Murder and Marzipan in Las Vegas (MURDER IN THE MIX #54)
Chapter 1
LOTTIE
My name is Lottie Lemon, and I see dead people.
Okay, so rarely do I see dead people. Mostly I see furry creatures of the dearly departed variety who have come back from the other side to warn me of their previous owner’s impending doom.
But the only thing I’m seeing now is the glittering expanse of Las Vegas through our shuttle window, a neon wonderland that makes Honey Hollow’s Christmas light competition look like a single birthday candle.
It’s early evening, but the glittering lights have already taken over the landscape and perhaps our good senses.
The air in the shuttle is thick with anticipation, baby powder, and the faint scent of the airplane pretzels Carlotta smuggled into her purse for snacking emergencies.
And she’s currently crunching on her fourth emergency as we cruise down the Strip, because apparently arriving in Vegas without contraband carbohydrates is some kind of mortal sin.
Carlotta and Mayor Nash traveled along with Everett, the kids, and me as we made the flight from Vermont to Nevada, and let’s just say traveling with three kids under the age of two is a heck of a lot easier than dealing with Carlotta and the Mayor.
We pass the Mirage with its volcano that erupts on schedule, because nothing says authentic natural wonder like pyrotechnics that punch a time clock.
The Luxor pyramid rises ahead with its light beam so bright it probably confuses migrating aliens.
And Caesar’s Palace sprawls across an entire city block, as if the Roman Empire had been designed by someone with serious impulse control issues and an unlimited credit line.
“Would you look at that?” I point to a massive gold-encrusted fountain at the Bellagio that shoots water twenty feet into the air. “Who needs nature when you can build it yourself and slap some gold leaf on it? It’s like Mother Earth, but with better financing.”
The Bellanova Casino it’s brains that count. ”
“Tell that to your groupies.” I nod toward a woman who’s now taking a selfie with our shuttle in the background. “I think she’s about to post your silhouette on her Insta Pictures account with the caption Future Baby Daddy.”
I’m lucky enough to have already procured that feat myself.
Up ahead I can see throngs of people swarming in and out of the hotel, and most of which are holding a fruity looking cocktail in a flute the size of a trombone.
Carlotta is already eyeing those delicious-looking drinks, and truth be told, so am I.
After a month of sleepless nights and baby-induced chaos, a drink that comes with its own flotation device sounds like exactly what my sanity ordered.
Although that won’t be happening any time soon, because I’m still nursing the twins, and on occasion Lyla Nell.
There might have been a few meltdowns concerning my boobs since the twins were born, and she’s currently staging a protest once a day, but her need for Mommy milk always wins out in the end.
My sweet baby girl Lyla Nell bounces in her car seat, her dark hair with those distinctive red tips—just like her daddy Noah’s—bobbing with each movement. Her verdant green eyes scan the colorful lights in front of us with wonder.
Noah.
Just thinking about him sends a familiar pang through my chest. He’s already here in Vegas. He arrived yesterday on business that sounded suspiciously cryptic when he mentioned it.
“Pretty!” Lyla Nell exclaims, clapping her hands with fervor. Her bright green eyes scan the colorful lights with a wonder that makes me slightly jealous. When did everything stop looking magical to me and start looking so darn pricey? “Mommy, it so pretty!”
“That’s right, baby,” I agree. “Everything in Vegas is pretty. And expensive. And probably sticky.”
Mayor Harry Nash, my biological father—a fact I discovered just a few years ago and still haven’t figured out how to feel about—is just about already counting imaginary chips in his hand.
His balding gray hair catches the neon lights, and his expanding waistline strains against his lucky gambling shirt, which based on previous evidence, brings about as much luck as a chocolate teapot.
His mischievous blue eyes dart from casino to casino as we pass the Flamingo’s pink neon paradise, the towering Stratosphere that looks like it’s auditioning for a role as the world’s most expensive pogo stick, and the Venetian’s faux canal system complete with gondoliers who probably dream of actual Venice while singing “That’s Amore” for the thousandth time.
“Think of all the potential winnings just waiting for me,” he says, rubbing his hands together with glee that borders on concerning. “I can practically hear the slots calling my name. Harry, Harry, make us sing!”
Everett raises an eyebrow. “I hope you’re not gambling with the good people of Honey Hollow’s tax dollars. That sidewalk repair fund seems to shrink whenever the Honey Bees play.”
The Honey Bees would be what Honey Hollow High’s student body refers to themselves as, and yes, the mascot’s official name is Sting.
“Oh, please.” Carlotta waves dismissively, accidentally whacking a pretzel against the window.
“What’s the point of being mayor if you can’t dip your fingers into the town cookie jar now and then?
It’s practically in the politician’s handbook—chapter one, steal a little, lie a lot, and always blame the previous administration or the weather, whichever has a lower approval rating. ”
“Carlotta!” I gasp, although I can’t help but laugh. “You can’t say things like that in public. There are impressionable ears present.” I gesture toward Lyla Nell, who’s currently trying to eat her shoelace with the determination of a toddler who’s discovered a new food group.
Mayor Nash puffs up indignantly, his cheeks reddening to match the neon sign we’re passing outside the Circus Circus. “I’ll have you know, I’ve never stolen a dime from—”
“Save it for the voters, Harry,” Carlotta cuts him off with the efficiency of a guillotine. “Your campaign promises don’t work on me. I’ve seen where those hands have been—specifically in the church donation basket looking for change for the vending machine.”