Page 61 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
“Where are you going?” Charlie hisses as I untie my apron and toss it over my station. “The judges will be around in an hour!”
“Just following a lead,” I call back vaguely, already tracking Chuck Longnecker’s retreat through the service door like a bloodhound with a baking license. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back in plenty of time to take out my rolls and cake!”
I slip through the same door Chuck disappeared through, the bright lights and noise of the competition falling away like I’ve stepped through a portal to another dimension where the stakes are higher and the potential for death doesn’t involve overcooked pastry.
This back hallway smells of industrial cleaner and something metallic—either cooking equipment or my own anxiety-induced sweat, which at this point could be classified as its own fragrance.
“Sugar cube, you sure this is wise?” Ray-Ray materializes beside me, his rhinestone jumpsuit sending tiny prismatic reflections against the stainless steel walls. “Chasing killers without backup is how folks end up singing duets with me on the other side.”
“I’m not alone,” I reply under my breath. “I’ve got you—the ghost of an Elvis impersonator as my wingman. What could possibly go wrong?”
“You’ve got me, too!” Carlotta announces, appearing behind me with the stealth of a woman who’s had extensive practice sneaking out of hotel rooms, and most likely other people’s houses. Right now she’s wearing a t-shirt that readsI’M NOT WITH THE KILLER (PROBABLY)and enough jangly bracelets to function as a one-woman percussion section. Wait a minute… Did she actually do a quick change?
“How did you—” I start, then shake my head because, with Carlotta, it’s better not to ask questions I’m not prepared to hear the answers to. “Never mind. Just try to be quieter than a marching band for once in your life.”
“I can be stealth,” Carlotta protests, her bracelets clashing like miniature cymbals with every gesture. “I once hid in a man’s closet for three days when his wife came home early from her sister’s wedding.”
“That’s not stealth, that’s felony trespassing,” I mutter, but my focus remains on tracking Chuck. His footsteps echo ahead of us, leading deeper into the Bellanova’s back corridors.
We follow him down a narrow hallway and into what appears to be a storage area for the culinary competition. Industrial shelving units tower overhead, stocked with every spice, condiment, and cooking implement imaginable. Copper pots and pans hang from overhead racks like metallic stalactites, swaying slightly in the draft from the ventilation system. The space feels abandoned, not to mention that the competition staff is busy with the main event.
“Perfect place for a confrontation,” Ray-Ray muses, floating up to inspect the pots with the curiosity of someone who’s had plenty of time to develop opinions about kitchen equipment. “Or a murder. Reminds me of that movie set I visited back in the day when everyone still thought rhinestones were appropriateeveryday wear.”
Chuck stands with his back to us, shoulders rigid as he speaks rapidly into his phone. “I don’t care what it takes. Get the car ready at the service entrance. Five minutes.”
“Going somewhere, Chuck?” I ask, my voice echoing in the cavernous space with more confidence than I actually feel. “Or should I call you Charlie, like your wife does?”
He whirls around, his professional mask slipping to reveal something dangerous beneath. His phone disappears into his pocket as he straightens his tie—a gesture meant to regain composure that only highlights how rattled he truly is.
“Ms. Lemon,” he says, forcing a smile and wouldn’t fool a toddler, much less someone who’s spent years observing human behavior—criminal behavior specifically. “You should be tending to your baked goods. The competition isn’t over yet.”
“Neither is my investigation,” I counter, stepping farther into the room because I’ve already decided that backing down is not an option. Carlotta and Ray-Ray flank me like the world’s most unlikely backup team—one living, one dead, both equally committed to seeing justice served. “I just had a lovely chat with your wife Margo. She seems very excited about the baby on its way. Funny thing, though, she never mentioned your engagement to Jolene Nelson.”
His smile freezes, then crumbles entirely. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? Let’s see—you’re married to Margo, but engaged to Jolene. Jolene discovers she’s the other woman and threatens to expose you unless you leave your wife. But you can’t do that because Margo is pregnant and the two of you also share three kids, and abandoning them would destroy your carefully constructed image as the Bellanova’s perfect employee—that is, if they ever found out about them. It seems you keep your family under tight wraps.” I take another step forward, watching him calculate his options like someone doing very unpleasant math. “So instead of making a choice like an adult, you decided murder was a more efficient solution.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Chuck scoffs, straightening his cuffs. “You’re building quite the fantasy there, Ms. Lemon. I barely knew Jolene beyond our professional relationship. That engagement must have been some fantasy she cooked up.”
“Really? Because Margo seemed pretty clear that you don’t like her visiting you at work. Keeping the worlds separate, Chuck? Or do you prefer Charlie?”
His eyes narrow. “You’re confusing me with someone else.”
“I don’t think so,” I press on. “Jolene’s murder happened during that convenient seventeen-minute security camera gap—something only someone with your access could arrange. Then Dirty Joe sees something he shouldn’t, and suddenly he’s dead, too, with suspicion conveniently falling on Detective Fox.”
“Pure coincidence,” Chuck insists even though a bead of sweat trickles down his temple like his body is betraying his attempts at maintaining composure. “And completely circumstantial. You have no actual evidence.”
Carlotta’s eyes bounce between us like she’s watching center court at a high-stakes tennis match. “This is better than that soapAll My Felonswhere the villain kept insisting he was innocent right until they found the murder weapon in his golf bag,” she whispers.
Chuck’s professional demeanor crumbles completely, replaced by something harder, colder. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you? Small-town baker playing detective in the big city.”
Carlotta’s chest puffs up—and let’s face it, her boobs almost spill out in the process. “Let me give it to you straight, Chucky Boy. My Lot Lot here has an impressive track record,” she chimes in with the facts. “Fifty-four for fifty-four on murder cases, which is better odds than any game on your casino floor.”
“Actually, the body count is much higher if you factor in the double homicides,” I correct, while keeping my eyes on Chuck.
“Oohwee, sugar cube! Remind me to stay on your good side.” Ray-Ray circles above us and quickly grows agitated. “That man is looking for an exit, honeybun. This cat’s got his escape routes mapped like my tour schedule in ’68.”
“Like I said, you have no proof,” Chuck says flatly as if he’s certain he’s covered his tracks. “Nothing but theories and coincidences. And we both know those don’t hold up in court.”
