Chapter 8 Lottie #2
“I sort of do that already,” I mutter, thinking of the twins’ midnight feedings and my zombie-like state as I navigate the obstacle course of toys Lyla Nell leaves in our bedroom like some kind of small-scale booby trap designed to test my reflexes.
“What’s this about my son?” A sharp voice slices through our huddle like a hot knife through buttercream, and I don’t need to turn around to know that Hurricane Suze has just made landfall.
I turn to see Suze Fox marching toward us, her short blonde hair with those ridiculous bangs practically vibrating with maternal indignation and possibly enough static electricity to power a small appliance.
She’s wearing a blouse with shoulder pads that could double as landing strips for small aircraft, and her expression suggests she’s ready to take on the entire Las Vegas Sheriff’s Department single-handedly while still having energy left over to lecture them about proper investigative techniques.
“Mom,” Noah starts, his voice taking on the patient tone that alerts us to the fact he’s been explaining himself to this woman for over three decades and has learned that resistance is futile.
“It’s nothing. Just a misunderstanding that will hopefully be cleared up before anyone gets arrested or makes it onto the evening news. ”
“A misunderstanding about what?” Suze demands, reaching us with the determination of a missile programmed to find and destroy any threat to her offspring.
“What’s happening? Why was that handsome bald man questioning you?
Noah Corbin Fox, you are my baby and can do no wrong, so help me explain why you look like you’re about to be arrested! ”
The speed and efficiency with which Noah fills his mother in on the situation would be impressive if it weren’t so alarming and potentially incriminating.
Two dead bodies. Noah’s argument with Dirty Joe that apparently reached decibel levels typically reserved for rock concerts.
The suspicious timing that makes him look guilty of everything except good judgment.
And Detective Morrison’s obvious interest in Noah as a suspect who conveniently found the second body.
Suze’s face transforms with each revelation, cycling through confusion, and horror, and finally settling on righteous maternal fury.
“This is outrageous!” she declares with her hands planted firmly on her hips in the universal pose of mothers everywhere who are about to go to war for their children.
“My son is a decorated detective! He doesn’t go around shooting Elvis impersonators, no matter how badly they butcher the classics! ”
“Unless they really butcher ‘Blue Suede Shoes,’” Carlotta adds. “Even the King has standards in the afterlife, and some crimes against music are unforgivable.”
Suze zooms in on me so fast I take an instinctive step back.
“This is all your fault, Lottie Lemon,” she accuses, jabbing a finger in my direction like she’s identifying me in a police lineup.
“You and your... your body-finding ways! Before Noah met you, he never once stumbled across a corpse—and he’s a homicide detective.
Now he can’t walk through a hotel without tripping over one or two—or heaven forbid, three!
You’re like some kind of supernatural murder magnet! ”
“To be fair,” I counter, “I’m usually the one doing the tripping. Noah generally maintains his detective dignity and professional composure.” Mostly.
“He face-planted right into the carpet like a drunk freshman,” Everett offers with a barely suppressed smirk that suggests he’s enjoying this way more than he should. And we all know he so is. “So much for dignity and professional composure.”
“You’re not helping,” Noah mutters. It’s obvious he’s taken enough hits for one evening.
“I wasn’t trying to help,” Everett shoots back. “I was providing context and some much-needed perspective.”
“Well, here’s some more context,” Suze snaps. “My son is being framed for murder, and instead of supporting him, you’re all standing around teasing him mercilessly! Some friends you are.”
“In our defense,” I say, “humor is how we process trauma in Honey Hollow. That and excessive baking, but I don’t see any ovens handy.” Or cookies. And heaven knows I could use a cookie or twelve right about now. The stressed-out zipper on this dress be darned.
“This isn’t Honey Hollow,” Suze reminds me, clearly frustrated with our coping mechanisms. “This is Las Vegas, where they lock people up and throw away the key, especially when those people are out-of-town cops who stumble over dead bodies! And that’s only if you’re lucky.”
“That’s more of a general American justice system thing than a Vegas-specific policy,” I point out, which earns me a glare that could strip the gold leaf right off the ceiling.
“Suzie Q, don’t lose your marbles over this,” Carlotta is quick to tell her while slinging an arm around Suze’s rigid shoulders, assuring us she’s about to make things worse.
“Foxy is innocent—well, of murder at least. His other sins are between him and whatever deity tracks bed-hopping and dangerous decision-making in the romance department. You’d better watch your naked back, Foxy.
The next time you’re crawling under the sheets with Lot Lot, Mr. Sexy has a bullet with your name on it. ”
“Carlotta,” Noah and I protest in unison. Oddly, Everett is silent.
She waves us off. “What? Like it’s a secret? Half of Honey Hollow has a betting pool on which of you two—” she points between Noah and Everett “—will end up permanently in Lot Lot’s bed by Christmas. My money’s on both. Simultaneously. The odds are surprisingly good.”
Does nobody realize that I’m married to Everett?
“And this conversation officially needs to end,” I declare, feeling heat rise to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the casino’s temperature and everything to do with my family’s complete inability to maintain appropriate boundaries in public spaces.
