Page 60 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“Besides,” I continue because apparently, I need to provide a primer on basic investigative technique, “the partial print on the bullet that killed Jolene will clear this up. I’ve never fired that gun, touched that gun, or even looked at that gun with romantic interest.”
“Convenient that you volunteered your prints so quickly,” Morrison points out, though his tone has lost some of its earlier hostility like he’s slowly realizing I might not be the criminal mastermind he was hoping to arrest. Twenty hours of reviewing security footage together has created a reluctant professional respect between us, the kind that develops when two cops realize they’re both stuck in the same impossible situation with the same lack of useful evidence.
“When you’ve got nothing to hide, you’ve got nothing to hide.” I shrug, watching the monitor that shows Lottie speaking with a red-haired competitor who’s either discussing baking techniques or plotting world domination. Even through the grainy security feed, her animated expressions make me smile involuntarily. The woman could make reading a phone book look like performance art. “Any word on when those results are coming in?”
As if summoned by the question like some kind of forensic genie, Morrison’s phone buzzes with an incoming message. He glances down, and I notice the instant shift in his posture—the subtle straightening of his spine that every cop develops when evidence breaks like a hunting dog catching a scent.
“We got a match,” he says, turning his phone screen toward me.
The name on the display sends a jolt through my system like touching a live wire. My brain processes the information in that split second of clarity that comes right before everything goes to hell, and I realize two things simultaneously—first, I know exactly who killed Jolene and Dirty Joe, and second, I have a feelingLottie is about to walk directly into a confrontation with a murderer because that woman is always one step ahead of me.
“Son of a—” I start, then cut myself off as my eyes dart to the monitor showing the baking competition where Lottie is moving across the ballroom floor with that distinctive stride I know all too well—the determined walk of a woman who’s figured something out and is about to confront someone very dangerous without considering the potential consequences for her own personal safety.
Knew it.
“We gotta go now,” I say, already pushing back from the desk and heading toward the door. “She knows who the killer is.”
Because if there’s one constant in this chaotic universe, it’s that Lottie Lemon will always find the killer—usually about thirty seconds before the killer finds her.
EVERETT
I’ve just finished the delicate operation of dropping off the twins with Miranda and Wiley in the penthouse suite. Lyla Nell immediately took command of the situation, informing her grandmother in no uncertain terms that babies need quiet while demonstrating proper bottle-holding technique to a bewildered Wiley.
She’s two going on forty-five, that one—the only person in the room with any actual childcare authority, despite being the shortest and technically the least qualified by conventional standards. Watching her organize the adults with military precision makes me wonder if we’re raising a future Supreme Court Justice and possibly a benevolent dictator.
“Don’t worry,” Miranda assures me as I head for the door, though her tone suggests she’s trying to convince herself as much as me. “We’ve got this under control.”
“I’m sure you do,” I tell her, watching Lyla Nell arrange stuffed animals around the sleeping twins like tiny watchdogs. “Though I’m not entirely sure which of you is in charge,” I tease, and yet it comes out as more of a fact.
“Oh, that’s been clear since she arrived.” Wiley chuckles nervously. “My supervisor is approximately three feet tall and takes no prisoners.”
Luckily for all three adults, the twins are out cold, milk-drunk, and oblivious to the world in that peculiar way only infants can achieve. If they maintain this state of blissful unconsciousness for more than twenty minutes, it will be nothing short of a miracle.
I take off and the elevator deposits me in the retail corridor of the Bellanova, a marble-floored boulevard of luxury storefronts designed to separate winners from their newly acquired wealth. I pause at the high-end jewelry store, my attention caught by a display of diamond rings and necklaces that glitter under precision lighting like captured stars.
I never did give Lemon a push present for having the boys. The tradition wasn’t on my radar until Keelie mentioned it last week, her tone suggesting I’d committed a significant husband infraction that ranked somewhere between forgetting an anniversary and accidentally calling her by an ex-girlfriend’s name.
Now, with a few minutes to spare before the competition concludes and possibly before someone else gets murdered, I find myself contemplating the gleaming options behind bulletproof glass as if I were making an important judicial decision.
That pear-shaped diamond pendant would sit perfectly in the hollow of Lemon’s neck. Or perhaps the platinum band studded with sapphires would do.
The price tags boast numbers that would make most rational people hesitate, but there’s something about Vegas that distorts financial reality. Plus, after watching Lemon give birth to twins—a feat that redefined my understanding of human endurance—no gift seems adequate compensation.
I’m about to enter the store when I hear the rapid percussion of footfalls echoing down the corridor. I look up in time to see Noah and Detective Morrison running toward the ballroom entrance, their faces set with the particular urgency I recognize from countless crime scenes back home.
Someone is either about to be arrested or is in imminent danger of becoming a victim—and I have a feeling that person is Lemon.
Noah’s expression tells me everything I need to know.
Lemon has figured something out, and knowing her, she’sconfronting the killer with nothing but her wits and perhaps a rolling pin for protection.
And in a contest between a killer and my wife, I refuse to let the wrong one come out on top.
LOTTIE
My hands move on autopilot as I slide my cinnamon rolls and cake into the oven, the latter of which I will top with my now infamous marzipan roses. I quickly set the timer with the focus of someone whose entire future depends on those thirty-two minutes.
Normally, I’d hover over my creations like a helicopter parent on the first day of kindergarten, but there’s a more pressing recipe that needs my attention—one for justice, with a side of catching a killer before they strike again or before I burn my chances at culinary glory.
