Chapter 8 Lottie
LOTTIE
Noah steps forward, positioning himself slightly between Detective Morrison and me with the subtle protective stance he’s perfected over years of playing my personal knight in rumpled detective’s clothing.
The casino’s ambient noise—slot machines chiming their siren songs of potential fortunes, tourist chatter, and the constant background music that seems to follow you everywhere in Vegas like an overeager stalker—suddenly feels too loud and too quiet all at once.
“Detective,” Noah says as his voice carries that official cop resonance that makes most civilians snap to attention, “my wife has been through enough tonight.” The way he emphasizes wife makes me both roll my eyes and feel a flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with postpartum hormones.
“She’s got three children under her care upstairs and hasn’t slept more than three consecutive hours since the twins were born a month ago.
Whatever questions you have can wait until tomorrow, or preferably until I’ve had enough coffee to deal with this situation rationally. ”
Detective Morrison’s red eyebrows twitch like angry caterpillars who’ve just been told they’ll never become butterflies.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Detective Fox, but according to my notes, aren’t you divorced?
Either that or your marital status is currently it’s complicated with a side of please don’t ask for details. ”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Trust a detective to detect the one detail that Noah consistently chooses to ignore.
“Legally, yes,” Noah admits with visible reluctance as if acknowledging our divorce causes him physical pain. “Practically, it’s complicated.”
It’s true. Practically, Noah and I are complicated in ways that would require a team of relationship counselors to properly explain. Heck, I’m in the relationship and I still don’t understand.
“Everything in Honey Hollow is complicated,” Everett adds with a frown. “Particularly the marital dynamics, which seem to operate under their own set of physics that defy conventional understanding.” He takes a moment to glare at Noah.
Morrison looks from Noah to Everett, then to me, his expression morphing from professional detachment to the unmistakable look of a man who’s just stepped in something unpleasant and can’t identify it, or how to clean it off his shoe. “I see,” he says, though it’s clear he doesn’t see at all.
“No, you really don’t,” I pipe up, unable to help myself. “Trust me, it took us years to figure it out, and we’re living it. I’m just lucky that Noah practically lives with Everett and me. It makes everything a whole lot easier.”
All eyes enlarge in my direction.
“I mean with our daughter, Lyla Nell,” I say with a nod. “It’s pretty much all hands on deck to parent her.” I cringe a little because I think I just made my sweet baby girl sound like a problem, and everything about Everett, Noah, and me sounds like one, too.
Morrison clears his throat. “Be that as it may—”
“Look,” Noah interrupts, “Lottie found the first body, but she wasn’t anywhere near the second one. That was all me. Whatever questions you have for her can wait until she’s not on her way to see her sister perform.”
Morrison’s gaze shifts to Meg, and his professional demeanor slips for just a moment as he takes in the full glory of Mad Madge the Badge in all her star-spangled splendor.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Fine. But I expect to speak with you tomorrow, Ms.—” He pauses, clearly uncertain which surname to use and probably wondering if he needs to start a filing system for our family’s naming conventions.
“Lemon,” I supply helpfully. “Although Lemon-Fox-Baxter would be more accurate if we’re being technical about genetic contributions to my offspring and the complicated paternity situation that is my life.”
Meg snorts behind me with barely contained laughter because it’s obvious she’s enjoying this chaos way more than any decent person should, and I can feel Lainey’s fingernails dig into my arm in a silent plea to stop talking before I make things worse than they already are, which honestly seems impossible at this point.
Morrison’s face performs a complex series of gymnastics before settling on resigned exasperation. “Tomorrow,” he says firmly, then turns to Noah. “And you, don’t leave the hotel.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Noah replies with a smile that doesn’t fool anyone with functioning brain cells.
Morrison stalks away, his bald head gleaming under the casino lights like a particularly judgmental crystal ball, leaving behind an awkward silence that seems to echo in the space between the glittering slot machines.
“Well,” Meg says into the awkward silence he leaves behind, “that was fun. But I’ve got to get to the arena.
They don’t start the show until Mad Madge arrives, and punctuality is apparently part of my professional wrestling persona.
” She adjusts her sparkly mask, looking every bit as if she’s about to beat people up for money while wearing sequins. “Lainey, you coming?”
