eyes narrow as she executes a particularly complex frosting flourish.
“That’s some impressive piping,” I say, sidling up to her station with my best fellow competitor smile. “Your detailed work makes me want to throw my pastry bag in the trash and take up a less demanding hobby. Like nuclear physics or brain surgery.”
Sherry looks up with a genuine smile momentarily replacing her intense focus. “Thanks. Your cinnamon rolls smell divine, by the way. I caught a whiff during proofing and nearly sabotaged my own entry to steal yours.”
“Now that’s a compliment.” We share a quick laugh. I leave out the part about my cakes and marzipan roses that are still a work in progress.
The air beside us suddenly sparkles with familiar pink and blue stars, materializing into Ray-Ray Tupowski with his perfect timing. His white jumpsuit today features even more rhinestones, if such a thing is possible in this dimension or the next.
“Good morning, sugar cube!” he croons, floating partially through Sherry’s display stand in a way that would be alarming if anyone else could see it. “Big day! Finals day! A-one and a-two and—” He breaks into an impromptu rendition of “It’s Now or Never” before I can stop him, and I’ll admit, the distraction is welcome.
I maintain my smile at Sherry, trying to ignore the ghostly Elvis doing vocal warm-ups beside us.
“Can you believe what’s at stake today?” I ask, letting my genuine nervous excitement show. “The winner gets featured inPastry Monthlyand named America’s Premier Bakery for a full year.”
“And a permanent spot in the Culinary Hall of Fame,” Sherry adds, her eyes gleaming with the kind of ambition that could either inspire greatness or lead to homicide. “Not to mention exclusive rights to supply pastries to the White House holiday gala. This isn’t just about money—it’s about legacy and possibly immortality in the form of presidential dessert contracts.”
“Legacy,” I repeat, watching her face carefully. “Is that why you entered? To build your legacy?”
Her face twitches as I say the words and I wonder if it’s pride, determination, or even maybe a hint of desperation. “Absolutely, I’m out to build my legacy,” she says with a little laugh. “Sugar & Spice & Everything Nice isn’t just a bakery—it’s my life’s work. I’ve poured everything into creating unique, original recipes that showcase Oklahoma’s finest ingredients.”
Ray-Ray floats between us, his spectral eyebrow raised. “Original? That’s stretching the truth thinner than my jumpsuit after Thanksgiving dinner, sugar.”
I clear my throat. “Speaking of original recipes... I heard some interesting rumors about Jolene Nelson.”
Sherry’s hands freeze mid-pipe, a tiny drop of frosting hanging precariously from her pastry bag. “What kind of rumors?”
“That she was planning to expose some uncomfortable truths about certain competitors,” I say carefully. “Something about artificial ingredients being used in bakeries marketed as all-natural and organic?” I blink her way, trying my best to maintain a faux level of innocence, but I have a feeling we both know what direction this is heading in.
The frosting drop falls, landing with a tiny splat on her pristine workspace. Her eyes narrow to emerald slits. “Where did you hear that?”
“Vegas is a small town when it comes to competition gossip,” I say with a shrug. “Is it true? Was Jolene threatening to expose you?”
Ray-Ray circles Sherry like a bedazzled shark. “She’s hiding something juicier than a fresh Georgia peach, honeybun! Look at those shifty eyes!”
Sherry’s gaze darts left, then right, confirming Ray-Ray’s assessment with eerie accuracy. She leans my way and her voice drops to a near-whisper. “Between us? Jolene was a blackmailing witch. She found out I’ve been using artificial vanilla in my all-natural baked goods when organic vanilla prices skyrocketed last year. She threatened to go public unless I withdrew from the competition. We both know I wasn’t theonly one doing it.”
That may be true, but I wouldn’t be caught dead lying to my customers about my ingredients in any manner.
“Is that why you did it?” I ask, my voice equally low. “Is that why you killed her?”
Sherry’s eyes widen to the size of dessert plates. “I—what? No!” She looks genuinely shocked, her freckles standing out even more starkly against her suddenly bloodless face. “I didn’t kill her! I wanted to throttle her, sure, but murder? That’s taking competitive baking to a whole new level of crazy, even for me.”
“But she ripped off your cookbook,” I press, because once you start interrogating potential murderers, you might as well go all the way. “Word for word in some places. And she was threatening to ruin your reputation. Sounds like double motive with a side of justifiable homicide to me.”
“That’s why I secured a top-notch attorney last week,” Sherry says, her composure returning as she dabs at the fallen frosting as if trying to clean up evidence. “I was going to sue her into oblivion for copyright infringement and emotional distress. But I guess now I won’t be needing legal representation.” A shadow passes over her face. “At least, not for that.”
Ray-Ray floats upside down to peer into her face. “She’s telling the truth, sugar plum. This ginger snap didn’t do the deed. Her soul is cleaner than my white jumpsuit—and honey, I dry clean that thing daily on the other side.”
Before I can respond, a timer dings sharply at Sherry’s station. She jumps slightly, then checks her watch. “I need to get back to my sweet treats,” she says, already refocusing on her cake with the determination of someone who’s just confessed to fraud but not homicide. She glances meaningfully at my station. “And you should get those rolls in the oven, Lottie. Would be a shame to come this far only to serve raw dough to the judges and America’s viewing public.”
“Good luck,” I say, meaning it despite mysuspicious mind. “May the best baker win.”
“Same to you,” she replies with a tight smile that suggests friendly competition mixed with relief that our conversation is over. “Although if you keep investigating murders instead of watching your oven, my chances improve significantly.”
I turn to head back to my station, my mind spinning with new information and the realization that my suspect list is getting shorter while my time is running out. If Sherry didn’t kill Jolene, that narrows my options considerably and forces me to consider other possibilities that might be more dangerous.
Ray-Ray seems convinced of her innocence, and my ghostly advisor has a pretty good track record when it comes to reading people.
