Chapter 18 Lottie
LOTTIE
The evening marches on and the Gilded Songbird Theater vibrates with the collective anticipation of three hundred Elvis enthusiasts, their excitement perfuming the air with a heady blend of overpriced cologne, hairspray strong enough to withstand a category five hurricane, and the unmistakable scent of nachos covered with suspiciously neon orange cheese.
The velvet seats—upholstered in a shade of red that can only be described as bordello chic meets Renaissance festival gone wrong—cradle my exhausted postpartum body with unexpected kindness.
Above us, the elaborate ceiling mural depicts Elvis-faced cherubs strumming golden guitars amid fluffy clouds, like a fever dream after mixing cough medicine with too many Graceland documentaries.
“Did those cherubs have plastic surgery, or were they born with Elvis’s face?” I whisper to Everett, who sits beside me looking as out of place in this rhinestone wonderland as a tax auditor at a children’s birthday party hosted by Liberace.
“I believe it’s a divine miracle,” he replies dryly. “The Immaculate Impersonation. Less biblical, very Vegas.”
I snort out a laugh. Everett has this unexpected talent for deadpan humor that sneaks up on you like a ninja in a judge’s robe.
Our front-row seats—courtesy of Carlotta’s slot machine jackpot and subsequent spending spree—offer an unobstructed view of the stage where soon, a parade of grown men will compete to see who can swivel their hips and curl their lips most convincingly. Vegas entertainment at its finest.
“I can’t believe I’m not knee-deep in diapers right now.” My mother sighs from my other side. “An entire evening without a single bodily fluid emergency. It’s like being released from baby jail on good behavior.”
“Don’t jinx it,” I warn her. “The twins have an uncanny ability to sense when you’re enjoying yourself and immediately require a feeding, a diaper change, or an existential crisis that only breast milk can solve.”
“Wiley has everything under control,” she assures me with the confidence of someone who’s left a pyromaniac in charge of a fireworks factory. “He’s surprisingly good with babies.”
“That’s because he shares their emotional maturity level,” Suze mutters from Mom’s other side, her eyes narrowing like a sniper zeroing in on her target.
Suze has never forgiven Wiley for cheating on her with half the town, much less for now dating my mother.
Actually, I’m not sure if Suze cares at all that Wiley is with my mother.
They do all live in the same B&B together.
“Now, Suze,” Mom begins with a placating tone as if trying to prevent a bar brawl, “we agreed to a truce for the evening.”
Huh. Maybe she does care more than she lets on.
Charlie winks my way. “And you’re still trying to convince me that I missed out on a good time at the spa?”
I shoot her a wry look. She’s got me there.
“I agreed not to stab him with my cocktail fork,” Suze clarifies as she continues. “That doesn’t mean I can’t verbally eviscerate the man from a distance using only my words and superior vocabulary.”
Ah, well, that is Suze’s specialty—verbal surgical strikes with verbal surgical precision.
“Ladies, ladies.” Carlotta leans across three seats, her sequined outfit catching the light like a solar flare with questionable fashion sense.
“Save the family drama for intermission. The real show is about to begin, and I do not mean the one on stage!” She gestures across the theater where Chuck Longnecker and Pacy Morgan appear to be having a heated discussion by the emergency exit.
I follow her gaze, taking in the tense body language between the hotel’s event director and head of security still going strong.
Chuck’s professional veneer has cracked, revealing something raw and angry beneath, while Pacy’s ever-perfect smile has vanished entirely, replaced by a hard line that makes his cosmetically enhanced teeth look more threatening than friendly.
It’s like watching a nature documentary about predators, except with better suits and worse intentions.
“Trouble in paradise?” Everett murmurs, his courtroom demeanor activating as he observes the two men with the analytical precision of a judge who’s spent years watching people lie under oath.
“More like trouble in potential murderer land,” I whisper under my breath because calling a spade a spade is apparently my specialty. “They look about two seconds away from a rhinestone rumble with casualties.”
The house lights dim before I can analyze their interaction further, and the crowd rustles with excitement.
