Chapter 20 Lottie
LOTTIE
It’s less than an hour after the show ended and Everett and I have decided to succumb to the desire to eat our weight in French fries while we still had access to free babysitting services. Not only that, but we threatened Noah within an inch of his life if he didn’t show up to meet us.
The Goldmine Grill at the Bellanova sits in that sweet spot between fancy restaurant and casual eatery—upscale enough to charge seventeen dollars for a hamburger but relaxed enough that no one raises an eyebrow when you dunk your fries into three different sauces simultaneously.
The lighting hovers at that magical level between romantic ambiance and actually being able to read the menu without a flashlight, and the leather booths are just worn enough to suggest thousands of satisfied behinds have enjoyed meals here before us.
The crowd tonight consists of exhausted gamblers refueling between losses, honeymooners who can’t stop holding hands across the table, and at least six Elvis impersonators still in full costume, apparently experiencing a collective case of jumpsuit commitment.
One Comeback Special Elvis clad in leather chomps enthusiastically on buffalo wings with his carefully coiffed pompadour tilting dangerously with each bite. An Elvis in a white jumpsuit scrolls through his phone at the bar, his rhinestones catching the light like a mobile fireworks display.
The air smells of sizzling steaks, fresh baked bread, and just a hint of financial regret—the universal perfume of Vegas after dark. A soft jazz version of “Viva Las Vegas” plays through hidden speakers, setting a backdrop for a hundred conversations competing for airspace.
Noah finally slouches into our booth, looking exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep deprivation and everything to do with moral fatigue. His green eyes flick between Everett and me with the wariness of a man awaiting simultaneous verdicts from two different judges.
“You ordered without me?” he asks, eyeing my loaded nachos, Everett’s perfectly medium rare steak, and his own untouched burger—which I ordered because I know his preferences better than I know my own social security number.
“We took the liberty,” Everett says, cutting a piece of steak with surgical precision. “Considering your tendency to disappear lately, we couldn’t be sure you’d actually stay long enough to eat.”
“Nice of you to pencil us into your busy schedule of avoiding questions and looking suspicious,” I add, scooping up a nacho loaded with enough toppings to classify as its own food group.
Noah sighs with the weight of a man carrying secrets that could sink ships. “I deserved that.”
“That and a side of straight answers,” I counter, “which coincidentally is what we’re ordering for dessert, and unlike everything else in this place, it better not cost extra.”
“You want answers?” Noah looks between us again. “Fine. Ask away.”
Poor guy looks as if he’s about to jump off a cliff and hopes there’s water below instead of jagged rocks.
Everett and I exchange a glance as our marital telepathy kicks in. He gives me a slight nod, granting me the first shot at the interrogation. We’ve perfected this good cop, bad judge routine over the years—especially in the bedroom.
“Dirty Joe Tuggle was a bookie,” I say, watching Noah’s face like a hawk eyeing a particularly suspicious field mouse.
His chewing slows, then stops completely. He sets down his burger with the careful precision of a man trying not to wake a baby.
“Where did you hear that?” he asks, voice deliberately casual in a way that screams not casual at all.
“From our toothy friend Pacy Morgan,” I reply. “He was quite chatty about Dirty Joe’s professional activities. Almost as if he wanted to make sure I knew.”
Noah’s expression darkens. “Pacy needs to learn to mind his own business.”
“Unlike you, who’s been minding your business so thoroughly it’s practically under twenty-four-hour surveillance,” Everett points out with the dry delivery that makes him so effective in the courtroom.
“It’s complicated,” Noah begins, then stops as both Everett and I groan in perfect unison like a married chorus of frustration.
“If you say it’s complicated one more time, I’m dumping these nachos in your lap,” I warn him. “And they’re extra spicy.”
Noah runs a hand through his hair—always a sign of severe distress. “Fine. Yes, Dirty Joe was a bookie. And yes, he was my bookie. But not in the way you’re thinking.”
“So you weren’t gambling?” Everett asks, his voice tight as steel.
“I was, but—” Noah holds up a hand to stop our reactions. “I won. Big. I had winnings that totaled up to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
I nearly choke on my nacho. “A quarter million dollars? As in, enough money to buy a house or send three children to college?”
He nods. “But Dirty Joe, in keeping with his theme of being dirty, never paid up,” Noah continues, his voice raw with old anger. “That’s why I was arguing with him. I knew I’d never see the money, but since I was in town, I thought I’d give him a piece of my mind.”
“Not a piece of your service weapon?” Everett asks, arching an eyebrow. “I hear bullets make more effective arguments than words.”
“Very funny,” Noah mutters, then squints at our expressions. “Wait, you don’t actually think I—”
“Killed him? The thought may have crossed our minds.” I wrinkle my nose as I say it. “You have to admit, it looks suspicious. You argue with a man over a huge sum of money, and hours later he’s found with a bullet-sized hole where his life used to be.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Noah insists and his green eyes flash with genuine offense. “I was frustrated, not homicidal. Besides, if I killed everyone who owed me money, half of Honey Hollow would be wearing toe tags.”
“Fair point,” I concede. “The interest on Carlotta’s borrowing alone would justify multiple homicides.”
Noah takes a large bite of his burger, clearly buying time to recompose himself.
The three of us eat in silence for a moment, the background noise of the restaurant filling the gap in our conversation.
