Page 66 of Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas
Everett secures an arm around my waist. “Is that what we’re calling your ability to find dead bodies? Sweetness and light?”
“It’s a specialized form of community service.” I give a little sniff with mock dignity. “Someone has to solve the murders around here. It might as well be the baker with the best cinnamon rolls this side of the Mississippi.”
“Second best,” Charlie corrects, still proudly brandishing her trophy from the competition. “According to the official Vegas Flavor Frenzy results, anyway.”
“My rolls were cremated in the service of justice,” I remind her. “So in a way, they died so truth could live.”
We all share a laugh at that one.
Our entire entourage has gathered in the lobby—a chaoticassemblage of family and friends that makes normal tourists give us a wide berth as it we were some kind of traveling circus—and heaven knows that’s pretty close to the truth.
Meg still has on her wrestling makeup, although she’s thrown a sequined robe over her stars-and-stripes bodysuit in a nod to public decency. Keelie and Bear chat with Lainey and Forest, while Lily stands off to the side texting Alex about Meg’s victory with the speed of someone transmitting nuclear launch codes. He’s hitting a blackjack table at the moment.
My mother and Wiley have finally escaped baby prison to join us, but that doesn’t stop Mom from checking her phone every thirty seconds as if she’s expecting an emergency transmission from mission control.
“The twins are fine,” I assure her after the fifteenth phone check. “Suze is a drill sergeant in grandma form. Those babies are probably marching in formation as we speak.”
“It’s not the babies I’m worried about,” she whispers. “It’s Suze. She asked for the minibar key before I left. Said something about needing liquid courage to handle four infants.”
“Well, at least the twins are too young to remember whatever life lessons Drunk Suze imparts,” I say, though I make a mental note to check for any Fox-related trauma when we return.
Mayor Nash appears from the direction of the high-stakes poker room, his expression suggesting his wallet is significantly lighter than when he entered. “The tables are colder than a penguin’s pantry tonight,” he grumbles, loosening his too tight tie. “I think I’m going to try the craps table next. I’m feeling lucky.”
I groan at the thought. “The only thing you’re going to feel is bankruptcy if you keep gambling like this,” I warn him. “How much have you lost?”
“A gentleman never tells,” he says as he cringes. “But let’s just say the sidewalk repair fund for Honey Hollow might be slightly delayed.”
Carlotta, meanwhile, flits between the Elvis impersonators like a sequined butterfly sampling exotic flowers. She’s wearing a dress that appears to be constructed entirely of metallic fringe, creating a sound like wind chimes with every movement. Herwinnings have clearly gone straight to her wardrobe budget, with predictably excessive results.
“That woman has never met a shiny object she didn’t want to wear,” Charlie says, watching as she cozies up to a purple jumpsuited Elvis with impressive sideburns.
“At least she’s stopped trying to buy exotic animals,” I’m quick to point out. “The concierge put his foot down after the tiger request, but she was still negotiating for a peacock, last I checked.”
“That’s because she ran out of money.” Mayor Nash sags as he gives the dire report.
“What?” I squawk. “Say it ain’t so.”
He ticks his head to the side. “I can say it ain’t so, but I’d be lying.”
“Easy come, easy go,” Everett says. “At least she had fun with it.”
And I know what he’s thinking—better to have fun with her money than his.
Noah shifts uncomfortably beside us, his expression uncharacteristically hesitant in a way that makes me wonder if he’s about to confess to something or possibly propose a very complicated plan. For a man who faces down killers without blinking, he suddenly looks like he’s been asked to recite the alphabet backward in a foreign language.
“Can we talk?” he asks with his voice low enough that only Everett and I can hear. “There’s something I need to clear up.”
Everett and I exchange glances and he gives me an almost imperceptible nod.
“Let’s find somewhere quieter,” I suggest, passing Lyla Nell to my mother, who accepts her grandchild as if she’s been missing for a week.
We move to a slightly less chaotic corner near an enormous marble pillar as the three of us form a triangle of complicated history and unspoken truths. The pulsing bass from the casino floor provides a steady backdrop to this moment of reckoning—whatever it might be, while Elvis impersonators continue to strut and swivel in our peripheral vision. Carlotta can’t stop drooling, and apparently neither can my mother.
“I owe you both an explanation,” Noah begins, running a handthrough his hair in a way that tells me he’s genuinely nervous. “About Dirty Joe and the gambling situation.”
“We’re listening,” Everett says, his tone is neutral but not unkind.
Noah takes a deep breath. “The truth is, I’ve been ashamed. Not just of the gambling itself, but of what it represented. I didn’t want Lyla Nell to grow up thinking her father had problems with addiction. I’ve seen what that does to kids.”