A spotlight hits the stage, illuminating a microphone stand adorned with what appears to be—I squint to make sure I’m seeing correctly—tiny blue suede shoes.
Because apparently, even the microphone stands need to keep with the theme in this place.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” an announcer’s voice booms through the theater with the enthusiasm of a host who’s either genuinely excited or being paid very well to fake it, “the Bellanova Resort and Casino proudly presents... THE KING LIVES ON!”
The crowd erupts into applause. And Carlotta lets out a whoop so enthusiastic I’m surprised it doesn’t trigger the theater’s smoke detectors.
“Save some energy for the actual show,” Keelie suggests. “You’re going to blow out your excitement-o-meter before the first hip swivel, and then what will you have left for the finale?”
“Honey, my excitement-o-meter has unlimited capacity,” Carlotta shoots back. “I’ve been training for this moment since I first saw Elvis on TV and decided men in jumpsuits were God’s gift to women everywhere. It’s that whole easy on and easy off thing happening.”
“I thought Johnny United was God’s gift to women,” Lily reminds her.
“I’m all-inclusive when it comes to entertainment crushes,” Carlotta shoots back with a dismissive wave. “My heart believes in keeping its options open.”
“And your brain has multiple restraining orders against it,” I mutter, earning a playful swat from Carlotta and a smothered laugh from Everett.
The curtain parts to reveal a lineup of Elvis impersonators—excuse me, tribute artists—spanning every era from young rockabilly Elvis to the white jumpsuit Vegas years when rhinestones were apparently considered a food group.
Each one strikes an identical pose, their synchronized hip thrusts causing a ripple effect of sighs throughout the audience that could power a small city.
“Sweet heaven,” my mother whispers, fanning herself with her program as if she’s at a Southern church revival. “Do you think they make them pass a hip certification before they can enter this competition?”
“Absolutely,” Meg answers from behind. “It’s called the Pelvis Exam.”
Suze groans, “That was terrible, even by Vegas standards.”
“I thought it was pretty hip,” Lainey shoots back, sending us all into a collective groan.
As the show progresses, we’re treated to a chronological journey through Elvis’s career, each performer bringing their own interpretation to the King’s signature moves.
Some are surprisingly authentic, while others seem to have learned their hip rotations from watching a washing machine on the spin cycle.
“The one in the gold lamé jacket moves as if someone installed his pelvis backward,” Suze points out.
“Be nice,” my mother chides. “Not everyone can be blessed with natural rhythm.”
“Or unnatural rhythm, in Carlotta’s case,” I add, watching as my birth mother bounces in her seat with enough energy to launch herself into orbit.
“You’re just jealous because I still have all my original parts,” Carlotta retorts. “Having twins has rearranged your rhythm section, Lot Lot.”
“My rhythm section works just fine, thank you very much,” I inform her with as much dignity as one can muster while discussing one’s postpartum pelvic floor function. “It just plays at a different tempo these days. Think jazz instead of rock and roll.”
Everett’s hand finds mine in the dim light, giving it a gentle squeeze that sends warmth spreading up my arm and into regions that haven’t felt particularly warm since the twins made their grand exit. Or since that steam spa.
“Your rhythm section is perfect,” he whispers close to my ear, with his voice low enough that only I can hear it and warm enough to make me forget we’re surrounded by three hundred Elvis enthusiasts.
And just like that, I’m blushing like a teenager instead of a mama of three and a seasoned corpse collector. The man has a true gift.
On stage, a particularly enthusiastic Elvis in a white jumpsuit with more rhinestones than the jewelry district is belting out “Burning Love” with impressive lung capacity and irresponsible levels of hip flexibility.
The women in the front rows have entered a state of collective hysteria that makes me wonder if smelling salts might be needed before the finale, and maybe medical intervention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the white jumpsuit Elvis announces after his final note, “please give a warm Bellanova welcome to our guest judge—the one, the only, JOHNNY UNITED!”
