Chapter 12
LOTTIE
Later that evening, Everett, Noah, Carlotta, Mayor Nash, and I congregate in the Stardust Lounge for the big Johnny United show.
The Stardust Lounge at the Bellanova pulses with anticipation that’s thick enough to spread on toast, while the intoxicating blend of expensive cologne, cigarette smoke that’s been banned but somehow lingers like a stubborn ghost, and the faint aroma of overpriced cocktails fills the air.
The soft jazz of conversation mingles with the clink of ice against crystal and the rustle of sequined gowns as patrons settle into their seats for what promises to be either the entertainment event of the decade or a complete disaster worthy of viral video status.
But I’m just here hoping I can stay awake through it all. Sleep deprivation feels like trying to frost a cake while riding a mechanical bull during an earthquake—everything’s moving, nothing’s cooperating, and you’re pretty sure you’re about to face-plant into something expensive.
My brain—a lumpy, undercooked mess—struggles to form coherent thoughts as I adjust the purple sparkly dress that’s doing its heroic best to contain my post-twin figure.
Crystal chandeliers dangle overhead like frozen fireworks, casting diamond-sharp reflections across the sea of expectant faces below.
The room is populated with mostly large swaths of older women, but there is a good smattering of Elvis impersonators wearing their colorful bedazzled jumpsuits, too.
And for all I know, they could all be packing.
But truth be told, I’m too tired to care about old crooners or fresh hot bullets.
The twins didn’t sleep last night. Not a wink.
Not even a momentary eye closure that might be mistaken for slumber by an optimistic, delirious parent.
As it turns out, my bundles of joy have an uncanny ability to tag-team their screaming sessions with the precision of Olympic relay runners.
One stops and the other starts—a perfect system designed to ensure maximum parental zombification.
Strangely, their nocturnal symphony worked out well for me since I couldn’t sleep anyway.
My brain kept performing mental gymnastics around what Noah might be hiding and whether I’ll get to bring Lyla Nell’s father back to Honey Hollow or if we’ll be making regular pilgrimages to Nevada to visit him behind bars.
Nothing says family bonding quite like prison visiting hours and pat-downs by correctional officers.
“Lottie, are you even listening?” Carlotta waves her hand in front of my face with her new diamond rings catching the light so aggressively that I worry about retinal damage. “I asked if this neckline makes me look too desperate or just desperate enough to catch Johnny’s attention from the stage.”
“Is there a difference?” I ask, eyeing her sequined gown, which appears to have been designed by someone who believes fabric is merely a suggestion.
The red sequins catch every light beam in the room, transforming her into a walking Christmas ornament.
“You look like you’re auditioning to be the before in a rhinestone intervention. ”
“Perfect!” she beams, adjusting her cleavage to maximum visibility. “Johnny United appreciates a woman who makes an effort and isn’t afraid to show her assets, literally and figuratively.”
Mayor Nash shifts uncomfortably in his new suit. It’s at least two sizes too small, making him look like an overstuffed sausage in a designer casing. The fabric strains against his expanding mayoral waistline with each breath, threatening a wardrobe malfunction of municipal proportions.
“Harry, stop fidgeting,” Carlotta hisses. “If you split those seams, I’ll have to introduce you as my pet walrus instead of my date, and that’s not the impression I’m going for tonight.”
“I can’t help it. This suit is cutting off circulation to vital areas,” he protests, tugging at his collar. “I think my spleen is being compressed into a diamond and my liver might be filing a formal complaint.”
“Good!” Carlotta snorts. “Maybe you can pawn it to fund the park renovations you keep promising Honey Hollow.”
Now that Carlotta has won that jackpot, she thinks everything can be solved with money. I glance over at Noah. If only.
Everyone else has scattered to the four corners of the Bellanova, each pursuing their own version of Vegas fun.
Keelie and her husband Bear have taken over the poker tables, where Keelie’s innocent face and odd ability to count cards without moving her lips has already funded their son’s college education.
Alex and Lily hit the slots with Suze, forming an unholy trinity of luck, curses, and strategic button-pushing that borders on scientific methodology.
Charlie is at some late-night chef gathering, probably trading recipes for dishes that require ingredients I can’t pronounce and cooking techniques that defy physics.
Lainey and her husband Forest found some chakra-aligning sound bath—whatever that means—that promises to cleanse their souls while simultaneously giving them the giggles and possibly a spiritual awakening or at least a really good nap.
Meg is preparing for her next wrestling match as Mad Madge the Badge, likely applying industrial-strength glitter to areas that should never sparkle. And you can bet her husband Hook will be there cheering her on—even if she is just trying out a new costume.
Meanwhile, Lyla Nell has taken charge of the baby command center upstairs and is not only running the show with the efficiency of a tiny dictator but practically holding Mom and Wiley hostage—my mother’s exact words in her last text, accompanied by an SOS emoji and what might have been a cry for help.
Honestly, why so dramatic?
If anything, Lyla Nell is a very big helper who just has her own unique methods.
She helps by testing if diapers are absorbent enough to flush down hotel toilets, assists with feeding by redecorating the walls with pureed carrots in what she probably considers abstract art, and supports the twins by showing them how to scream at frequencies that could shatter champagne flutes and possibly register on seismic equipment.
“Lemon, you’re doing it again,” Everett says with his voice low and amused as he guides me to our front-row VIP table—a perk of Carlotta’s jackpot victory and subsequent spending spree that’s funding this entire evening of questionable entertainment.
“That thousand-yard stare means you’re either plotting murder or calculating how many hours of sleep you’ve lost since the twins were born. ”
“Both,” I confess with the honesty of someone who’s too tired to lie effectively. “I’m at negative three hundred and forty-two hours, and I’ve planned at least seven different ways to make sleep deprivation look like a natural death that wouldn’t require an autopsy.”
