Sneak Peek!
Murder & Marzipan in Las Vegas
Book Description:
This time, Las Vegas has me seeing stars—and not just on the Strip. When the prestigious Flavor Frenzy cooking competition invites me to compete in the Sin City Sugar Showdown, I’m packing up my whisks, my twins, and my two-year-old for the sweetest opportunity of my career. With the chance to be crowned America’s Premier Baker and score a national distribution deal for my signature treats, and the publication of my cookbook how could I say no?
Of course, when half of Honey Hollow decides to tag along—including Everett, Noah, and unfortunately Carlotta—what should be a professional trip quickly turns into a glittering family vacation under the neon lights.
But when an Elvis impersonator takes his final bow face-down in one my award-winning treats, I realize a killer just upped the ante. With my spatula in one hand and my sleuthing skills in the other, I’ll need to figure out who’s dealing from the bottom of the deck before I become the next victim cashing in their chips.
Visiting in Vegas could be just as deadly as living in Honey Hollow.
Includes RECIPE!
Chapter 1
Lottie
My name is Lottie Lemon, and I see dead people. Okay, so rarely do I see dead people. Mostly I see furry creatures of the dearly departed variety who have come back from the other side to warn me of their previous owner’s impending doom. But the only thing I’m seeing now is the glittering expanse of Las Vegas through our shuttle window, a neon wonderland that makes Honey Hollow’s Christmas light competition look like a single birthday candle. It’s early evening but the glittering lights have already taken over the landscape and perhaps our good senses.
The air in the shuttle is thick with anticipation, baby powder, and the faint scent of the airplane pretzels Carlotta smuggled into her purse for snacking emergencies. And she’s currently crunching on her fourth emergency as we cruise down the Strip because apparently arriving in Vegas without contraband carbohydrates is some kind of mortal sin.
Carlotta and Mayor Nash traveled along with Everett, me, and the kids as we made the flight from Vermont to Nevada and let’s just say traveling with three kids under the age of two is a heck of a lot easier than dealing with Carlotta and the Mayor.
We pass the Mirage with its volcano that erupts on schedule—because nothing says authentic natural wonder like pyrotechnics that punch a time clock. The Luxor pyramid rises ahead with its light beam so bright it probably confuses migrating aliens. And Caesar’s Palace sprawls across an entire city block, as if the Roman Empire had been designed by someone with serious impulse control issues and an unlimited credit line.
“Would you look at that?” I point to a massive gold-encrusted fountain at the Bellagio that shoots water twenty feet into the air. “Who needs nature when you can build it yourself and slap some gold leaf on it? It’s like Mother Earth, but with better financing.”
The Bellanova Casino & Spa Resort comes into view with its gleaming towers reaching skyward like the architectural equivalent of someone trying way too hard to compensate for something. I shift slightly in my seat, careful not to disturb the precious cargo on either side of me—my one-month-old twins, Ozzy and Corbin, who miraculously decided that this thirty-minute shuttle ride was the perfect time for their first synchronized nap.
I quickly check their breathing and their toenails—one painted blue, one green—my makeshift identification system for two identical bundles of joy who both inherited their father’s cobalt blue eyes and shock of dark hair. The pediatrician called my color-coding method unconventional but effective. I call it please God don’t let me mix up my children before they can answer to their own names.
“Look at that,” I gasp, pointing to the Bellanova’s gold-plated entrance. “It’s so tall it stretches all the way to heaven!”
The Bellanova Casino & Spa Resort rises before us like a golden monument to excess, its twin towers gleaming under the desert sun. This is it—our home base for the next solid week while I compete in the Las Vegas Flavor Frenzy, the biggest culinary competition this side of actual professional cooking shows.
My cinnamon rolls are about to go head-to-head with the best bakers in the country, assuming I don’t accidentally cremate them like I did during the Honey Hollow Harvest Festival incident that we don’t discuss.
Carlotta, who could easily pass for my twin if not for the extra wrinkles framing her hazel eyes and the streaks of gray in her caramel waves, presses her face against the shuttle window like a kid at a candy store. Actually, scratch that—she presses her nose to it exactly like she did at the candy store on the way to the airport.
“It’s not just stretching to heaven, Lot-Lot,” she declares with the reverence usually reserved for all-you-can-eat buffets. “It is Heaven! And a little bit of Hell considering the weather.”
It’s true. Vegas is pretty much a toaster despite the fact it’s merely April.
Everett—my tall, dark, and permanently serious and terminally handsome hubby adjusts his watch, looking every bit like Mr. Sexy as his nickname suggests. Several women walking past the shuttle do a double-take his way, and one actually stumbles on her stilettos, nearly taking out a tourist with a fanny pack. I can’t help but giggle. Women ogling him freely is basically an occupational hazard of Everett’s good looks.
