Chapter 26 Lottie
LOTTIE
The acrid scent of scorched sugar hits me in the face the moment I yank open the oven door.
A plume of smoke escapes, sending nearby competitors into coughing fits while I stare in horror at what should have been my winning entries.
My cinnamon rolls haven’t just browned. They’ve transformed into carbon-based hockey pucks that could double as defensive weapons in a pinch. The cake hasn’t fared much better with its edges blackened like it spent a week vacationing too close to the sun.
“Well,” I sigh hard, pulling out both trays with oven-mitted hands, “at least I caught a killer today. I guess it would be greedy to expect perfect baking, too.”
The grand ballroom has transformed yet again, this time from a crime scene back to a culinary showplace.
The air smells of nervous sweat, burnt offerings (primarily mine), and the distinctive perfume of competitive tension.
Camera crews dart between stations, capturing dramatic close-ups of final plating while commentators narrate the action in hushed, golf-tournament whispers that suggest they’re witnessing something sacred rather than people arranging food on plates.
I try my best to assess the damage with the clinical detachment of a baker who’s seen dessert disasters before, but truth be told, I want to wail like the twins at midnight—red-faced with lots of tears.
The cinnamon rolls might be salvageable with enough glaze to disguise their cremated state.
The cake’s edges are scorched, but the center has somehow maintained a semblance of moistness—structural integrity is questionable, but with the strategic placement of my marzipan roses, I might just pull off a dessert resurrection miracle.
“Nothing a gallon of glaze can’t fix,” I tell myself in an effort to believe it while reaching for my maple-bourbon mixture.
I pour it liberally over the cinnamon rolls, watching as it pools in the crevices and softens the crispy edges.
It’s like putting makeup on a corpse. It improves the appearance without addressing the fundamental issue of being long gone and best forgotten.
Next, I tackle the cake, carefully trimming the most carbonized sections before applying a thick layer of fondant. My marzipan roses—meticulously crafted during the competition’s early hours—add strategic coverage to the worst areas, like decorative bandages on a baking wound.
From five feet away, you might actually believe they’re supposed to look like this. From two feet, the deception crumbles faster than my dreams of winning so much as an arm-wrestling competition today.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Chuck Longnecker’s replacement—a nervous event coordinator who keeps dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief—announces over the PA system, “we will begin the awards ceremony in ten minutes. Please complete your final preparations.”
While I’m busy arranging my disaster display on the judging plate, I spot Margo across the ballroom.
She’s standing near the exit, one hand protectively on her pregnant belly with tears streaming down her face as Pacy Morgan speaks to her with what looks like hushed tones.
Poor thing. Her expression carries the unmistakable shock of someone whose world has just imploded without warning.
My heart twists despite everything. She didn’t ask for any of this.
She didn’t know her husband was secretly engaged to another woman, and she certainly didn’t know he’d murdered twice to keep his double life hidden.
Now she’s left with a shattered marriage and a baby on the way, all because Chuck couldn’t keep his promises or his Glock in check.
Pacy guides her gently toward the exit, his arm supportive around her shoulders.
The irony doesn’t escape me. The security director who probably knew more about Chuck’s activities than he’s letting on is now comforting the primary victim.
Vegas is nothing if not a city of contradictions wrapped in neon and served with a side of moral ambiguity.
“Five minutes to judging!” the nervous coordinator announces, his voice cracking on the final syllable.
I give my creations one final adjustment, mentally preparing acceptance speeches for both Most Innovative Use of Burnt Ingredients and Best Crime-Fighting While Baking categories, neither of which officially exists but both of which I’ve clearly mastered.
The judges—a collection of celebrity chefs, food critics, and industry professionals who look like they’d rather be anywhere else after a day of tension and an arrest of one of their own—make their way to the central stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, contestants and guests,” the coordinator begins, mopping his brow again, “despite the, uh, unusual circumstances of today’s events, we are proud to continue the tradition of the Vegas Flavor Frenzy and announce our winners!”
The crowd applauds with the manic energy of people who’ve been running on adrenaline and sugar for too many hours.
“First, the Savory Sizzle competition results!”
Charlie, standing at her station across the ballroom, straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin. Her lobster creation had looked spectacular—before I’d gone off chasing murderers, anyway.
“In third place, from Angelini’s in San Francisco, Chef Marco Pirelli!”
Polite applause follows as a bearded man in chef whites makes his way to the stage.
“In second place, representing the Honey Pot Diner in Honey Hollow, Vermont, Chef Charlie Sawyer!”
The cheer that erupts from our family section threatens to shatter glassware—and certainly be heard all the way back in Honey Hollow. Carlotta jumps up and down howling and honking, while Mayor Nash whistles loud enough to be heard on the moon.
Charlie’s face blooms with pride as she accepts her trophy and oversized check, her eyes scanning the crowd until they find mine. She points at me and mouths “you’re next” with unshakable confidence that my burnt offerings wouldn’t seem to warrant.
“And our Savory Sizzle champion,” the coordinator continues, building dramatic tension with a prolonged pause, “Chef Dominique Laurent from Maison in New Orleans!”
More applause, more photos, more ceremonial oversized checks. I clap enthusiastically for Charlie, who looks pleased despite missing the top spot.
“Now, for the Sin City Sugar Showdown!”
My stomach performs an acrobatic routine that would qualify me to join just about any circus troupe.
