Chapter 1 #2
I peer over at Ozzy—or is it Corbin?—strapped into his car seat as sudden panic grips me as if realizing I forgot to pack diapers for a week-long trip. Which I totally didn’t forget. That would be suitcases four, five, and six.
“Oh, good grief.” I sigh hard. “I’m actually starting to doubt my color-coding system.
What if I’ve already mixed them up? What if I’ve been calling Ozzy Corbin and Corbin Ozzy since that diaper blowout in the airport bathroom?
” The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through me.
“And which one had the blue toe again? My lack of sleep has relegated me to one final brain cell, and even that one seems to be on the fritz.
“It’s okay, Lemon,” Everett says, leaning over to examine both babies with the same scrutiny he applies to particularly tricky legal documents. “Ozzy has the dimple on his right cheek, Corbin on his left. They’re right where they should be.”
I exhale with enough relief that it could power a small wind farm. “Thank goodness for genetic dimples. They’re like nature’s name tags.”
Which one was on the left again? Oh, never mind.
“I still can’t believe we’re here for a whole week of competition,” I say, changing the subject before another wave of maternal incompetence crashes over me.
“The Vegas Flavor Frenzy is the biggest culinary event of the year, and the Sin City Sugar Showdown could put my cinnamon rolls on the map nationwide. Charlie is already practicing her savory dishes for her division. I just can’t wait to dig in. ”
“And I can’t wait to dig in to all the handsome chefs,” Carlotta adds with a cheeky yet purely evil wink.
She and Harry have an odd relationship, to say the least, but as of late he’s made it clear there’s to be no more roaming as far as other romantic partners are concerned.
However, it’s taking Carlotta some time to get the memo.
“I hear they really know how to handle their utensils,” she guffaws as she says it.
“Those rolling pins aren’t the only things that rise in their kitchens. ”
“Carlotta, please,” I groan, wondering not for the first time how this woman could possibly have contributed to my DNA without some kind of cosmic clerical error.
“There are children present. And a mayor. And my husband, who happens to be armed with perfect recall and the authority to sentence people.”
“Oh, I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.” She shrugs with the innocence of a woman who’s never had an innocent thought in her life. “Besides, it’s Vegas, baby. What happens here will be extensively documented on my Insta Pictures account but with tasteful filters and strategic cropping.”
The shuttle finally lurches to a stop at the Bellanova’s grand entrance with all the grace of a walrus who’s had one too many drinks, and suddenly everyone’s scrambling for bags, babies, and dignity.
The doors whoosh open, letting in a blast of dry heat that feels like opening an oven set to surface of the sun.
“All right, folks, this is your stop!” the driver announces with the enthusiasm of someone who is clearly ready to be rid of our particular brand of chaos—and ready to be tipped excessively for it, too. “Bellanova Casino & Spa Resort—where dreams come true and wallets go to die!”
The Bellanova’s grand entrance is a stunning display of gold columns and crystal chandeliers that are visible even from the street.
A bellhop in a pristine uniform rushes forward as the doors open, his smile so bright it could probably power half the Vegas Strip and still have energy left over for a few slot machines.
Behind him in the foyer, the stunning display of gold columns and crystal chandeliers creates a backdrop that screams expensive in seventeen different languages.
Everett efficiently organizes our exodus like a military operation, while I juggle the twins and try to prevent Lyla Nell from launching herself headfirst onto the sidewalk.
Mayor Nash bolts for the casino entrance before the shuttle even comes to a complete stop, and Carlotta somehow manages to reapply lipstick while simultaneously gathering her seventeen different bags.
“Welcome to paradise!” the bellhop chirps as we spill out onto the sidewalk in a tangle of diaper bags, suitcases, and what I can only describe as organized pandemonium.
And as if sensing the worst possible moment for a meltdown, all three babies decide this is the perfect time to exercise their lungs in unison. The wailing carries across the elaborate entrance like an air raid siren announcing the arrival of chaos as Everett and I frantically try to soothe them.
“Welcome to paradise,” Everett mutters as if he’d much rather have a root canal, trying to rock Corbin while I struggle with both Ozzy and a squirming Lyla Nell.
“Paradise with a very hangry choir,” I agree, bouncing gently and making shushing noises that only seem to inspire more impressive vocal gymnastics from my offspring. “At least they’re performing in harmony. That’s got to count for something.”
And I think that something is a very stiff drink—for Everett at least.
Inside the lobby, we’re immediately greeted by competing signs: WELCOME VEGAS FLAVOR FRENZY COMPETITORS, THE KING LIVES ON: ELVIS TRIBUTE ARTIST CHAMPIONSHIP THIS WEEK! and DON’T MISS THE GRAND CHAMPIONSHIP WRESTLING REVIVAL!
The lobby itself smells like expensive perfume, freshly minted money, and the particular brand of reckless optimism that comes with being one pull away from a jackpot.
The black granite floor is so shiny I can practically count my split ends in the reflection, and the sound of slot machines creates a chaotic-sounding musical backdrop along with the occasional bells and whistles.
