Chapter 7 Lottie #2
“Me, too. TMI, Wiley,” I groan, shaking my head at him while contemplating the benefits of selective hearing loss. “There are some things I never, ever need to know about my mother’s personal life, and that’s definitely one of them.”
The thought of my mother and Wiley—Noah’s father—engaged in activities that require videotaping makes me want to scour my brain with steel wool. Obviously, the aforementioned bleach would merely be step one.
Wiley was once married to Everett’s poor mother Eliza before he decided to upgrade his life of crime and moral flexibility. It was right after he nuked his marriage to Suze by disappearing with a significant amount of money and a complete disregard for the emotional damage he left behind.
He actually took off with a sizable amount of Eliza’s wealth before faking his death and leaving everyone to deal with the aftermath of his selfishness. He’s a real prize, the kind of man who should come with warning labels and a mandatory background check.
What my mother sees in him, I’m still not sure.
Oh, who am I kidding? I routinely go weak-kneed when Noah flashes those devilishly cute dimples at me, so I’m hardly one to judge questionable taste in Fox men.
Meg’s phone buzzes with an incoming text, followed almost immediately by Lainey’s. They both reach for their devices, but Lainey is determined to beat Meg to the verbal response.
“Forest just told me that you found another body!” Lainey’s eyes are wide as she looks up from her screen. “Please tell me this is some kind of joke or misunderstanding.”
All eyes in the room swivel to me like synchronized security cameras programmed to detect trouble. Even the babies seem to pause their various noises to stare accusingly as if they’ve already figured out that I’m the common denominator in a disturbing pattern.
Meg taps her own phone, her red-polished lips curving into a smirk that suggests she finds my ongoing corpse-detection abilities more entertaining than concerning.
“Ha! Hook just sent a text with a picture. Here’s Lot surrounded by the entire Las Vegas Sheriff’s Department.
” She turns her screen around, displaying a photo that does indeed show me at the center of a swarm of uniforms, looking like the star of the world’s most depressing photo shoot.
“I was not surrounded,” I protest, my voice climbing an octave. “I was just in the middle of it.”
“There’s a difference?” Lainey arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow.
“Yes,” I insist. “Surrounded implies they were containing me. In the middle suggests I was simply... geographically central to their investigation, which could happen to anyone with really bad timing.”
My mother tosses up her hands, nearly dislodging poor Mimi. “How are you always in the middle of these things, Lottie Lemon? It’s like you have some kind of supernatural homing device for murder.”
“It’s a gift,” I mutter.
“More like a curse,” Lainey counters. “One that comes with a body count higher than the casino’s profit margins and significantly more paperwork.”
“You’d think the dead would give you a break at least until those twins are sleeping through the night,” Meg adds, adjusting her star-spangled headband with the casual air of a woman discussing the weather rather than my apparent magnetism for murder victims. “But no, they’re like ‘Hey, Lottie’s in town!
Let’s all drop dead around her and make her vacation memorable! ’”
“Maybe you should start charging a finder’s fee,” Lainey suggests. “You know, set up a booth—Lottie Lemon: Corpse Whisperer. Will locate your missing murder victim for a nominal fee and a good Yelp review.”
“I could make you some business cards,” Meg offers with mock helpfulness regarding my potential new career path. “Have dead body, will travel. No homicide too small.”
“Weekend rates available,” Meg adds and the two of them break out in cackles.
“You two are hilarious,” I say, shifting Ozzy to my other shoulder. “Have you considered taking this comedy act on the road? Perhaps somewhere far, far away from me?”
“And miss your face when you find another body?” Lainey grins. “Not a chance.”
“There won’t be another body,” I say firmly, though even I don’t believe it, and my track record suggests I’m about as likely to avoid finding another corpse as I am to suddenly develop the ability to fly.
“Twenty bucks says there will be,” Meg challenges with the confidence of someone betting on a sure thing.
“Fifty says it’ll be in a kitchen again,” Lainey adds. “Lottie’s culinary corpse collection continues. Maybe you should start a scrapbook.”