Not from competitive nerves—those fled the moment I pulled charcoal from the oven—but from the sheer absurdity of standing here after the day’s events, pretending that baking contests still matter after catching a double murderer.
“In third place, from Kappa Pi Sorority at UNLV, Madison Chen and Ainsley Roberts!”
The college students squeal with delight, hugging each other with such force I worry they might fuse into a single entity.
Their strawberry cheesecake cupcakes with champagne buttercream had looked genuinely delicious—and more importantly, not cremated or used as evidence in a criminal investigation.
“In second place, from Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery in Honey Hollow, Vermont, Lottie Lemon!”
Wait, what?
I blink in surprise as another cheer erupts from my personal cheering section with enough volume to register on seismographs.
Carlotta has now climbed onto her chair for better visibility and possibly to claim the high ground, and Suze is doing absolutely nothing to discourage this behavior, which suggests either approval or resignation.
I make my way to the stage in a daze, accepting the trophy and check with the bewilderment of someone who’s been handed someone else’s mail by mistake and isn’t sure whether to correct the error or just go with it.
“And our Sin City Sugar Showdown champion,” the coordinator announces, “from Sugar & Spice & Everything Nice in Tulsa, Oklahoma, Sherry Smoot!”
Sherry’s red curls bounce as she practically skips to the stage, her face lit up with genuine joy that suggests she hasn’t spent the day investigating murders or nearly getting strangled by hotel employees.
Her bourbon-infused cake with intricate piping had been a masterpiece—and more importantly, not prepared while simultaneously apprehending a killer.
As the photographers arrange us for the obligatory winner’s photo, Sherry leans toward me.
“Your cinnamon rolls looked like you baked them on the surface of the sun,” she whispers, “but those marzipan roses were the most beautiful food art I’ve seen in years.
Plus, the judges were informed of your, um, extracurricular activities today.
Apparently, catching murderers earns bonus points in Vegas. ”
“I’ll add that to my baking tip sheet,” I whisper back. “For best results, solve homicides between proofing and baking. Warning: may result in carbonized baked goods.”
Once the ceremony concludes, Charlie and I make our way through the crowd with our second-place trophies clutched proudly in our hands.
“Look at us,” she says, bumping her hip against mine. “The runner-up sisters from Honey Hollow. We’re like a matched set of almost-winners.”
“You’ll always be first place in my book,” I tell her, meaning it. “Your lobster creation looked incredible before I abandoned my station to play detective again.”
“And you’ll always be first in mine,” she shoots back while dotting a kiss on my cheek. “But maybe next time, try solving the murder before the finals? Just as a timing suggestion.”
“Where’s the challenge in that?” I laugh, just as our family descends upon us in a wave of congratulations and chaos that feels like being embraced by a very enthusiastic tornado.
“Second place!” Carlotta announces, throwing her arms around both of us with enough force to qualify as minor assault. “My girls are culinary geniuses! Although, Lot Lot, your cinnamon rolls looked like they were cremated rather than baked. Were you trying a new technique called arson chic?”
“I was busy solving a double homicide,” I remind her while adjusting my trophy, which is surprisingly heavy. “The rolls were collateral damage.”
“What matters is you caught the killer and secured a spot on the podium,” Everett says, wrapping an arm around my waist with the protective gesture that makes me feel like I can handle anything.
Lily shakes her head. “But I am curious how you placed second with baked goods that resembled archaeological artifacts more than they did anything we sell at the bakery.”
“Pity points,” I tell her with a laugh. “Plus, my marzipan roses apparently brought tears to the judges’ eyes—though whether from emotion or smoke inhalation remains to be seen.”
Noah appears with Lyla Nell on his shoulders as her little hands clutch his hair for balance. “Mommy win!” she announces, pointing to my trophy with impressive authority.
“Second place,” I correct her gently.
She shrugs, proving that she’s unimpressed by such distinctions. “Mommy catch bad guy AND win. Best mommy ever!”
“Can’t argue with that logic,” Noah says, his dimples making an appearance for what feels like the first time in days.
Suze examines both our trophies with a critical eye. “At least these will be useful for something. You can use them as doorstops for your offices.”
“Or as weapons next time you stumble across a killer,” Keelie suggests as she fingers the heavy base of Charlie’s trophy. “This could do some serious damage.”
“I’m just glad everyone’s safe,” my mother interjects with the voice of reason that cuts through all the celebration and reminds us what’s important. “And I do expect copies of those oversized checks for my refrigerator.”
“The only thing that matters,” Mayor Nash declares, puffing out his chest, “is that Honey Hollow was represented with distinction on the national stage! This calls for a civic celebration when we return home. I’m thinking parade, commemorative t-shirts, possibly a small statue—”
“Of what?” Carlotta laughs. “Lot Lot burning her baked goods while tackling criminals?”
“That sounds about right,” Lily chimes in. “It would capture the Honey Hollow spirit perfectly—or at least Lottie’s.”
My family continues to banter around me like a loving, loud, slightly dysfunctional support group, and I can’t help but smile with the satisfaction of someone who’s discovered that life doesn’t have to be perfect to be pretty wonderful.
As far as victories go—second place in a national baking competition, another killer behind bars, and everyone I love safe and sound—well, it doesn’t get much sweeter than that.
Even if my cinnamon rolls did taste like asphalt.