Chapter 13
LOTTIE
Iweave through the tables right here in the Star Dust Lounge, my sparkly dress catching the light like a beacon announcing Amateur Detective Approaching.
The air thickens with perfume, aftershave, and the distinctive scent of desperation that permeates every Vegas venue—a mixture of spilled drinks, lost fortunes, and the faint hope of hitting it big.
Just as I near Chuck’s trajectory, the air around me shimmers with now-familiar pink and blue stars, materializing into the spectral form of Ray-Ray Tupowski, Elvis impersonator extraordinaire and father of the dearly departed Jolene.
“Well, hello there, sugar plum!” Ray-Ray materializes fully, his white jumpsuit so bedazzled it practically radiates otherworldly light and definitely violates several laws of good taste. “You looking to shake down that slick-talking event fella like a martini at happy hour?”
“That’s the plan,” I murmur, trying to look like I’m not conversing with thin air. “Any ghostly insights before I go in? Preferably something more helpful than song lyrics about suspicious minds.”
Ray-Ray floats ahead, his transparent form passing through a waiter carrying a tray of martinis with the casual disregard for physics that comes with being dead.
The waiter shivers inexplicably, nearly dropping his precious cargo and most likely wondering if the air conditioning system is malfunctioning.
“He’s waiting for someone, honeybun,” Ray-Ray reports, returning to my side. “Looking jumpier than a frog on a hot plate, too. Something’s cooking in that greased-back head of his, and it ain’t fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches.”
“Thank you for that culinary comparison,” I say, watching as Chuck checks his phone, frowning at whatever he sees. “Any idea who he’s waiting for? An ex-wife? Loan shark? Health inspector?”
“Can’t say for certain, but—” Ray-Ray starts, then breaks into the opening lines of “Suspicious Minds” instead of finishing his sentence. Knew it. It’s like conversing with a haunted jukebox that randomly changes tracks mid-conversation.
I approach the bar, positioning myself a few seats away from Chuck with the stealth of a baker who’s learned to blend into backgrounds while investigating murder.
He doesn’t notice me at first, giving me a precious moment to study him like a specimen under a microscope.
Up close, the strain is more evident. His usual meticulous appearance is slightly rumpled as if he got dressed in the dark, and he has dark circles under his eyes partially hidden by what I suspect is concealer.
So odd. The professional smile he wears like armor has slipped, revealing something raw and perhaps desperate underneath.
“Rough night?” I ask, sliding onto the stool next to him.
Chuck startles like he’s just been caught doing something illegal, his hand jerking so suddenly he nearly knocks over his whiskey. A trace of recognition ignites in his eyes, followed quickly by wariness.
“Lottie,” he says, recovering his composure with the speed of a detective accustomed to crisis management. “What an unexpected pleasure. Are you enjoying Johnny’s performance?”
“The show is great, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to give my condolences personally,” I say with the sincerity of someone who’s genuinely sorry but also needs information. “I’m so sorry about your fiancée. It must be devastating to lose someone you were planning to marry.”
His jaw tightens as I say it. “Jolene was a jewel through and through.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment as if he’s trying to block out painful memories.
“But work helps with the grief, you know? I figure I’ll get through this week, then I’ll take a few days for myself to properly fall apart.
Right now, staying busy is saving what’s left of my sanity. ”
“That must be incredibly difficult,” I say as the music ratchets up in the room and Johnny United hits a high note that my twins would be envious of and will definitely try to replicate at three a.m. “Having to maintain professional composure while grieving someone you loved. Most people get bereavement leave for exactly this reason.”
“It’s more difficult than you can imagine,” he replies as genuine pain flashes across his face like lightning illuminating a storm cloud.
“Jolene was so very special to me. I’m going to love her forever, you know?
Love doesn’t die just because someone does.
Death may have taken Jolene, but it will never take the love I felt for her. She was special indeed, one of a kind.”
My heart wrenches just hearing the raw emotion in his voice, because grief is universal even when the grieving person might be a suspect.
Ray-Ray floats behind Chuck, making exaggerated gagging motions. “Special like a rattlesnake in a baby crib. My little girl had her moments, but she was sharper than a tack and twice as pointy.”
I suppress a smile at Ray-Ray’s honest commentary about his own daughter. “I hear she was quite the recipe developer. Very creative in how she sourced her material and developed her signature dishes.”
Chuck takes a careful sip of his whiskey. “Jolene was innovative, yes. She had a gift for elevating simple concepts and elevating them to something extraordinary.”
I cringe because I can feel the words bubbling up my throat without my permission.
“There are some rumors circulating that Jolene borrowed more than a few of those not-so-simple concepts from other bakers.” I try to say it gently, but borrowed is just a nice word for plagiarism, and we both know it.
His eyes narrow slightly. “The culinary world is full of inspiration and homage. Lines can blur when it comes to creativity and influence.”
“Lines can blur,” I repeat thoughtfully, letting the words hang in the air like smoke.
Like the line between inspiration and theft? Or maybe even the line between loving someone and killing them? But I don’t dare say those things out loud, because I’m rather fond of breathing and he might have access to sharp kitchen utensils.
Johnny United’s voice soars in the background, something about slot machines and heartbreak that sounds like it was written by someone who understands both intimately.
Carlotta’s distinctive whoop carries across the room like a mating call, followed by what sounds like Mayor Nash trying desperately to keep her seated and possibly prevent an incident that involves the police.
Chuck sets his glass down with deliberate care. “Look, Lottie, I’m not sure what you’re implying. I can assure you my Jolene was as pure as the driven snow. She wouldn’t steal a recipe from anyone, let alone claim someone else’s work as her own.”