“You two are the worst siblings ever,” I’m quick to inform them. “I’m petitioning for a sister exchange. I hear they’re having a sale on non-traumatizing family members with a better sense of humor.”
“Too late,” Meg sings. “You’re stuck with us forever. We’re like glitter—impossible to get rid of and we show up in unexpected places years later.”
Corbin chooses this moment to wake up with a startled cry as if he’s just realized he’s related to these people. Or worse yet, to me.
“I need to finish getting ready,” Meg announces, scooping up her duffel bag. “The pre-show meet and greet starts in ninety minutes, and I need to get my game face on.” She disappears back into the bedroom, her cape fluttering behind her with theatrical timing.
Wiley checks his watch. “We should probably get the little ones settled if we’re going to watch a video of the show.”
My mother nods, already moving into organizational mode. “Wiley and I can handle the babies. All six or ten of them.” She says this with the determination of a grandmother promising to scale Everest in flip-flops. “You girls go get ready. And send that videotape up as soon as you can!”
Twenty minutes later, Meg re-emerges from the bedroom, her transformation complete and requiring its own insurance policy.
The mask is now adorned with additional glitter that catches the light like a disco ball, her lips are an even brighter shade of red that could probably be seen from Mars, and her hair has been teased into a patriotic pouf that adds three feet to her height and possibly violates several fire safety regulations.
Lyla Nell’s eyes widen into perfect circles as if she’s witnessing the arrival of a superhero—that or a very patriotic alien.
“Auntie Meg is a super girl!” she calls out with glee, clapping her hands with delight that suggests she’s found her new role model. “I be Auntie Meg for Halloween!”
“Same,” Lainey says with a laugh.
“Honestly, same here, too,” I agree. Who wouldn’t want to be a fierce woman in sparkly spandex who throws people around for a living? It’s basically my life minus the spandex and plus a lot more diapers and significantly less glamour.
“Show starts in an hour,” Meg reminds us, striking a pose in the doorway that elicits more wild applause from the toddlers in the room. “Don’t be late or I’ll body-slam you both in front of a paying audience.”
“Promises, promises,” I tease, but I’m already mentally calculating how long it will take me to transform from a milk-stained mess to a presentable human. The math isn’t in my favor.
“Come on.” Lainey tugs me toward the second bedroom. “I brought a dress that will fit you even in your current transitional state.”
“Transitional state is one way to put it,” I mutter as I’m dragged along.
Thirty minutes later, I’m squeezed into a red glittery dress that somehow manages to minimize the parts I want hidden while accentuating the few areas that have bounced back from childbirth. It’s like shapewear with sequins—uncomfortable but effective, and possibly a minor miracle of engineering.
“Look at you, hot mama,” Lainey appraises me with a nod of approval that suggests I’ve passed some kind of postpartum litmus test. “Not bad for someone who pushed out two human beings a month ago.”
“I feel like a disco ball that’s been partially deflated,” I say, tugging at the neckline, which seems determined to showcase more of my nursing-enhanced cleavage than I’m entirely comfortable with. “But I’ll take the compliment and possibly frame it for posterity.”
“You should! Your body just created life. Twice. Simultaneously. That’s a superpower right there, even if it doesn’t come with a cape or the ability to fly.”
“A superpower that left me with a muffin top and leaking nipples, but sure, let’s go with that.”
We return to the living room where my mother has somehow managed to corral all the babies in the room into various states of contentment, which is basically a miracle that should probably be documented for scientific study.
Bear and Josie are now coloring on what I hope are actual coloring books and not the hotel’s room service menu.
Piper and Mimi are asleep in the portable cribs we’ve set up in the corner.
Corbin is zonked out in Wiley’s arms and Ozzy in my mother’s.
Lyla Nell tugs at my sparkly skirt with persistence as if she has something very important to communicate. “Mommy pretty,” she says, then points proudly to the twins with a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. “Them my babies.”
I laugh, crouching down to her level despite the dress’s protests and the very real possibility that I might split a seam. “Is that so? I’m pretty sure I’m the one who pushed them out of my body after nine months of pregnancy and labor that lasted longer than some small wars.”