“Just once, I’d like to go somewhere without women practically genuflecting in your presence,” I tease—mostly. “It’s like traveling with a Greek god in Brooks Brothers.” True as gospel although Everett’s suits are imported straight from Italy.
“It’s his just good genes,” Mayor Nash points out. “And how I wish I had ‘ em.”
“Well, the boys do,” I say running my fingers through their hair and Everett ticks his head to the side at the thought.
“They are in for a wild ride in this life,” Mayor Nash adds.
“I prefer to call it a carefully structured adventure with appropriate safety measures and parental oversight,” Everett says with that go-to serious expression of his that only makes him that much more cuttingly handsome. Everett is tall, has the aforementioned blue eyes and dark hair, and a body fit to fight crime in a cape. But as it stands, he chooses to fight crime in a judicial robe, thus the fact he’s better known as Judge Essex Everett Baxter. “Looks are fleeting, it’s brains that count.”
“Tell that to your groupies,” I nod toward a woman who’s now taking a selfie with our shuttle in the background. “I think she’s about to post your silhouette on her Insta Pictures account with the caption Future Baby Daddy.”
I’m lucky enough to have already procured that feat myself.
Up ahead I can see throngs of people swarming in and out of the hotel and most of which are holding a fruity looking cocktail in a flute the size of a trombone.
Carlotta is already eyeing those delicious-looking drinks and truth be told so am I. After a month of sleepless nights and baby-induced chaos, a drink that comes with its own flotation device sounds like exactly what my sanity ordered. Although that won’t be happening any time soon because I’m still nursing the twins, and on occasion Lyla Nell. There might have been a few meltdowns concerning my boobs since the twins were born and she’s currently staging a protest once a day but her need for Mommy milk always wins out in the end.
My sweet baby girl Lyla Nell bounces in her car seat, her dark hair with those distinctive red tips—just like her daddy Noah’s—bobbing with each movement. Her verdant green eyes scan the colorful lights in front of us with wonder.
Noah.
Just thinking about him sends a familiar pang through my chest. He’s already here in Vegas. He arrived yesterday on business that sounded suspiciously cryptic when he mentioned it.
“Pretty!” Lyla Nell exclaims, clapping her hands with fervor. Her bright green eyes scan the colorful lights with a wonder that makes me slightly jealous. When did everything stop looking magical to me and start looking so darn pricey? “Mommy, it so pretty!”
“That’s right, baby,” I agree. “Everything in Vegas is pretty. And expensive. And probably sticky.”
Mayor Harry Nash—my biological father, a fact I discovered just a few years ago and still haven’t figured out how to feel about—is just about already counting imaginary chips in his hand. His balding gray hair catches the neon lights, and his expanding waistline strains against his lucky gambling shirt, which based on previous evidence, brings about as much luck as a chocolate teapot.
His mischievous blue eyes dart from casino to casino as we pass the Flamingo’s pink neon paradise, the towering Stratosphere that looks like it’s auditioning for a role as the world’s most expensive pogo stick, and the Venetian’s faux canal system complete with gondoliers who probably dream of actual Venice while singing “That’s Amore” for the thousandth time.
“Think of all the potential winnings just waiting for me,” he says, rubbing his hands together with glee that borders on concerning. “I can practically hear the slots calling my name. Harry, Harry, make us sing!”
Everett raises an eyebrow. “I hope you’re not gambling with the good people of Honey Hollow’s tax dollars. That sidewalk repair fund seems to shrink whenever the Honey Bees play.”
The Honey Bees would be what Honey Hollow High’s student bodies refer to themselves as and yes, the mascots official name is Sting.
“Oh, please,” Carlotta waves dismissively, accidentally whacking a pretzel against the window. “What’s the point of being mayor if you can’t dip your fingers into the town cookie jar now and then? It’s practically in the politician’s handbook—Chapter One, steal a little, lie a lot, and always blame the previous administration or the weather, whichever has a lower approval rating.”
“Carlotta!” I gasp, although I can’t help but laugh. “You can’t say things like that in public. There are impressionable ears present.” I gesture toward Lyla Nell, who’s currently trying to eat her shoelace with the determination of a toddler who’s discovered a new food group.
Mayor Nash puffs up indignantly, his cheeks reddening to match the neon sign we’re passing outside the Circus Circus. “I’ll have you know, I’ve never stolen a dime from—”
“Save it for the voters, Harry,” Carlotta cuts him off with the efficiency of a guillotine. “Your campaign promises don’t work on me. I’ve seen where those hands have been—specifically in the church donation basket looking for change for the vending machine.”
I peer over at Ozzy—or is it Corbin?—strapped into his car seat as sudden panic grips me as if realizing I forgot to pack diapers for a week-long trip. Which I totally didn’t forget. That would be suitcases four, five, and six.
