Chapter 14 Lottie
LOTTIE
You’d think after discovering two bodies in one day, witnessing my biological mother attempt a Vegas showgirl routine on a dining table, and surviving on approximately eleven minutes of sleep, I’d be ready to call it a night.
But here I am, chasing after Carlotta through the Bellanova Casino at midnight while she clutches Johnny United’s bow tie as if it’s the Hope Diamond.
“It’s a souvenir!” she shrieks as we weave through the blipping and beeping slot machines. “He threw it to me! It was a sign of our cosmic connection!”
“He didn’t throw it to you,” I pant, regretting every dessert I’ve ever stress-eaten. “You ripped it off his neck when you climbed onstage and security had to pry you away!”
The casino floor stretches before us in an endless sea of blinking lights and carpet patterns designed specifically to hide various bodily fluids.
Elderly women with oxygen tanks and cigarettes perform the slot machine dance—lever pull, button push, disappointed sigh, repeat— like participants in some kind of geriatric ritual that’s been passed down through generations of gamblers who should probably know better by now.
“Details!” Carlotta waves dismissively, her sequined dress sending glittering light across the ceiling. “Johnny and I had a moment. He felt it, too. I could see it in his eyes!”
“The only thing he felt was your acrylic nails digging into his carotid artery and threatening his ability to hit high notes,” I mutter, finally catching up to her near the craps table where people are throwing dice and money with equal abandon.
“Mayor Nash is mortified beyond repair. Everett had to talk security out of pressing charges for assault on an entertainer. Again. This is becoming a disturbing pattern.”
Carlotta stops so abruptly that I nearly crash into her. “Where is Harry, anyway? And why do you look like someone put salt in your sugar canister?”
I glance around to make sure we’re not being overheard. “Chuck Longnecker just pointed me toward two different suspects—Pacy and Sherry.”
“And? Isn’t that helpful for your little murder investigation hobby?” Carlotta adjusts her cleavage, which seems to have migrated during her escape from security.
“Too helpful. When someone points at everyone else that enthusiastically, it usually means they’re hiding something.”
“Like a body?” Carlotta asks with disturbing enthusiasm.
“Two bodies, in this case.”
Ray-Ray materializes beside us, his ghostly jumpsuit now featuring even more rhinestones, if that’s possible. “Sugar cube, that smooth talker is hiding more than just bodies. He’s juggling secrets like a circus performer with too many chainsaws!”
I resist the urge to respond to him directly, instead muttering to Carlotta. “I need to find Noah. He disappeared again, and I’m getting really tired of playing detective husband hide-and-seek when there are actual murders to solve.”
“Ooh! I love that game,” Carlotta chirps. “It’s like regular hide-and-seek but with more emotional baggage and the loser gets alimony!”
I think about it for a minute and my mind goes to all sorts of demented places that I’m positive Everett would not approve of. I blame the lack of sleep.
Before I can form a suitably withering response, my phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Everett. Noah is headed toward the hotel backup kitchen. Said something about evidence. Mayor Nash is headed to a high-stakes poker room. Should I follow Noah or the Mayor?
I sigh. “Choices, choices.”
Ray-Ray hovers over my shoulder, reading the text. “Follow the fox, honey bun! That detective is onto something. I can feel it in my nonexistent bones!”
I text back: Follow Noah. I’m headed there, too. Carlotta is with me.
Carlotta peeks at my phone with the casual invasion of privacy that’s her specialty. “Why are we going to the kitchen? Is there cake? Please tell me there’s cake hiding somewhere. Stealing celebrity accessories always gives me an appetite for dessert and possibly more criminal behavior.”
“It’s not a bow tie heist. It’s assault and battery,” I correct her, already steering us toward the service elevators. “And no, there’s probably no cake. Noah has found something important, and I want to know what it is before he gets himself arrested or worse.”
“Maybe it’s a secret cake recipe,” Carlotta says hopefully because her brain operates on a completely different frequency from reality. “Criminals always have the best desserts. It’s because they have no moral compass weighing down their baking creativity. Everyone knows evil flour rises better.”
The service elevator smells faintly of cleaning supplies and broken dreams. As we descend to the kitchen level, Ray-Ray floats through the ceiling and back down again, his ghostly form flickering with excitement.
“I scouted ahead,” he announces. “Your detective is down there alright, but he ain’t alone. There’s a whole lotta shakin’ going on, and not the good kind!”
“That’s specific and helpful,” I mutter as the elevator doors open to reveal a dimly lit corridor that looks like the setting for every horror movie that ends badly for the people who investigate strange noises.
The Bellanova’s backup kitchen sprawls before us, a gleaming monument to industrial-scale food preparation that could probably feed a small army or at least a very large wedding reception.
Stainless steel surfaces reflect the minimal emergency lighting, creating an eerie atmosphere that screams perfect murder location louder than my twins scream during their three a.m. rock star performances.
The space feels unnervingly still—no line cooks cursing creatively, no servers rushing around with barely controlled panic, just the low hum of massive refrigerators and the occasional drip from a sink.
The main kitchen, which isn’t all that far from here, is still hustling and bustling no matter what the hour.
Room service and midnight buffets are a very real thing in Vegas.
“Where is everyone?” Carlotta whispers, for once showing appropriate volume control.
“It’s nearly one a.m.,” I remind her. “Even Vegas kitchens eventually close—or at least the backup ones.”
“Not the ones in my experience,” she says with a wink. “I once spent a very educational night with a sous chef who showed me exactly how to properly handle a—”
“If the next word out of your mouth is anything but spatula, I’m walking away,” I warn her.
Ray-Ray zips ahead, then back, his transparent face pinched with concern. “Your man is in the back storage area, sugar. And he’s got company—the chomper with the magazine-white teeth and the personality of a used car salesman!”