“No,” she says with the absolute certainty only a toddler can muster. “They my babies. I a mommy now. I take care of them.”
“Well, that’s convenient,” I tell her, smoothing down her dark hair. “Does that mean you’ll be handling the two a.m. feedings from now on? Because that would really help my sleep schedule.”
She nods solemnly as if she’s just accepted a position of great responsibility. “I feed them cookies and juice and maybe ice cream.”
“It sounds like a solid nutrition plan,” I approve. “Though we might want to supplement with, you know, actual milk.”
“My milk,” she insists, patting her chest with far too much pride and this time I can’t help but give a little laugh.
“You drive a hard bargain, kid, but I think we’ll stick with the factory-installed equipment for now,” I say, standing back up and hoping my dress survives the movement.
I turn to my mother with the expression of a mother about to leave their children with the SWAT team.
“We won’t be late. The show is only an hour, and then we’ll be right back to relieve you and assess the damage. ”
“Take your time,” she says, waving us off. “Wiley and I can handle a few little children.” She’s either very brave or the liquor is kicking in. “Relax, I have everything under control.”
The last time someone said that to me, I ended up with twins. But I choose to believe her, if only because the thought of adult conversation and non-baby-related entertainment for a few hours is too tempting to resist. Not to mention my sanity depends on it.
Lainey, Meg, and I squeeze into the elevator, which promptly fills with the scent of Meg’s industrial-strength hairspray and whatever body glitter she’s doused herself in that probably contains enough sparkles to be classified as a navigational hazard.
It’s like being trapped in a perfume factory explosion with a side of craft store incident.
“This is going to be epic,” Meg promises as the elevator descends. “I’m facing off against The Widowmaker in the preliminary. If I pin her, I move on to the next event tomorrow against Bertha the Bone Crusher.”
“Those names are terrifying,” I say. “And I bet they violate several rules regarding psychological warfare. But I love it.”
“Wrestling names are like drag names but with more threat of bodily harm, and quite possibly fewer sequins,” Lainey points out.
The elevator dings at the mezzanine level, and the doors slide open to reveal a scene I wasn’t expecting. It’s Everett, Noah, and a bald man with red eyebrows who screams cop so loudly he might as well have a neon sign over his head. Wait a minute, I do know that man… It’s Detective Morrison.
The three men turn toward us, and the expressions on Everett and Noah’s faces transform from serious to panicked faster than I can say what now?
“Lemon,” Everett says, his voice strained in the way it gets when he’s about to deliver bad news wrapped in legal jargon. And why do I get the feeling whatever is going on is about to require legal representation? “We were just coming up to find you.”
“Why?” I ask, already feeling my stomach sink.
Experience has taught me that the combination of those two men plus an additional detective leads to nothing good and possibly requires bail money.
“What’s happened now? And please tell me it doesn’t involve another crime scene investigation. I’m really not dressed for it.”
Noah steps forward, his green eyes troubled in the way that suggests this conversation is going to ruin my evening and more than likely my entire week. “We need to talk. It’s about the second body.”
“A second body?” My voice hikes to sky-high levels.
Detective Morrison’s eyes narrow as he takes in my sparkly attire. “Ms. Lemon? I’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband.”
“Which one?” I blurt before I can stop myself. My brain and any sense of self-preservation I might have once possessed has clearly left the building.
The detective’s eyebrows climb so high they nearly meet his nonexistent hairline. “Excuse me?”
Meg snickers behind me with the kind of barely contained laughter that suggests she’s enjoying this way more than any decent person should. “Oh boy, here we go. This should be good.”
Lainey’s hand squeezes my arm with a warning, but it’s too late.
I’ve already opened the door to the most complicated aspect of my personal life, and now I’m standing in the middle of the Bellanova Casino, dressed like a reject from Dancing with the Stars, about to explain my unconventional domestic situation to a Vegas detective who clearly thinks one of my husbands might be a killer.
Just another day in the life of Lottie Lemon, baker extraordinaire and magnet for murder, mayhem, and awkward questions about my relationship status that require flowcharts and spreadsheets to properly explain.