Chapter 10 #2
“My baby girl was a master of the humble brag,” Ray-Ray adds with paternal pride mixed with exasperation. “She could drop more hints than a skywriter with a fuel leak and twice as much subtlety as a freight train in a library.”
I try to reconcile this information with the Chuck Longnecker I’ve observed—controlled, meticulous, and apparently engaged to a woman who ended up with a bullet wound in her chest. Not exactly the kind of relationship milestone most wedding planners include in their happily-ever-after packages.
“Did you notice anything else unusual about their interaction?” I press, hoping for more details that might point toward a motive that doesn’t involve baked goods. “Body language? Specific threats? Anyone throwing kitchenware?”
Sherry’s brow furrows in concentration like she’s trying to solve a complex mathematical equation.
“Chuck seemed pretty angry, angrier than I’ve ever seen him.
But then they parted ways and Jolene was back to smiling as if nothing had happened, like someone had flipped a switch and reset her to factory settings. ”
“That’s an interesting reaction for someone who just had their engagement threatened,” I muse, more to myself than to Sherry, though it comes out loud enough that she nods in agreement.
Ray-Ray floats upside down between us, his pompadour somehow remaining perfectly coiffed despite defying gravity.
“My Jolene had a nose for secrets sharper than a bloodhound at a perfume convention. And once she caught the scent of something juicy...” He makes a throat-slitting gesture that’s surprisingly menacing for a dead man in a rhinestone jumpsuit.
“Career suicide for whoever crossed her.”
“Blackmail isn’t exactly a recipe for a healthy relationship,” I comment, thinking about the implications of someone who collects secrets like other people collect stamps.
“Or a long life,” Sherry adds grimly, apparently following the same train of thought.
“Did Chuck seem surprised when Jolene’s body was found? Like, genuinely shocked, or more like someone who was expecting bad news?”
Sherry’s eyes narrow as she considers this, her mental wheels visibly turning.
“Now that you mention it... no. He looked upset for sure, devastated even, but not shocked. More like...” She struggles to find the words, her hands gesturing helplessly.
“Like someone confirming bad news they already suspected might be coming.”
Ray-Ray suddenly rights himself, his spectral form almost vibrating with excitement.
“Hot diggity dog! I just remembered something!” He floats closer, nearly passing through my head in his enthusiasm and causing a mean shiver to ride through me.
“Jolene called me—first time in years just a few days before I passed away. She was all fired up about something she’d discovered. Said it was gonna change everything.”
“Did she tell you what it was?” I ask, forgetting momentarily that Sherry can’t hear half this conversation.
“Excuse me?” Sherry looks confused.
“Sorry, just thinking out loud,” I recover quickly, hoping I sound less crazy than I feel. “Did Jolene have any other enemies that you know of? Anyone else she might have been blackmailing or threatening with exposure? Because it sounds like she had a real talent for making people uncomfortable.”
Ray-Ray answers before Sherry can. “That security fella with the teeth so white they could double as emergency flares. Pacy something. He and Jolene had history—the naked kind, if you catch my drift.”
My mouth falls open.
Sherry shakes her head, apparently interpreting my expression as surprise at her answer. “Not that I know of, but then I’m not from around here. I stick to the baking circuit and try to avoid the drama that seems to follow some people.”
“What about Dirty Joe Tuggle?” I ask, trying to sound casual while my brain processes the bombshell Ray-Ray just dropped about Pacy and Jolene’s romantic history. “Did Jolene have any connection to him that you know of?”
Sherry shakes her head again. “The Elvis impersonator who died? Not that I’m aware of. Why would a baker have anything to do with an Elvis tribute artist? Different worlds entirely.”
“Just trying to connect the dots,” I say vaguely, and those dots are starting to form a picture that’s more disturbing than I’d like.
Ray-Ray, however, is practically doing ghostly backflips, his excitement causing small showers of pink and blue stars to rain down around us.
“Joe! That two-timing, hip-swiveling thief! He was supposed to be keeping an eye on my Jolene for me—like a supernatural security system—but instead, he was bleeding that detective friend of yours dry over some pile of money that was big enough to cause serious problems.”
I nearly choke on air. “What pile of money?”