“I’m not implying anything,” I say with a smile that’s all sugar and razor blades. “I’m just here to express my condolences. Chuck, I think you might be one of the last people to see Jolene alive. Do you have any idea who she was planning to meet or confront that night?”
Chuck’s eyes drift toward his glass before swirling the amber liquid with precision. “There were several people Jolene wanted to confront that night.” His voice drops to just above a whisper. “She wasn’t exactly in the business of making friends.”
“Oh?” I lean closer, noting the scent of his expensive cologne is currently mingling with the distinct smell of anxiety. “Anyone in particular come to mind?”
He hesitates, glancing over his shoulder as if checking who might be listening. “You didn’t hear this from me, but she was absolutely furious with Pacy Morgan that day.”
“The security director? The one with the teeth that could outshine the Vegas Strip?”
Chuck nods, his expression darkening. “They had history—the romantic kind that ends badly and leaves everyone traumatized. He couldn’t accept that it was over and kept trying to win her back.
” He takes another sip of whiskey, wincing slightly like the memory tastes bitter.
“I actually caught him going through her room the morning before... before it happened. He claimed he was doing a routine security check, but Jolene was livid about the invasion of privacy.”
Ray-Ray floats between us, his transparent face contorted with indignation. “Half-truth at best, sugar cube! Pacy was sniffing around her stuff alright, but my Jolene gave him plenty of reasons to be suspicious.”
I try not to react to Ray-Ray’s commentary. “That’s quite a coincidence,” I observe. “Security director with access to all areas of the hotel, a former boyfriend with a grudge, and possibly a key to her room...”
“It’s not my place to point fingers,” Chuck says with what looks to be staged humility. “But if I were investigating, I’d be very interested in where Pacy was during those critical minutes when someone was pumping a bullet into my fiancée’s chest.”
“Was there anyone else she was planning to confront?” I press, noting how easily he shifted focus to Pacy. “Because it sounds like she had quite the social calendar that evening.”
Chuck leans even closer, lowering his voice. “Between us? Sherry Smoot isn’t exactly the organic, home-grown angel her brand suggests.”
“The redhead with the recipe theft grudge?” Not to mention the champion pin that could blind aircraft.
“There’s much more to it than recipe theft.” His tone takes on a confidential quality. “Jolene discovered that Sherry’s been using artificial ingredients in everything while marketing her bakery as all-natural and organic. It would destroy her reputation if word got out.”
“And Jolene was planning to expose this?”
“Let’s just say Jolene believed in accountability.” Chuck’s smile is tight as if he regretted it. “She was meeting with Sherry that night to discuss a potential arrangement that would benefit everyone involved.”
Ray-Ray snorts so loudly I’m surprised Chuck doesn’t hear it.
“Arrangement is one word for it! Blackmail’s another, and probably more accurate!
My baby girl had a file on half the bakers in that competition thicker than a phone book.
Turns out, cooking isn’t the only dirt they’re good at digging up on each other. ”
I manage to keep my expression neutral despite Ray-Ray’s running commentary that’s more informative than most news broadcasts.
“That would certainly give Sherry motive beyond professional jealousy and wounded pride.”
“Like I said—” Chuck finishes his whiskey in one swift motion as if he’s taking medicine.
“I’m not pointing fingers. I just want justice for Jolene and whoever’s responsible brought to account.
” His voice cracks with what appears to be genuine emotion.
“She deserved better than a bullet to the chest while pursuing her passion.”
The band launches into a more upbeat number, causing a ripple of excitement through the crowd that’s been sitting politely through ballads about emotional slot machines.
Behind us, I hear Carlotta’s distinctive shriek followed by what sounds like someone climbing onto furniture and possibly attempting aerial maneuvers.
“I think your party might need supervision,” Chuck says, nodding toward the commotion. “Sounds like someone is about to become a liability issue.”
I make a face her way. Someone has been a liability issue since the day we met.
Carlotta attempts to climb onto the table in front of her with one sequined leg already raised, while Mayor Nash and Everett try desperately to talk her down. And oddly enough, Noah is nowhere to be seen—again, which is becoming a disturbing pattern.
“Maybe we can continue this conversation some other time,” I tell Chuck as I slide off my barstool.
“Sounds good to me,” he says, raising his drink my way. “I want to find who did this to my Jolene more than anyone. I’d do anything to make that happen.”
As I turn to deal with Hurricane Carlotta and whatever destruction she’s about to unleash on this upscale establishment, Ray-Ray zooms directly into my path, his ghostly form buzzing with urgency and glowing an electric shade of blue that hurts my eyes to look at directly.
“Sugar cube, that man’s slicker than a greased pig at a county fair!
” He starts to break into song mid-sentence, belting out the opening lines of “Suspicious Minds” once again before regaining control of his vocal cords.
“Don’t you trust a single word coming out of his mouth!
He’s hiding something bigger than all of Graceland, and twice as dangerous! ”
I give Ray-Ray a subtle nod as I hurry back toward our table, where Carlotta appears seconds away from performing an impromptu pole dance using a nearby structural column that most likely isn’t designed to support her enthusiasm.
Chuck’s smooth deflection to Pacy and Sherry was almost too perfect and perhaps too rehearsed. And if there’s one thing my years of stumbling over bodies has taught me, it’s that when someone points you in two different directions, the real answer is usually right in front of you.
The question is—what is Chuck Longnecker hiding behind his grief-stricken facade, and how far would he go to keep it buried?