“Oh, good grief,” I sigh hard. “I’m actually starting to doubt my color-coding system. What if I’ve already mixed them up? What if I’ve been calling Ozzy Corbin and Corbin Ozzy since that diaper blowout in the airport bathroom?” The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through me. “And which one had the blue toe again? My lack of sleep has relegated me to one final brain cell and even that one seems to be on the fritz.
“It’s okay, Lemon,” Everett says, leaning over to examine both babies with the same scrutiny he applies to particularly tricky legal documents. “Ozzy has the dimple on his right cheek, Corbin on his left. They’re right where they should be.”
I exhale with enough relief that it could power a small wind farm. “Thank goodness for genetic dimples. They’re like nature’s name tags.”
Which one was on the left again? Oh never mind.
“I still can’t believe we’re here for a whole week of competition,” I say, changing the subject before another wave of maternal incompetence crashes over me. “The Vegas Flavor Frenzy is the biggest culinary event of the year, and the Sin City Sugar Showdown could put my cinnamon rolls on the map nationwide. Charlie is already practicing her savory dishes for her division. I just can’t wait to dig in.”
“And I can’t wait to dig in to all the handsome chefs,” Carlotta adds with a cheeky yet purely evil wink. She and Harry have an odd relationship to say the least but as of late he’s made it clear there’s to be no more roaming as far as other romantic partners are concerned. However, it’s taking Carlotta some time to get the memo. “I hear they really know how to handle their utensils,” she guffaws as she says it. Those rolling pins aren’t the only things that rise in their kitchens.”
“Carlotta, please,” I groan, wondering not for the first time how this woman could possibly have contributed to my DNA without some kind of cosmic clerical error. “There are children present. And a mayor. And my husband, who happens to be armed with perfect recall and the authority to sentence people.”
“Oh, I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking,” she shrugs with the innocence of a woman who’s never had an innocent thought in her life. “Besides, it’s Vegas, baby. What happens here will be extensively documented on my Insta Pictures account but with tasteful filters and strategic cropping.”
The shuttle finally lurches to a stop at the Bellanova’s grand entrance with all the grace of a walrus who’s had one too many drinks, and suddenly everyone’s scrambling for bags, babies, and dignity. The doors whoosh open, letting in a blast of dry heat that feels like opening an oven set to surface of the sun.
“All right, folks, this is your stop!” the driver announces with the enthusiasm of someone who is clearly ready to be rid of our particular brand of chaos—and ready to be tipped excessively for it too. “Bellanova Casino & Spa Resort—where dreams come true and wallets go to die!”
The Bellanova’s grand entrance, a stunning display of gold columns and crystal chandeliers visible even from the street. A bellhop in a pristine uniform rushes forward as the doors open, his smile is so bright it could probably power half the Vegas Strip and still have energy left over for a few slot machines. Behind him in the foyer, the stunning display of gold columns and crystal chandeliers creates a backdrop that screams expensive in seventeen different languages.
Everett efficiently organizes our exodus like a military operation, while I juggle the twins and try to prevent Lyla Nell from launching herself headfirst onto the sidewalk. Mayor Nash bolts for the casino entrance before the shuttle even comes to a complete stop, and Carlotta somehow manages to reapply lipstick while simultaneously gathering her seventeen different bags.
“Welcome to paradise!” the bellhop chirps as we spill out onto the sidewalk in a tangle of diaper bags, suitcases, and what I can only describe as organized pandemonium.
And as if sensing the worst possible moment for a meltdown, all three babies decide this is the perfect time to exercise their lungs in unison. The wailing carries across the elaborate entrance like an air raid siren announcing the arrival of chaos as Everett and I frantically try to soothe them.
“Welcome to paradise,” Everett mutters as if he’d much rather have a root canal, trying to rock Corbin while I struggle with both Ozzy and a squirming Lyla Nell.
“Paradise with a very hangry choir,” I agree, bouncing gently and making shushing noises that only seem to inspire more impressive vocal gymnastics from my offspring. “At least they’re performing in harmony. That’s got to count for something.”
And I think that something is a very stiff drink—for Everett at least.
Inside the lobby, we’re immediately greeted by competing signs: WELCOME VEGAS FLAVOR FRENZY COMPETITORS, THE KING LIVES ON: ELVIS TRIBUTE ARTIST CHAMPIONSHIP THIS WEEK! And DON’T MISS THE GRAND CHAMPIONSHIP WRESTLING REVIVAL!
The lobby itself smells like expensive perfume, freshly minted money, and the particular brand of reckless optimism that comes with being one pull away from a jackpot. The black granite floor is so shiny I can practically count my split ends in the reflection, and the sound of slot machines creates a chaotic-sounding musical backdrop along with the occasional bells and whistles.