“Pacy?” I whisper, moving cautiously through the kitchen, trying not to bump into the hanging pots and pans that would announce our arrival like the world’s most inconvenient alarm system.
“That’s the one,” Ray-Ray confirms. “And he’s looking as nervous as a turkey in November.”
We edge closer to the storage area, where a sliver of light escapes from beneath a door like evidence trying to reveal itself.
Voices drift out—Noah’s familiar tones mixed with another man’s more polished cadence.
I motion for Carlotta to stay quiet (a Herculean task under normal circumstances) and press my ear against the door.
“It doesn’t add up,” Noah is saying. “The timestamps on these security logs show you weren’t where you claimed to be when Jolene was killed.”
“And I’m telling you it’s a technical error,” comes Pacy’s smooth reply. “Systems glitch all the time.”
“All the cameras on that floor glitched simultaneously? For exactly seventeen minutes? During which time someone shot Jolene Nelson?”
There’s a pause, then Pacy’s voice again, lower and more threatening. “Look, Detective, you’re in no position to be making accusations. Not with your own situation.”
“Is that a threat?” Noah’s voice has that dangerous edge I know all too well.
“Consider it friendly advice. You’ve got your own secrets to protect.”
I’ve heard enough. I push the door open, causing both men to whirl toward me with matching expressions of alarm. Noah stands by a metal desk, holding what appears to be a stack of security printouts. Pacy leans against a shelf of dry goods, his too-perfect smile nowhere to be seen.
“Lottie?” Noah recovers first. “What are you doing here?”
“Following my suspiciously secretive ex-husband,” I say cheerfully. “It’s a hobby I’ve recently picked up, along with sleep deprivation, unexpected confrontations with murder suspects, and stress-eating everything in sight.”
Okay, so that last one is nothing new.
Carlotta pops her head in behind me like a jack-in-the-box with questionable timing.
“Hello, boys! Don’t mind us—just two ladies out for a late-night kitchen tour that definitely isn’t suspicious.
Say, do you know where they keep the cheesecake?
I have a sudden craving for dairy products and petty theft. ”
Pacy straightens before frowning at the two of us. “I’m sorry, ladies, but this is a restricted area.”
“So is the stage during a Johnny United performance,” I counter. “But that didn’t stop Carlotta from attempting an impromptu duet.”
“I was providing backup vocals,” Carlotta defends herself. “Johnny needed the support.”
Pacy takes a moment to examine the three of us. “I’ll be stepping out to make a call,” he says. “I’ll give you all a few minutes to follow suit.” He takes off and I shake my head at Noah.
Before Noah can launch into what’s sure to be a master class in creative evasion, the door swings open again. Everett strides in, looking every bit like a lean, mean, far too sexy judge who’s just caught someone in contempt of court. Hopefully, that someone is me. And I am ready for my sentencing.
“Fancy meeting everyone here,” he says dryly, his gaze sweeping from Noah to me to Carlotta, who’s already rummaging through a nearby refrigerator. “I see our midnight kitchen excursion has turned into a group activity.”
“Everett!” I exclaim. “Perfect timing. Noah was just about to explain what he was doing with security logs and why Pacy Morgan practically sprinted out of here like his glowing teeth were on fire.”
Noah carefully sets down the stack of papers, tucking them into his jacket.
“Everything is under control,” he says with a confidence that would be reassuring if I hadn’t heard variations of it right before disasters struck in the past. “I’ve got a few leads I’m following up on.”
“Leads that involve secret kitchen meetings?” I press.
Noah’s dimples make a brief appearance as he grins. “What can I say? I work better with a little mystery.”
“Oh, look! Cheesecake!” Carlotta’s voice echoes from inside the walk-in fridge, followed by the distinctive sound of plastic wrap being enthusiastically removed and destroyed. “And it’s the good stuff, Lot—New York style with what appears to be a chocolate drizzle!”
Noah checks his watch. “You know what? We should get out of here. Alex, Bear, Forest, and Hook are killing it at the blackjack tables. Let’s show them who’s boss.”
“Gambling? Now?” I ask incredulously. “With everything that’s happening?”
“Why not? It’s the best cover for continuing our investigation,” Noah says with a wink that does inconvenient things to my heart rate. “Plus, I hear the dealers at table seven are particularly informative.”
Carlotta emerges from the refrigerator, her mouth full of what is clearly stolen cheesecake. “Mmm-mmph-mmmhi!” she contributes helpfully.
“Use your words, Carlotta.” I sigh.
She swallows dramatically. “I said, where are the women at?”
Noah shrugs. “Probably still at that spa thing Lainey was talking about.”
Carlotta’s eyes light up with mischievous glee. “Well, Lot, I guess we’ve got to hunt them down. Another mystery to solve!”
“Because we don’t have enough of those already,” I mutter.
Before Carlotta can formulate a rescue plan that would undoubtedly involve more property damage and potential arrests, the kitchen lights suddenly flip to full brightness, momentarily blinding us. A voice booms from the entrance.
“Security sweep! Who’s in here?”
“Time to go,” Noah says urgently, heading toward the back exit. “Blackjack tables in fifteen?”
“Make it thirty,” I call after him. “Some of us need to return stolen dairy products.”
As Carlotta hastily stuffs the remainder of the cheesecake into her mouth, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk preparing for nuclear winter, I catch Ray-Ray’s ghostly self shaking his head.
“Sugar cube,” he says with a wisdom only the afterlife can provide, “that detective of yours is hiding more secrets than my rhinestone closet—and that’s saying something!”
Something tells me the real gambling tonight has nothing to do with cards and everything to do with whatever Noah Fox is playing close to his chest.