Chapter 10
LOTTIE
The Bellanova’s Crystal Ballroom is knee-deep in its “Competition Do-Over and Memorial Gathering” as the competitors start in on a scrumptious buffet before hitting their stations.
But the only thing I’m interested in hitting is my first suspect.
And by hitting, I mean interrogating. No need to get arrested for assault so early in the morning.
The casino’s event venue thrums with the cacophony of slot machines chiming like demented church bells, the murmur of conversations mixing with the soft jazz music that follows you everywhere in Vegas like an overly persistent salesperson.
The air hangs thick with the scent of recirculated oxygen, industrial-strength cleaning products, and the lingering aroma of that magnificent buffet that’s calling to my postpartum appetite like a siren song with carbohydrates.
I approach Sherry with cautious determination, sort of like walking up to a wounded animal—one with fiery red hair and possibly homicidal tendencies that might involve kitchen utensils as weapons.
Her freckled face is pinched with worry, and her emerald eyes dart around the room as if she’s calculating escape routes or plotting the demise of anyone who mentions recipe theft.
She’s smaller up close, petite in a way that makes her previous threat to dismember Jolene seem both more absurd and somehow more terrifying, like a chihuahua threatening to take down a Great Dane.
“Not hungry?” I ask, gesturing toward the buffet where competitors are currently engaged in what could only be described as polite warfare over the last lobster tail.
Sherry’s head snaps toward me, her auburn curls bouncing with the movement. “Oh! You’re the one who found—” She stops herself and swallows hard enough that I can see her throat work. “I mean, you’re from the Vermont bakery. The one with the cinnamon rolls that everyone is talking about.”
“That’s me. Lottie Lemon, professional baker and amateur corpse detector.” I extend my hand. “My business cards would say Specializing in pastries and postmortems, but I ran out of room.”
A surprised laugh escapes her, small and rusty like it hasn’t been used in a while.
“Sherry Smoot,” she says, taking my hand with a grip firmer than I expected from someone who spends her days wielding whisks instead of weapons.
“Though I guess you knew that, considering I’m probably all over the hotel gossip network by now. ”
“Your reputation—and your champion pin—precedes you.” I nod toward the glittering accessory on her lapel that’s catching the casino lights like a tiny meteor.
“Very impressive. I’m still working on earning one of those.
” Assuming I can stop finding dead bodies long enough to actually win a competition, but I leave that part out.
“Funny how quickly reputations can change,” she says, her Oklahoma accent thickening with emotion. “Yesterday I was a champion baker with a bright future. Today I’m probably suspect number one in a murder investigation.”
“Murder has a way of reshuffling priorities faster than a deck of cards at a high-stakes poker game.” I agree, because let’s face it, I’ve had my life upended by homicide more times than any reasonable person should and that’s how I know it’s true.
“Although I find it interesting that you assume that you’re suspect number one.
Care to explain why? Did you fill out a suspect application, or is this more of a self-nomination situation?
” I tease, slightly hoping she’ll warm up to me more than she already has.
Her mouth opens, closes, then opens again like a fish trying to decide whether the bait is worth the risk.
“I threatened her,” she admits finally, the words tumbling out like a church confession. “In front of witnesses. Multiple witnesses with functioning ears and possibly recording devices. I was just so angry about the recipe theft, I could have spit nails.”
She glances toward the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention or at least a good lawyer.
“I’ve worked my whole life to build my brand, my recipes.
Everything in my cookbook is original—family recipes I’ve modernized or completely new creations I’ve spent years perfecting in my kitchen while other people were out having social lives. ”
“And Jolene stole from you?” I prompt gently, employing the same tone I use when trying to get Lyla Nell to admit she’s the one who drew on the walls with crayons. Although admittedly, sometimes it’s Carlotta who’s at fault.
“Her entire bourbon maple glaze recipe, word for word from page sixty-four of my cookbook. Down to the teaspoon of orange zest and the pinch of sea salt that makes it special.” Her emerald eyes flash with enough anger to power a small appliance.
