Chapter 5 Noah
NOAH
Chuck Longnecker and Pacy Morgan haul me away from Dirty Joe like I’m a drunk college kid being separated from a beer pong table. Except in this case, the stakes are a heck of a lot higher than my dignity and significantly more expensive than my student loans ever were.
The ballroom spins around me, in green and gold and the kind of gaudy excess that screams we have more money than taste.
The scent of butter and sugar hangs thick in the air, but it can’t quite mask the desperate smell that clings to every rhinestone surface in this place like cheap cologne on a first date.
“Let go,” I growl, shaking off Pacy’s hand with enough force to send him stumbling back a step. The VIP security director’s ridiculously bright teeth flash in what I’m sure he thinks is an intimidating smile.
“Take it easy, Detective,” he says, straightening his uniform jacket. “This is the Bellanova, not some dive bar where you settle disputes with your fists.”
Detective Morrison approaches, his bald head reflecting the chandelier light like a freshly polished bowling ball. His red eyebrows—the only hair that survived whatever follicular apocalypse claimed the rest—arch in disapproval.
“Fox,” he barks, “I don’t care if you’ve got a badge back in Vermont—”
“Honey Hollow,” I tell him, which earns me a glare that could peel paint. “Ashford County, to be exact.”
“Whatever backwater jurisdiction you crawled out of, we do things professionally here. You want to duke it out with Elvis, take it somewhere that isn’t my crime scene.” His tone suggests he’d prefer I take it to another state entirely.
Dirty Joe smooths his purple jumpsuit, his lip curling into a sneer that would make the real King proud.
“You’ll never see anything, Fox,” he says, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
“Some things just stay in Vegas.” He pats the ridiculous pompadour wig glued to his scalp and saunters away, each step punctuated by a rhinestone-induced jingle that sounds like tiny bells announcing my impending financial doom.
I make one last attempt to go after him, but Everett’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. For a guy who spends his days in a suit behind a bench, he’s got a grip that could crack walnuts.
“Noah.” Lottie’s voice cuts through my rage like it always does, smooth and steady and carrying just enough concern to make me remember I’m supposed to be the responsible one here.
She steps in front of me, those hazel eyes scanning my face like she’s reading evidence at a crime scene. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, which might be the least convincing lie I’ve told since I tried to convince Lyla Nell that vegetables were candy. “Just some unfinished business.”
Everett’s blue eyes narrow, and I can practically see him shifting into judge mode.
“That looked like you were about to commit assault on a man in a purple jumpsuit. In front of half the Las Vegas Sheriff’s Department.
That was more than unfinished business. You were about to finish him permanently. ”
The guilt hits me like a cold case file to the gut.
Lottie and I have always been straight with each other, even after the divorce papers made our relationship status more complicated than a tax audit.
But how do I explain that Dirty Joe isn’t just some random Elvis impersonator?
That he’s sitting on information that could blow up everything I’ve worked for?
“It’s complicated,” I say, which is detective-speak for I’m in deep and don’t know how to get out.
Lottie’s eyebrow arches so high it threatens to disappear. “Complicated? Noah Fox, I’ve given birth to your child while solving a double homicide. I know complicated. This”—she gestures between me and the direction Dirty Joe disappeared in—”is something else entirely.”
Before I can formulate a response that might salvage some dignity, Carlotta barrels into our little circle like a bowling ball aiming for a strike.
“Well, hot darn and hallelujah!” she shouts loud enough to wake Elvis himself.
“If you’re planning round two with the hunka-hunka burning love in the purple pantsuit, count me in!
I’ve always wanted to tussle with an Elvis.
It’s number three on my bucket list, right after skinny-dip in the Vatican fountain and teach the Pope to tango. ”
Lottie grunts at the thought. “Shouldn’t you be tracking down Mayor Nash and making sure he’s not getting a naughty lap dance from some topless showgirl?” Her eyes widen as she realizes what she’s said, and she quickly turns to Everett and me. “Don’t you two get any topless ideas.”
“My thoughts are pure as fresh snow,” I assure her, which earns me a snort from both Lottie and Everett.
Okay, so maybe my halo has always been a little tarnished where Lottie is concerned, but a man can dream.
“More like pure as a mud puddle in July,” Lottie quips back, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she says it.