“I’ll save you all seats,” Lainey offers, linking her arm with Meg’s. “We’re in the front row. We can’t miss Meg body-slamming women twice her size while wearing what is essentially patriotic lingerie.”
“It’s a uniform,” Meg corrects with mock indignation. “A sexy, tough uniform.”
“You look like Captain America and Wonder Woman had a baby and raised it on a strict diet of glitter and protein shakes,” I tell her before landing a kiss to her cheek. “And I’m so proud.”
“Best compliment ever.” Meg grins, blowing me a kiss right back as she and Lainey head toward the arena entrance, her cape fluttering dramatically behind her.
I turn back to Noah and Everett, both looking like men who’ve just narrowly avoided a firing squad. “Okay, spill. What’s going on? And don’t sugarcoat it. I’ve had enough sugar today to fuel a kindergarten class through a birthday party.” The cheesecake Lainey ordered was delicious—gold and all.
Before either can answer, a familiar voice cuts through the casino din like a chainsaw through butter.
“There you are!” Carlotta barrels toward us, her face flushed with excitement and what I suspect is several cocktails’ worth of liquid courage, plus whatever questionable decisions she’s made in the last two hours.
She’s clutching a program that’s been crumpled into near oblivion, presumably from overenthusiastic gripping and possibly some kind of religious fervor.
“I’m in LOVE! Johnny United looked right at me while he was singing ‘Love Me Like Your Credit Card’!
Our eyes met across the crowded room, and I swear time stopped.
It was fate, destiny, and possibly divine intervention! ”
“Not now, Carlotta,” I say, holding up a hand like a traffic cop trying to prevent a multi-car pileup.
The last thing I need is her romantic delusions crowding out whatever criminal delusions are currently brewing around Noah like a very dangerous storm cloud.
“What’s going on?” I direct this at Noah and Everett, my tone making it clear that evasion will not be tolerated and will probably result in me getting creative with my interrogation techniques.
Everett and Noah exchange a look laden with unspoken man-communication that involves a lot of now what and how do we explain this without causing panic.
“Dirty Joe Tuggle is dead,” Everett says finally, ripping off the Band-Aid with efficiency because he knows all too well that bad news doesn’t improve with delay. “He was shot. Noah found him by falling on him like some kind of human metal detector programmed to find corpses.”
A small part of me wonders how many times he’s described me that way. I’ll give him points for creativity—and bonus points for not nuking our marriage because of it.
“You mean we have a double homicide on our hands?” The words escape me before I can process the implications.
Two murders in one day, both during a baking competition. It’s like someone decided to combine my two greatest talents—finding corpses and making pastry—into one horrifically efficient Vegas package deal.
“A double homicide that Noah is being investigated for,” Everett adds, his blue eyes fixed on Noah with an intensity that could melt titanium.
“What?” I look at Noah, really look at him, and notice the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes that suggests he’s about to be arrested for crimes he didn’t commit.
“Why would they think you killed anyone? Your biggest crime is usually leaving dirty dishes in the sink and refusing to acknowledge our divorce papers.”
“Because Foxy was seen threatening Elvis in the purple jumpsuit who’s now wearing a rhinestone toe tag instead of blue suede shoes,” Carlotta helpfully adds, as her attention is momentarily diverted from her crooner crush to the more immediate drama unfolding in front of her.
“The whole hotel saw them going at it like two roosters in a henhouse fighting over the last kernel of corn.”
My heart sinks faster than an overbeaten soufflé in a cold kitchen. “Noah, tell me you didn’t—”
“Of course, I didn’t,” he cuts in, those dimples nowhere to be seen and his expression serious enough to suggest this isn’t the time for our usual banter.
“But Dirty Joe and I did have a... disagreement earlier today. In front of witnesses who apparently have excellent hearing and strong opinions about appropriate conflict resolution.”
“A disagreement loud enough for the people in the parking garage to hear,” Everett adds. “With threats included.”
“They weren’t threats,” Noah insists. “They were forceful suggestions delivered with passionate intensity.”
“Forceful suggestions that ended with him getting a bullet in the chest,” Carlotta whistles with glee. “Looks like Lot Lot’s curse is rubbing off on you, Foxy! Pretty soon you’ll be tripping over bodies in your sleep and wondering if you need to start charging finder’s fees.”