A commotion near the arena entrance saves us from further mortification and possibly the need to explain our relationship dynamics to anyone else within earshot.
The doors have opened, and a surge of people—tourists with cameras, wrestling fans in elaborate costumes, and what appears to be every Elvis impersonator in a five-mile radius—begins flooding toward the event center as an unseen voice rumbles through the speakers alerting us that the first performance of the Grand Championship Wrestling Revival begins in ten minutes and will feature enough sequins to blind a small aircraft.
They’re not wrong.
“Well, the preliminary show is starting,” I say, grateful for the diversion and the chance to escape this conversation forever. “We should get in there before all the good seats are taken.”
“Fine,” Suze agrees reluctantly as if she’s making a major concession. “But this discussion isn’t over. Nobody accuses my son of murder and gets away with it. I don’t care if they’re wearing badges or shiny bald heads that I’ll be dreaming about for the next few nights, and maybe next few years.”
Eww.
“Except maybe Lottie,” Carlotta whispers loud enough for all to hear, including the people at the blackjack table ten feet away. “She accuses Foxy of all sorts of things and still gets away with it. Must be those dimples of hers—you know the ones where the sun don’t shine.”
“And on that note,” I say, pulling her along.
We join the flow of bodies moving toward the arena entrance like salmon swimming upstream, except with more sequins and considerably more potential for violence.
The crowd is a bizarre mix of tourists in casual vacation wear, wrestling enthusiasts in elaborate fan gear, and a startling number of Elvis impersonators in jumpsuits spanning every color of the rhinestone rainbow.
They range from young and fit to old and those attempting to look fit with varying degrees of success, but not one of them is well past his prime—at least not in the ethereal sense.
The ghost Elvis is nowhere to be seen, which is both a relief and a source of anxiety because, in my experience, supernatural visitors don’t just pop in for a quick hello and disappear like polite dinner guests.
They stick around until justice is served, preferably with a side of vengeance and possibly some dramatic special effects.
Noah falls into step beside me as we near the entrance, his fingers brushing against mine in a gesture that feels both casual and deliberate like he’s checking to make sure I’m still there and haven’t been arrested for something.
“I didn’t kill him, Lot,” he says quietly, his voice barely audible over the crowd noise and the ambient chaos of a Vegas casino during prime time.
“I know,” I reply, matching his volume and hoping no one else can hear us discussing murder while surrounded by Elvis impersonators. “Murder would clash horribly with your aesthetic. Not to mention the orange jumpsuit would wash out your complexion, and you’d look terrible in mugshots.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Always looking out for my best interests and my public image.”
“Someone has to,” I quip. “Clearly, you can’t be trusted to avoid getting into arguments with Elvis impersonators.”
“He started it,” Noah says with mock defensiveness that reminds me why I fell for him in the first place.
“What did he have that was worth threatening him over?” I ask, unable to keep the curiosity from my voice because my investigative instincts are apparently stronger than my sense of self-preservation.
“And don’t give me that it’s complicated line again.
I’ve got twins, a toddler, two so-called husbands, and a mother who’s dating my ex-husband’s father while he’s technically still my ex-father-in-law.
I wrote the book on complicated, had it published, and it’s probably being optioned for a very confusing made-for-TV movie. ”
Noah’s expression sobers with the weight of whatever secret he’s carrying. “I’ll tell you everything. But not tonight, not here, not surrounded by people who might be recording this conversation for posterity or blackmail purposes.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart,” he says, making the childhood gesture that still somehow carries weight with me.
We reach the arena’s entrance, and the crowd’s energy shifts, becoming more focused and far more anticipatory.
The smell of popcorn and hot dogs wafts from concession stands, mingling with the scent of perfume, aftershave, and the distinct aroma of nervous excitement that only live entertainment generates when there’s a real possibility someone might get hurt for your amusement.
“Just answer me one thing,” I say as we hand our tickets to the usher who’s dressed like a referee and has seen more violence than most emergency room doctors.
“Is whatever Dirty Joe had worth being accused of murder? Because if it is, we need to have a serious conversation about your risk assessment skills.”
Noah’s eyes meet mine, green as summer leaves and just as warm. “Some things are worth any risk, Lot. You should know that better than anyone.”
The weight of his words settles over me as we enter the arena, its vastness momentarily overwhelming after the confined space of the casino corridor. Lights flash, music pounds, and the crowd roars as the announcer introduces the first competitors.
Somewhere in this building, my sister is preparing to launch herself into staged combat while dressed as a patriotic pinup who could probably beat up half the Las Vegas police force.
And somewhere in this city, a killer walks free, having claimed two lives in a single day and showing no signs of stopping their murderous Vegas slay-cation.
As I scan the crowd, wondering if the murderer could be sitting right next to us, enjoying the show, I can’t shake the feeling that this Vegas vacation has just begun its dangerous descent into chaos.
Like a poorly timed cake, things are about to collapse in spectacular fashion, and I’m standing directly in the blast zone with my family, wearing a sparkly dress and completely unprepared for whatever’s coming next.
The only question is whether I’ll solve this mystery before it claims another victim. Or worse, before it claims someone I love and turns this family vacation into a family tragedy that no amount of humor or cinnamon rolls can fix.