A group of Elvis impersonators in various stages of authenticity strut through the lobby in their jumpsuits and pompadours.
Some look impressively like the King himself, while others seem more like Elvis’s distant cousin who maybe caught a glimpse of him once during a particularly hazy family reunion.
“The King lives!” Carlotta screams, clutching her chest in a way that sends several nearby tourists reaching for their phones—probably to dial 911 or capture her inevitable collapse for social media fame. I bet they’re hoping for the latter.
Mayor Nash points to another sign on the wall, with his face lighting up like the Vegas Strip itself. “Would you look at that! Johnny United is performing his residency here!”
Carlotta staggers toward the larger-than-life poster of the aging crooner with his overly dyed black hair and smarmy smile that suggests he’s been practicing that smirk in the mirror since the Carter administration.
She collapses against it with her hand over heart, in what I can only describe as performance art designed to test the limits of public decency laws.
“Oh, Johnny! My one true love!” She swoons hard, dragging her hand across the poster in a way that probably violates several health codes. “Your song ‘Slot Machine of My Heart’ saved my life nine different times! And ‘Jackpot Heart’ got me through my ninth divorce—and possibly prevented my tenth!”
Suffice it to say, I’m not apprised of all or any of Carlotta’s marital blunders. And I like it that way.
“You mean all nine of your matrimonial lives have expired, and yet somehow you’re still here?” I quip, adjusting Lyla Nell on my hip. “That explains so much about your current relationship resurrection.”
Just then, an Elvis impersonator in a pristine white jumpsuit studded with enough rhinestones to blind a pilot strides directly toward us.
His hair is styled in the perfect pompadour, and there’s something eerily familiar about his swagger—a confidence that comes only from being extremely talented, extremely delusional, or extremely dead.
“Well, hubba-hubba,” Carlotta murmurs, straightening her posture and somehow adding two inches to her height through sheer force of hormonal will.
The Elvis impersonator winks at Carlotta, then walks right through her, disappearing in a shower of red and blue stars that nobody else in the busy lobby seems to notice with the exception of Carlotta and me.
We gasp hard and look at one another with a special brand of horror that has become far too familiar over the years.
“What’s wrong, Lemon?” Everett asks, instantly alert as his free hand reflexively moves to his sidearm.
Yes, Everett is packing heat. I would be, too, but with the three littles, I thought it best that my Glock, Ethel, stayed home.
Besides, Everett has Fred with him, and his aim is just as lethal.
Don’t worry, Everett jumped through all the TSA hoops, declared it, and locked Fred up tighter than a Navy SEAL’s secrets.
There’s not a law my hot husband doesn’t abide by and I find that sexier than just about anything.
“I just saw—” I begin, but get cut off by the most unexpected source.
“A ghostie!” Lyla Nell claps excitedly, finishing my sentence with the enthusiasm only a toddler can muster. “Pwetty ghostie!”
I look down at my daughter as her green eyes fill with wonder and feel that familiar mix of pride and concern. Like me, she can see the spectral visitors that others miss. Unlike me, she thinks it’s the greatest thing since sliced bread, or in her case, goldfish crackers.
“At least she stopped crying.” I sigh, exchanging a loaded glance with Everett that speaks volumes about our complicated supernatural existence.
Mayor Nash has already wandered off to the nearest slot machine, feeding it coins with the focus of a man on an important mission from The Man Upstairs himself—if The Man Upstairs were interested in three cherries lining up in a row.
Everett’s expression darkens as he surveys the casino floor. His eyes sweep the area with the precision of a security camera, or years of determining guilt or innocence. “You know what that means, Lemon.”
Carlotta cuts him off, already backing toward the entertainment hall where Johnny United’s poster beckons like a sequined siren.
“Yeah, yeah, someone’s about to meet their maker, and we’re going to have a good time with Johnny United!
Those tight pants aren’t going to ogle themselves!
” She vanishes into the crowd before I can form a rebuttal, let alone deliver it.
I press my lips tight as I take in the opulence of the casino—the crystal chandeliers hanging like frozen ice storms, the plush carpeting in rich jewel tones that probably costs more per square foot than our entire house, and the bakery-themed slot machines created especially for the competition, complete with cherry pie jackpot symbols that seem designed to mock my professional aspirations.
“Carlotta’s not wrong,” I murmur, adjusting the triple stroller where all three children are finally settling down like tiny angels who definitely weren’t just testing the acoustic properties of a five-star lobby.
“But she forgot one thing.” My eyes track the path where the ghostly Elvis vanished, and a chill runs down my spine despite the carefully regulated casino temperature. “It also means murder.”
The word seems to hang in the air between us, heavier than the scent of luck and lost dreams that permeates the casino floor.
Somewhere in this glittering palace of excess, someone’s time is running out faster than an all-you-can-eat buffet at dinnertime.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my years of ghostly encounters, it’s that death never takes a vacation—not even in Vegas.