The crowd explodes like we’re witnessing the second coming of Elvis himself as an aging crooner with suspiciously over-dyed black hair and a smile that costs its equivalent in diamonds strolls onto the stage.
Carlotta launches to her feet with a shriek that could shatter crystal and summon supernatural forces at the very same time.
And heaven knows that’s the last thing we need.
“JOHNNY! IT’S ME! YOUR FUTURE WIFE!” Carlotta belts it out like the threat it is.
I shrug over at my mother and Suze. “At least Mayor Nash isn’t here to witness the spectacle,” I point out because someone needs to find the silver lining in this rhinestone-encrusted cloud.
Suze snorts. “Someone should tell him marriage to Carlotta would be like joining a circus—entertaining for the audience but exhausting for the performers.” She and my mother share a quick laugh that suggests they’re bonding over Carlotta’s romantic disasters.
“I heard that!” Carlotta shouts without taking her eyes off Johnny United. “And for your information, my marriages are less circus and more carefully curated disaster tours. Limited engagement only!”
“Limited engagement, unlimited drama,” I quip. “Now that should be your dating profile tagline.”
As Johnny United begins his critique of the Elvis performances, I notice Pacy Morgan has taken up position by the refreshment stand, his eyes scanning the crowd with the vigilance of a security guard who’s calculating the threat level of every sequin in the room.
His perfect teeth gleam under the ambient lighting as he speaks into his wrist microphone, reporting something to unseen security personnel.
My curiosity tingles like a sixth sense—or maybe it’s just my detective-adjacent instincts kicking in. After all, the man had a motive to kill Jolene, access to both crime scenes, and criminally perfect teeth. If that doesn’t spell person of interest, I don’t know what does.
“I think I need some popcorn,” I announce while bolting out of my seat with a determination that definitely doesn’t involve corn in any of its iterations.
Everett gives me a look that says he knows exactly what I’m doing and isn’t fooled for a second.
“Popcorn? Now?” Mom tries to tug me back into the velvet cushion I just escaped. “In the middle of Johnny United judging Elvis number four’s suspicious lip curl?”
“It’s a medical necessity,” I insist. “My blood butter levels are dangerously low. Doctor’s orders.”
“Which doctor would that be?” Suze asks dryly. “Dr. Nosy or Dr. Can’t-Stay-Out-of-Trouble?”
“I have a dual specialty.” I lean down to kiss Everett’s cheek and whisper, “Just going to engage in some casual conversation with our toothy friend over there. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“With your track record? A third body before the finale,” Everett mutters, but he releases my hand with a resigned sigh. “I’m keeping an eye on you.”
Carlotta shoos me off with an impatient wave. “Just try not to get murdered during ‘Blue Suede Shoes.’ I’ve always wanted to hear that one live, and I don’t want any interruptions from inconvenient corpses.”
I squeeze past knees and handbags, navigating toward the refreshment stand with the single-minded determination of a woman on a mission. Or a mother of three who rarely gets a moment of adult conversation that doesn’t involve bodily functions or murder investigations. Sometimes both.
Pacy Morgan notices my approach and his professional smile clicks into place like a switchblade. His teeth are so unnaturally white they almost give off their own light source—useful in a power outage, I imagine, but disconcerting up close. It’s as if he’s morphing from human to cartoon.
“Ms. Lemon,” he greets me with his voice pitched low. “Enjoying the show?”
“It’s very... hip-centric,” I reply, casually positioning myself between Pacy and the exit. “Although I’ve been wondering about something else entirely.”
His perfect smile doesn’t waver. “Oh? And what might that be?”
I lean in hard. “Poor Chuck looked pretty upset earlier. Since he’s coordinating the Flavor Frenzy and you’re in charge of security, I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. You know, for the safety of all us innocent bakers and Elvis enthusiasts.”
He gives a stern look to his left and in the distance, I spot Chuck Longnecker bobbing along to the music in the direction of the stage.
“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know about that man,” Pacy says with the kind of venom that suggests Chuck Longnecker has just moved to the top of someone’s hit list.
And just like that, my investigation is back on track.