Las Vegas is an escape. Carefully curated artificial environments, bottomless buffets, free-flowing booze, pulsating lights, deep-freeze air conditioning, plush suites and nonstop entertainment converge in a distracting, disembodying free-for-all. It's one of North America's best places to lose yourself. The tricky part is making sure there's still some of you left after you've obliterated your senses.
Prolific Weybridge novelist Chris Bohjalian's new book, The Princess of Las Vegas, plops readers down just off the bustling Strip, at the Buckingham Palace casino. Though it's "the sort of place where room service came on chipped plates and the wallpaper in the corridor corners was peeling and stained from decades-old water damage," the casino nonetheless exudes a comfortable charm.
The BP might be nowhere near as chic as nearby hot spots the Bellagio and the Mirage Las Vegas, but it still boasts one of Sin City's top cabaret acts: "Diana, Candle in the Darkness," a musical tribute to the late Princess of Wales.
Its star, Vermont expat Crissy Dowling, looks uncannily like the woman she impersonates, and she's spent years perfecting her Diana. She fancies herself as good as actresses Naomi Watts, Emma Corrin and Kristen Stewart when they portrayed the "people's princess" — maybe better.
After years of performing five nights per week, Crissy speaks (and thinks) with an early-aughts-Madonna British affectation, frequently dropping UK slang such as "snog," "needn't," "chap," "proper chuffed" and "mere prattle." When she signs autographs, she uses Diana's name.
Baby boomers flock to the BP for royal nostalgia. Between stories and remembrances of Diana's life, Crissy sings UK pop classics from Petula Clark and Dusty Springfield. She spends her days high on pills and weed, sipping gin and diet tonics by the BP's pool in her private cabana, which she acquired in her contract in lieu of housekeeping services for her casino residence. (Priorities!)
But the veneer starts to peel off Crissy's dreamlike existence when casino co-owner Richie Morley winds up dead. Police call it suicide, but Richie's brother and business partner, Artie, insists it was murder.
Further disruption arrives when Crissy's estranged sister, social worker Betsy, relocates from Vermont to Vegas with her newly adopted 13-year-old foster daughter, Marisa. Betsy has been hired by her new boyfriend's cryptocurrency startup, Futurium, which recently added a Vegas-based crypto mine to its global operations.
Crissy is only a year and change older than Betsy, and people have always mistaken them for twins. But they've led very different lives. Crissy has her Vegas glamour, while Betsy spends her days trying to reconcile families and make sure struggling teens don't slip through the cracks. (In a story governed by soap opera logic, the only unrealistic thing is that Betsy can afford a two-bedroom apartment in Burlington's Ward 8.)
A wall of ice has grown between the sisters since the death of their mother, which, from Crissy's point of view, was Betsy's fault. Crissy even goes so far as to say that Betsy "killed" her, though Betsy views it differently. What actually happened? And what other decades-old traumas shaped their embattled relationship?
Betsy barely understands cryptocurrency, but she's no idiot. When some things about Futurium don't add up, she begins to wonder whether her boyfriend's business partners can be trusted. Sure, Nevada is an open-carry state. But why do tech bros need pistols concealed in their waistbands at humdrum business meetings?
Crissy has also found herself in some trouble. She can't shake the feeling that her new American paramour with the Russian name, Yevgeny Orlov, might be a spy. Plus, her recent affair with a Nevada senator, John Aldred, is about to land her in a tricky situation with his opponent, a far-right wack job reminiscent of Marjorie Taylor Greene. She's connected to some suspicious characters sniffing around the BP.
Betsy's good faith is strained as she's drawn further into Futurium's secrets. Crissy tries to stay Valium-calm as bodies pile up near and far. The fact that the siblings are nearly identical is not lost on the people hoping to manipulate them.
The women find themselves embroiled in a twisting double helix of a mystery, with each holding information that reveals vital connections between their situations. Though withholding relevant knowledge is often illogical in these kinds of stories, we slowly understand the baggage that keeps their lips zipped as they attempt to rebuild trust.
In crisp, concise prose, Bohjalian sets his story in the uncomfortably recent past. Memories of real-world events such as the COVID-19 pandemic, the January 6 insurrection and the Route 91 Harvest country music festival mass shooting reverberate in his characters' thoughts.
The author varies his perspectives in alternating chapters. Crissy is our ostensible protagonist, her narration delivered in forthright first person; Betsy's sections are set back at a distant third person. Crissy all but tells us she is an unreliable narrator, wondering, "Aren't all narrators unreliable? Who in bloody hell remembers anything...?" She also insists, "I don't want to talk about my childhood." It's only through Betsy's memories that we get a glimpse of a pivotal, life-changing event in Crissy's formative years.
There's also a cryptic third perspective wedged among the others — but it's not immediately clear whose out-of-context dialogue is providing vital additional context.
Bohjalian shines an empathetic spotlight on the people who come to see tribute acts such as Crissy's. Though maybe not the hippest clientele, her fans are utterly sincere. People don't attend this show to mock a dead celebrity. They hang on Crissy's every authentically accented word, weeping through standing ovations and filling her dressing room with flowers and Diana memorabilia.
In an overview of Vegas' tribute scene, Crissy recalls seeing a Karen Carpenter impersonator sing "We've Only Just Begun," entrancing older married couples in the audience with the popular wedding song.
"Each note catapulted them back to the day they were married," she reminisces. People come to such performances to relive memories and feel things they'd long forgotten.
But Crissy doesn't think much about her life before Diana. The gift of memory is only for her audience. Instead, she steps into someone else to forget her own past. Connecting with her sister might be her only chance at redemption.
The Princess of Las Vegas is two stories. One is a willies-inducing murder mystery that links a casino with a nascent cryptocurrency. The other is about the folly of keeping secrets and holding grudges. Both are tight, captivating tales that balance and support each other as they unfold.
Artie leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in what could been mistaken for prayer. I considered remarking on how ominous this all felt to me, but Artie had just lost his brother and whatever fretfulness and disquiet marked his soul likely dwarfed mine. So, I showed uncharacteristic restraint. Instead I asked how he was doing, given Richie's death. And instantly everything changed.
"My brother didn't kill himself," he said, and he let that settle. Eddie was nodding.
"You think he was murdered?" I asked. It sure as hell didn't sound like it could have been an accident.
"I don't think it. I know it."
"Did the police tell you something?"
"The police told me nothing. They don't believe me. They claim they have no evidence it was anything but a suicide."
Eddie was sipping a club soda. Mary had asked if I'd wanted anything when I arrived, but I had passed. Now my mouth was dry. "Are you suggesting they're inept or there's a coverup?"
"First of all, I would have known if he was so depressed he was ready to shoot himself. He wasn't."