A jumpsuited Elvis at the next table belts out a spontaneous “Thankyouverramuch” to his waitress, causing several nearby diners to applaud.
“So now that we’ve established you merely threatened a man who later turned up dead rather than actually killing him—gold star for restraint, by the way—maybe you can put your detective hat back on,” I suggest, pushing my nachos to the center of the table as a peace offering.
“How’s your investigation going, Detective Fox? ”
Noah’s lips twitch just shy of a smile. “I was about to ask you the same thing. Any breakthroughs in the case?”
I blow out a hard breath. “I’m stumped. No idea if the two murders are even related.”
Noah tilts his head, dimples making a tentative reappearance. “According to ballistics, they are. The same gun killed both victims. And get this—the bullet that hit Jolene had a partial print on it. They’re running it now.”
“Wow,” I say, genuinely surprised. “I hope they find the killer and fast.”
“What about your suspects, Detective Lemon?” Everett asks, his steak now half gone with the same methodical attention he applies to legal briefs.
“Sherry Smoot, the redhead with a fiery personality to match, threatened Jolene over recipe theft, but seems more the destroy-your-reputation type than the destroy-your-ability-to-breathe type.”
“Next?” Noah asks, and don’t think for a minute I’m not aware that he’s diverting from himself.
“Chuck Longnecker.” I tick them off on my fingers, leaving nacho cheese prints on my thumb.
“Our event coordinator extraordinaire who was engaged to Jolene. Very organized, access to both crime scenes, suspiciously efficient at directing attention away from himself—as are most of my suspects.” I nod to Noah and he sighs.
“Anyone else?” he asks.
“Pacy Morgan,” I finish with my middle finger, which feels symbolically appropriate.
“Security director with teeth so white they probably have their own Insta Pictures account, dated Jolene until an incident involving a couple of showgirls—simultaneously—and has the technical knowledge to tamper with security footage. Plus, access to weaponry and both crime scenes.”
“Don’t forget Ray-Ray,” Noah adds, reaching for a nacho. “But I guess he’s more of a helper and less of a suspect.”
“Ah yes, our friendly neighborhood Elvis impersonator from the other side.” I nod.
“I’ve been thinking of bringing him home with us.
He could hang out at the bakery and eat all the desserts he wants without worrying about his triglyceride levels.
Plus, his spontaneous musical numbers would really enhance the customer experience.
Nothing says buy another cinnamon roll like a spooky rendition of ‘Burning Love.’”
“The health department might have opinions about ghostly health code violations,” Everett points out.
“Only if they can see him,” I counter. “And based on how most health inspectors deliberately avoid looking too closely at anything, I think we’re safe.”
Noah’s phone chimes with an incoming text. He glances at it, then immediately straightens as all humor vanishes from his face.
“I’ve got to go,” he says, sliding out of the booth. “That’s a lead I need to follow up on.”
“Now?” I ask, not bothering to hide my frustration. “We’re in the middle of a late dinner and a murder investigation.”
“It can’t wait,” he insists, then does something that stops all conversation at our table. He leans down and kisses me goodbye, right on the lips, as casually as if we were still married.
Everett growls. It’s a low, almost imperceptible sound, but I feel it reverberate through the booth where our legs touch.
“See you back at the hotel,” Noah says, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the seismic event he’s just triggered, then disappears through the restaurant doors faster than an Elvis impersonator’s white jumpsuit on laundry day.
I turn to Everett, whose blue eyes have taken on the arctic quality they get when he’s suppressing something powerful.
“So,” I say, pushing the remainder of the nachos toward him as a peace offering and proof that I’m on his side, “now we know what happened between those two. Do you think that’s all there is to the story?”
“Not for a minute,” he replies with his voice controlled but with an edge that could slice through titanium.
“Me either,” I say, watching as White Jumpsuit Elvis at the bar receives his burger, which comes with a side of fried peanut butter and banana sandwich.
The partial truth is often more dangerous than a complete lie.
It satisfies just enough curiosity to discourage further questions while leaving the most important parts hidden.
And Noah Fox, despite his many excellent qualities, has all the transparency of a brick wall when he wants to keep a secret.
I think about this as I watch Leather Clad Elvis accidentally dip his pompadour into his blue cheese dressing. What would make Noah, a decorated detective with an almost pathological commitment to justice, act so secretively?
“Whatever it is,” I say finally, “it has to involve someone he’s protecting.”
“You?” Everett suggests even though I can tell he doesn’t believe it.
I shake my head. “Noah knows I can handle myself. No, this is someone more vulnerable.”
We both come to the realization at the same moment.
“Lyla Nell,” we say in unison.
The pieces start falling into place. Noah isn’t protecting himself; he’s protecting our daughter. The only question is—from what? Or from whom?
A waitress stops by our table, her Vegas-mandatory smile firmly in place. “Any dessert for you folks tonight?”
“Just the check,” Everett replies. “We have a mystery to solve.”
“And a child to protect,” I add under my breath as the waitress walks away.
Whatever Noah is hiding, whatever danger lurks in the glittering shadows of the Bellanova, one thing is certain—nobody threatens my family and gets away with it. Not in Honey Hollow, and certainly not in Vegas.
Not even if they’re hiding behind a rhinestone jumpsuit and a suspicious mind.