A group of Elvis impersonators in various stages of authenticity strut through the lobby in their jumpsuits and pompadours. Some look impressively like the King himself, while others seem more like Elvis’s distant cousin who maybe caught a glimpse of him once during a particularly hazy family reunion.
“The King lives!” Carlotta screams, clutching her chest in a way that sends several nearby tourists reaching for their phones—probably to dial 911 or capture her inevitable collapse for social media fame. I bet they’re hoping for the latter.
Mayor Nash points to another sign on the wall, with his face lighting up like the Vegas Strip itself. “Would you look at that! Johnny United is performing his residency here!”
Carlotta staggers toward the larger-than-life poster of the aging crooner with his overly dyed black hair and smarmy smile that suggests he’s been practicing that smirk in the mirror since the Carter administration. She collapses against it with her hand over heart, in what I can only describe as performance art designed to test the limits of public decency laws.
“Oh, Johnny! My one true love!” She swoons hard, dragging her hand across the poster in a way that probably violates several health codes. “Your song ‘ Slot Machine of My Heart’ saved my life nine different times! And ‘ Jackpot Heart’ got me through my ninth divorce—and possibly prevented my tenth!”
Suffice it to say I’m not apprised of all or any of Carlotta’s marital blunders. And I like it that way.
“You mean all nine of your matrimonial lives have expired and yet somehow you’re still here?” I quip, adjusting Lyla Nell on my hip. “That explains so much about your current relationship resurrection.”
Just then, an Elvis impersonator in a pristine white jumpsuit studded with enough rhinestones to blind a pilot strides directly toward us. His hair is styled in the perfect pompadour, and there’s something eerily familiar about his swagger—a confidence that comes only from being extremely talented, extremely delusional, or extremely dead.
“Well, hubba-hubba,” Carlotta murmurs, straightening her posture and somehow adding two inches to her height through sheer force of hormonal will.
The Elvis impersonator winks at Carlotta, then walks right through her, disappearing in a shower of red and blue stars that nobody else in the busy lobby seems to notice with the exception of Carlotta and me.
We gasp hard and look at one another with a special brand of horror that has become far too familiar over the years.
“What’s wrong, Lemon?” Everett asks, instantly alert as his free hand reflexively moves to his sidearm.
Yes, Everett is packing heat. I would be too but with the three littles I thought it best that my Glock, Ethel, stayed home. Besides, Everett has Fred with him, and his aim is just as lethal.
“I just saw—” I begin, but get cut off by the most unexpected source.
“A ghostie!” Lyla Nell claps excitedly, finishing my sentence with the enthusiasm only a toddler can muster. “Pwetty ghostie!”
I look down at my daughter as her green eyes fill with wonder and feel that familiar mix of pride and concern. Like me, she can see the spectral visitors that others miss. Unlike me, she thinks it’s the greatest thing since sliced bread, or in her case, goldfish crackers.
“At least she stopped crying,” I sigh, exchanging a loaded glance with Everett that speaks volumes about our complicated supernatural existence.
Mayor Nash has already wandered off to the nearest slot machine, feeding it coins with the focus of a man on an important mission from The Man Upstairs himself—if The Man Upstairs were interested in three cherries lining up in a row.
Everett’s expression darkens as he surveys the casino floor. His eyes sweep the area with the precision of a security camera, or years of determining guilt or innocence. “You know what that means, Lemon.”
Carlotta cuts him off, already backing toward the entertainment hall where Johnny United’s poster beckons like a sequined siren. “Yeah, yeah, someone’s about to meet their maker and we’re going to have a good time with Johnny United! Those tight pants aren’t going to ogle themselves!” She vanishes into the crowd before I can form a rebuttal, let alone deliver it.
I press my lips tight as I take in the opulence of the casino—the crystal chandeliers hanging like frozen ice storms, the plush carpeting in rich jewel tones that probably costs more per square foot than our entire house, and the bakery-themed slot machines created especially for the competition, complete with cherry pie jackpot symbols that seem designed to mock my professional aspirations.
“Carlotta’s not wrong,” I murmur, adjusting the triple stroller where all three children are finally settling down like tiny angels who definitely weren’t just testing the acoustic properties of a five-star lobby. “But she forgot one thing.” My eyes track the path where the ghostly Elvis vanished, and a chill runs down my spine despite the carefully regulated casino temperature. “It also means murder.”
The word seems to hang in the air between us, heavier than the scent of luck and lost dreams that permeates the casino floor.
Somewhere in this glittering palace of excess, someone’s time is running out faster than an all-you-can-eat buffet at dinnertime.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my years of ghostly encounters, it’s that death never takes a vacation—not even in Vegas.
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****