Noah slides into the seat on my other side, his green eyes scanning the room with the professional assessment of a detective and the personal interest of a man looking for escape routes. “Suspicious of everyone tonight, Lot?”
“Says the man who abandoned us at dinner faster than Carlotta abandons New Year’s resolutions.
” I narrow my eyes at him with focused intensity because I’ve reached the end of my patience.
“By the way, your steak was delicious. We had them box up the leftovers for the coyotes stalking the parking garage, and they send their compliments to the chef.”
Everett suppresses a smile behind his glass of scotch. “It was an excellent cut. The coyotes send their regards.”
Noah has the decency to look sheepish, those dimples making a brief appearance. “I had something important to take care of.”
“More important than explaining why you’re Public Enemy Number One in a double homicide investigation?” I ask sweetly. “Because I’m pretty sure that tops the priority list, right after breathing and before personal hygiene but definitely above mysterious rendezvous with suspicious individuals.”
“It’s related,” he says cryptically, then checks his phone for what has to be the seventeenth time in three minutes like he’s expecting either very good news or very bad news. “I’m working on something that might clear everything up.”
“You’re working on an ulcer is what you’re doing,” I mutter. “And giving me one in the process.”
The house lights dim, sending a ripple of anticipation through the crowd like an electric current, and suddenly everyone’s paying attention with the focused intensity usually reserved for natural disasters or celebrity scandals.
Carlotta grips Mayor Nash’s arm with the fervor of a woman about to witness the second coming—if the messiah wore sequined suits and sang songs about gambling metaphors for love.
“Everybody shut your pie holes!” Carlotta shouts loud enough to be heard three tables over and possibly in the parking lot by those coyotes. “My future husband is about to perform the concert of a lifetime!”
“You’re already engaged to the mayor,” Everett points out reasonably.
Although inherently logic resonates with Carlotta about as much as the word commitment does. I’d say poor Mayor Nash, but they’re just two peas in a cheating pod.
“Details.” Carlotta dismisses with a wave. “Some women collect shoes or handbags. I collect potential husbands. It’s called having hobbies and keeping your options open, Sexy.”
The curtains part to reveal a stage bathed in blue light, a lone microphone stand gleaming like a beacon.
A drum roll builds with the dramatic tension of someone announcing either a winner or an execution, and suddenly, there he is—Johnny United in the flesh, which there seems to be more of each year despite his suits getting tighter and more structurally challenged.
His dyed black hair is sculpted into an architectural marvel that could withstand hurricane-force winds, and his smile is whiter than a polar bear in a snowstorm who’s just had professional dental work.
“HELLOOOO, BELLANOVA!” he croons into the mic with his voice the perfect blend of a lounge lizard and aging rock star. “Are you ready to feel UNITED tonight?”
The crowd erupts with the enthusiasm of people who’ve been saving up their excitement for weeks, but no reaction matches Carlotta’s, who lets out a sound somewhere between a squeal and a mating call that could probably be heard in three neighboring counties.
Mayor Nash looks simultaneously embarrassed and resigned, like a man who’s accepted that his romantic rival is a seventy-year-old crooner in a bedazzled suit and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.
As soon as Johnny launches into “Love Me Like Your Credit Card,” which is apparently a real song that someone wrote with a straight face, I scan the room as my murder-magnet radar begins to ping.
And there he is—Chuck Longnecker, sitting alone at a corner table, checking his watch repeatedly. His professional demeanor seems strained tonight, his usual polish dulled by what looks like genuine distress or an impressive imitation of it.
“I see our favorite event coordinator,” I murmur to Everett. “And he’s looking about as comfortable as a vegan at a brisket barbecue competition.”
Everett follows my gaze, his judge face immediately activating. “You’re not thinking of—”
“Interrogating a grieving fiancé during a Johnny United concert? Absolutely.” I take a sip of my virgin daiquiri that tastes like artificial strawberry and missed opportunities. “Multitasking is my superpower. That and finding corpses, obviously.”
“Lottie—” Noah starts, but I cut him off because I’ve reached the end of my rope.
“Unless you’re about to tell me what you and Dirty Joe were arguing about or why you’ve been as forthcoming as a clam with lockjaw, save it,” I tell him with the patience of an ex-wife who is officially out of patience. “I’m working a case here, and someone needs to be making progress.”
“So am I,” he says, and the frustration is evident in his voice. “If you’d just trust me—”
“Trust is earned with communication, Detective, not cryptic disappearances and secret meetings with suspicious security directors,” I counter with the logic that comes from being married twice and learning a few things about relationship dynamics.
Noah’s eyebrows shoot up. “How did you—”
“I have eyes everywhere,” I say mysteriously, although the truth is I just happened to spot him with Pacy at the bar.
Sometimes the universe drops evidence in my lap like an overeager cat bringing dead mice as gifts, and I’ve learned to pay attention to these cosmic hints no matter how rancid they smell.
Johnny transitions to a ballad that has Carlotta practically levitating with emotion and experiencing some kind of religious awakening, and that’s when I notice Chuck sliding away from his table like a man on a mission, moving toward a quieter area near the bar where the lighting is dimmer—and just my luck, conversations are harder to overhear.
“I’m going in,” I announce as I jump to my feet. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, assume I’ve either cracked the case or been murdered. Either way, order me another virgin daiquiri and possibly call security.”
“Lemon,” Everett says with his tone a perfect blend of exasperation and resignation, “at least try not to accuse him of murder during the chorus. Carlotta may never forgive you.”
“I make no promises about my timing,” I shoot back, already heading toward a potential disaster with the confidence of a baker who’s survived multiple murder investigations and developed an immunity to common sense.