Everett clears his throat like he’s calling court to order. “I think that Johnny United show is about to begin,” he says to Carlotta. “I bought tickets for you and Mayor Nash. They’re waiting for you at the front desk.”
Carlotta takes off like she’s been shot from a cannon, leaving behind the scent of discount perfume and the echo of an excited squeal.
“That woman moves faster than bad news in a small town,” I mutter, watching her nearly mow down a waiter carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
Lottie’s phone chimes and her face softens as she checks the screen. “Aww, look at this,” she says, turning the phone around to show us a picture of Lyla Nell holding the twins, her little face scrunched with concentration as she attempts to support their wobbly heads.
“How cute is that?” Lottie coos, then suddenly gasps.
Two wet spots appear on the front of her shirt like magic, or in this case, like the world’s most inconvenient biological response.
“Mother Nature is calling. They don’t call it a let-down for nothing,” she groans, crossing her arms over her chest. “I need to go nurse before I flood the crime scene. In fact, I’ll take Keelie along.
I know she’s itching to check up on little Bear. ”
She turns to Everett with that look I know too well. “Keep an eye on Noah for me.”
Great. I’ve been demoted from detective to a toddler requiring supervision. Though given that I just tried to throttle a guy in an Elvis costume, maybe it’s justified.
Lottie squeezes my arm before taking off. “Try not to kill anyone while I’m gone, Detective. The paperwork would be murder.”
I watch her weave through the crowd, realizing not for the first time that no matter how many cases I solve or criminals I put away, Lottie Lemon will always be the mystery I can never quite crack. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, Everett glares at me like a prosecuting attorney who’s just caught a witness in a lie.
“What’s the real story?” he demands. His voice is low but intense. “And don’t give me that it’s complicated garbage. The mother of my children is sitting at the top of a suspect list for a murder she didn’t commit. We don’t have time for whatever male pride you’ve got going on.”
I blow out a breath, feeling my resolve begin to crumble as the truth bubbles up, ready to spill over. Everett deserves to know. Lottie deserves to know. Heck, I deserve to stop carrying this particular weight on my shoulders.
“Fine. The truth is—”
“Judge Baxter?” Detective Morrison’s voice cuts through my confession like a buzz saw. “Need to talk about the deceased.” His eyes shift to me. “Don’t go anywhere, Fox. You’re next.”
Everett gives me a look that says we’re not done before following Morrison toward the kitchen where Jolene’s body was found.
Alone in the crowded ballroom, I feel my detective instincts kick in like an old, familiar engine. There’s a killer in this room somewhere, probably watching the chaos unfold like it’s their personal entertainment.
I scan faces, cataloging expressions and body language. Years on the job have taught me that murderers rarely leave the scene completely. They like to stick around and watch the fallout from their handiwork.
A redhead at one of the stations works with focused intensity, and her champion pin glitters under the lights.
Chuck Longnecker stands near the judges’ table, his face arranged in an expression of appropriate concern as he speaks with a woman in a Bellanova uniform.
Despite his professional demeanor, there’s something calculated in his eyes, like a man constantly running numbers in his head.
And in this place, it’s probably necessary.
Pacy Morgan hovers near the exit, his perfect teeth gleaming as he speaks into his radio. His gaze darts around the room, never settling in one place for too long. Nervous or vigilant, it’s hard to tell.
I drift toward the far end of the ballroom where the lighting is dimmer and the crowd is thinner. A narrow hallway extends into shadow, probably leading to storage or staff areas. It’s the kind of place someone might slip away unnoticed—to commit a murder or to hide evidence of one.
My footsteps are silent on the carpet as I approach the corridor. I’ve barely stepped into the shadows when my foot catches on something solid.
Momentum carries me forward, and I hit the floor face-first with all the grace of a rookie on his first day.
Geez.
Pain shoots through my palms and knees, but instinct has me scrambling up and reaching for my phone and activating the flashlight to see what tripped me.
The light reflects off rhinestones first—lots of purple catching the light like tiny stars. Then I see the face, alabaster pale with death, his eyes fixed on the ceiling in eternal surprise.
Dirty Joe Tuggle won’t be giving me back anything I wanted. He won’t be giving anyone anything ever again. The bullet hole in his chest has seen to that.
For the second time today, death has crashed the party. And this time, I’m pretty sure I’m about to become the prime suspect.