Sherry gives me an odd look as if she’s starting to worry about my mental state. “Are you okay? You keep asking questions and then reacting to invisible answers.”
“Oh, trust me, I’m fine.” I wave her off, trying to look like someone who hasn’t just learned potentially explosive information from a dead Elvis impersonator.
“Just remembered something important about my grocery list. You know how it is with Mom brain—random thoughts just pop up at the worst possible moments.”
“Important enough to make you turn whiter than buttercream?” she asks skeptically.
“It’s sort of a hazard of daydreaming about sweet treats,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
“I can see why.” She gives a little laugh. “So when are you due?”
“Due for what?” I give a quick blink, genuinely confused.
“Your baby.” She motions to my slightly distended belly. Okay, fine. It’s totally distended to the size of a beach ball. You’d never know I had the twins. Ate them maybe, but not had them.
Her eyebrows shoot up in a panic. “Oh no! You’re not pregnant, are you? Please tell me I didn’t just put my foot in my mouth so hard I need a surgical extraction.”
“I was pregnant.” I give a little shrug and hold my belly as if the boys were still in it, purely out of habit.
“But I had twin boys just over a month ago. I guess you could say I’m not exactly snapping back into shape like those celebrity moms who seem to pop back to pre-baby weight before they’ve even left the hospital. ”
“Oh, I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole,” Sherry moans with her face turning as red as her hair. “Could you ever forgive me? I should know better than to ask questions like that. My mother taught me better manners, I swear.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” I assure her with genuine warmth. “I’m shocked I don’t hear it more often, honestly. And with my luck and current body situation, I probably will. Maybe I should just start telling people I’m due any minute now and see how that goes.”
Before Sherry can respond, Charlie appears at my side balancing two plates piled precariously high with enough food to feed a small nation—or one stress-eating baker.
“You’re missing the buffet bonanza of the century,” she announces, thrusting one plate toward me as if she were delivering emergency medical supplies.
“I grabbed you some of everything, plus extra mini quiches because I know how you get when your blood sugar dips into the danger zone and you start making questionable choices that don’t involve food. ”
“Wow, thank you. You’re my hero,” I say, accepting the food mountain gratefully. The scent of perfectly seared steak and buttery mashed potatoes makes my stomach growl loud enough that even Ray-Ray looks startled and impressed by my digestive system’s vocal abilities.
Charlie shoots me a look that assures me she realizes I’ve chosen to interrogate a suspect instead of loading up on free fancy food. Hey? Maybe I’m finally developing some impulse control. Or just prioritizing my obsessions—murder before food, but only by the narrowest of margins.
Sherry looks between us with a bemused expression. “You two are either twin sisters or have known each other way too long.”
“Both,” Charlie and I say in unison.
“Biological sisters, different upbringings, same bad luck with finding corpses,” I elaborate through a mouthful of quiche and instantly regret those last few words. “It’s a family talent.”
“Like my double-jointed thumbs,” Charlie adds. “Except Lottie’s skill is significantly less useful at parties and way more likely to end in police questioning.”
Sherry’s laugh sounds more genuine this time. “You’re nothing like I expected.”
“I get that a lot,” I admit. “Usually followed by, ‘Please step away from the crime scene.’”
Ray-Ray floats through the buffet table, attempting to sample dishes by way of opening his mouth to the size of a door. “If you’re done with the comedy routine, sugar, maybe we should focus on who sent my baby girl to her eternal rest before her time.”
I nod his way because I certainly agree.
“Well, I should get back to my station,” Sherry says, glancing toward the competition area.
“But listen, if you need anything else...” She hesitates as if she’s deciding on whether to trust me with something important.
“I really didn’t kill Jolene. I just wanted her to stop stealing my recipes and taking credit for work that took me years to perfect. ”
“I believe you,” I tell her, and to my surprise, I realize I genuinely do.
Sherry Smoot may have a temper hotter than a pizza oven in July, but there’s a genuineness to her anger and grief that doesn’t feel like an act.
Plus, she seems like the type who would stab someone in the front, with a knife, and not the back—let alone use a bullet to do the deadly deed.
Sherry walks away, and Charlie turns to me with a raised eyebrow. “Should I be concerned that you’re making friends with our prime murder suspect? Because historically, that doesn’t end well for anyone involved.”