“It wasn’t the first time either. Her pistachio cream filling is suspiciously similar to mine, and don’t get me started on the cinnamon-infused caramel drizzle that she claimed was a ‘family secret’ when it’s actually from page one hundred twelve of my book. ”
The air between us sparkles with a spray of pink and blue stars as Ray-Ray materializes with his signature theatrical pizazz—and this time with a donut halfway into his mouth as if he’s been caught mid-snack in the afterlife.
He’s mid-bite and his jaws are stretched wide around what appears to be a glazed cruller that makes my stomach rumble twice as hard.
I can’t help it. I’m basically a carb addict with no interest in recovery.
Here’s hoping Sherry doesn’t notice the floating food.
“Mmrff—” He tries to speak around his pastry, then pauses to swallow with all the dignity of someone who’s never met a donut he didn’t love.
“Sorry ’bout that, honey bun. Even in death, I can’t resist a good donut, especially not when they’ve got a whole tray of ’em sitting like a tower of glazed temptation calling my name from beyond the veil. ”
Yes, the dead that visit me can almost always eat. And don’t think for a minute I’m not envious of the zero-calorie policy instated in the afterlife.
“But I swear I didn’t kill her,” Sherry insists, oblivious to our transparent guest. “I wanted to throttle her for sure, but murder? That’s taking competitive baking way too far, even for someone who once threw a stand mixer at a judge who insulted my éclairs.”
I would have been moved to do the same.
“Tell that to the producers of those cutthroat cooking shows,” I mutter. “Nothing boosts ratings like the threat of actual bloodshed and more than a few on-camera nervous breakdowns.”
Ray-Ray circles Sherry like a rhinestone-studded vulture, his spectral eyebrow raised in suspicion as he gives her the once-over with the intensity of a man evaluating a potential date.
“Little Red here’s got the fire for it, I’ll give her that much.
Look at those hands—steady enough for delicate pastry work, strong enough to wield a knife or a gun with precision.
” He licks ghostly sugar from his transparent fingers.
“But I can’t believe anyone would kill my Jolene over some recipe.
Girl knew how to complicate just about everything from cooking instructions to romantic relationships.
” He gives Sherry the once-over again. “And boy howdy, is this little firecracker a hottie. Do you think I have a chance with her?”
I take a moment to shoot him a look. He can’t be serious. But then you know what they say, the heart wants what it wants—whether or not its beating.
“If you didn’t kill Jolene,” I ask Sherry, trying to ignore Ray-Ray’s inappropriate supernatural hormone surge, “do you have any idea who did? Anyone else who might have had a motive involving more than recipe theft and wounded professional pride?”
She glances around furtively before leaning closer.
The scent of vanilla and cinnamon clings to her like a permanent occupational hazard—one I’m all too familiar with.
“I don’t know who did the deed, but Chuck Longnecker might have answers,” she whispers.
“They were pretty close, getting married and all. In fact, I saw them arguing the night before. It was intense.”
“The event coordinator,” I say because I know exactly who she means. I saw them going at it, too, though I couldn’t hear the details over the ambient casino noise and general chaos. “What were they fighting about? Money? Wedding planning? His questionable taste in venues for romantic proposals?”
“I couldn’t hear everything, but it sounded personal. Very personal.” Sherry’s voice drops even lower like she’s afraid someone might be listening with surveillance equipment. “She called him a liar, said something about breaking off their engagement and possibly ruining his life in the process.”
My eyebrows climb toward my hairline. “That’s pretty serious relationship drama.” But then I know exactly how high emotions can run during engagement periods. Suffice it to say, I’ve had my fair share of romantic complications these past few years, and that’s putting it mildly.
Ray-Ray snorts so loudly I’m surprised Sherry doesn’t hear it and possibly call security.
“Engaged is putting it mildly, sugar pie. Those two were planning to tie the knot next month at the Little White Wedding Chapel, complete with Elvis officiant and everything.” He preens with ghostly pride.
“Not the real King, of course. Nobody compares to the original—well, maybe except for me when I’m really channeling the spirit. ”
“It was all very rushed if you ask me,” Sherry continues, unaware of Ray-Ray’s running commentary that’s providing more information than a celebrity gossip magazine.
“But everyone in the competition circuit knew. Jolene couldn’t resist dropping hints about her ‘Vegas connection’ and flashing that enormous diamond the size of a glacier. ”