“I’m just gathering information,” I say, shoveling a forkful of garlic shrimp into my mouth like I’m fueling up for a marathon. “And besides, I’m starting to think she’s not our killer.”
“Based on what? Her charming personality and fashion-forward champion pin?”
“Based on the fact that killing Jolene wouldn’t solve her recipe theft problem,” I explain between bites.
“Dead people can’t give credit where credit is due or issue public apologies.
But you know what would solve that problem?
Exposure. Public humiliation. Proving to the world that Jolene was a fraud who couldn’t create an original recipe if her life depended on it. ”
“Whereas murder solves what problem exactly?” Charlie asks.
“Blackmail,” I say simply. “If Jolene was threatening to expose secrets—the kind that could ruin careers, relationships, or reputations—then silencing her permanently becomes a lot more appealing than dealing with ongoing extortion.”
Ray-Ray snaps his translucent fingers, causing a small shower of blue and pink stars as he zooms our way once again. “Bingo was his name-o!”
I nearly drop my plate. “What does that mean?”
Charlie follows my gaze to where Ray-Ray hovers. “Elvis is back in the building.”
Technically, he never left.
I nod, not taking my eyes off Ray-Ray. “Explain, please. Preferably without breaking into song.”
“Can’t make any promises about the musical interludes, sugar plum.
” Ray-Ray grins like someone who’s never met a spotlight he didn’t love.
“But I can tell you that my Jolene was like a supernatural private investigator when it came to other people’s business.
So what’s the plan for flushing out our killer? ”
“I was thinking we’d take the subtle approach,” I counter, already mentally mapping out a strategy. “Distraction, misdirection, and good old-fashioned snooping with a side of breaking and entering if necessary.”
Ray-Ray floats between us, his spectral jumpsuit catching the casino lights. “I like your style, buttercup. Got a little TCB spirit in you!”
“Taking Care of Business,” Charlie and I say in unison, then exchange surprised glances that suggest we might be spending way too much time together.
“Stop doing that,” she mutters. “It’s creepy and makes us look like we share a brain, which is concerning for multiple reasons.”
“I might need backup,” I say, already mentally assembling my team of amateur investigators. “You, Keelie, and maybe Lily if she can stop gambling long enough to help solve a murder.” On second thought, they’d probably be more of a liability.
“The Charlie’s Angels of culinary crime-solving?” Charlie quips. “I’m in, but only if I get to be Kelly. She’s my favorite and had the best hair.”
“You can be whoever you want as long as you help me track down a killer before we need to leave Vegas. “We’ve got two bodies, and I don’t want to add to that number, especially if one of them ends up being someone I know and love.”
“Three’s a crowd, four’s a cleanup crew,” Charlie agrees grimly.
Ray-Ray strikes one final pose before beginning to fade.
“I’ll do some ghostly reconnaissance, sugar.
Nobody notices a dead man in a rhinestone jumpsuit in Vegas.
” He winks as his form grows translucent.
“I’ll catch up with you in a flash. I’ve got a hunch that’ll curl your toes tighter than blue suede shoes in the rain. ”
Ray-Ray disappears in his signature spray of stars, and I can’t shake the feeling that we’re playing a dangerous game with someone who’s already demonstrated his willingness to silence those who threaten his carefully constructed world.
The stakes have never been higher—and in Vegas, the house always wins.
Unless, of course, you’re willing to break the rules and flip the table.
And I’ve never been one to play by the rulebook, especially when murder is on the menu.
A loud, shrill bell goes off and suddenly all eyes are feasted in the direction of those one-armed bandits, and to my surprise, it’s Carlotta jumping up and down in front of a machine that looks like it’s having a seizure as it explodes with color and light.
A robotic voice announces, “WINNER, WINNER, WINNER” on an endless repeat like a broken record stuck in celebration mode, and soon Carlotta is surrounded by security and staff members who appear out of nowhere like magic.
One of the casino staff members grabs Carlotta’s arm and holds it high as if she’s just won the heavyweight championship of the world.
She’s won the jackpot, and according to the $100,000 sign flashing on the monitor above her head in letters big enough to be read from the parking lot, she’s won big. Really, really big.
This day just got a lot more interesting.