by Dennis, Pat
Betty headed toward Poker Alley with its rows of video poker machines. It took her only a minute to discover Mrs. Kotval sitting at the quarter slots.
“Good morning,” she said to her client who was playing one nickel at a time, the minimum amount allowed on the twenty-line nickel machine. If Mrs. Kotval played the maximum allowed per spin, it would cost her a dollar. By betting on only a single line, she saved ninety-five cents. Of course, if any of the other nineteen lines revealed a winning sequence, it wouldn’t matter. Her five cents would be casino history.
Mrs. Kotval swiveled around in her seat, tugging at her pale green sweatshirt embroidered with the words ‘Keep my grandma off the streets! Take her to a casino!’ A photo of her granddaughter was captured in a cross stitched frame on the front.
“Hello Betty,” Mrs. Kotval said with a big smile, her dentures gleaming like cultured pearls. “Know what? I’m only down two dollars and I’ve been gambling for three hours. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Betty nodded. She loved gamblers who were realistic. The ones who looked at gaming as recreational and not an investment portfolio.
“Good for you,” Betty said before explaining the reason she was there.
“Does that mean I am a suspect?” Mrs. Kotval asked, hopefully. “That would be so wonderful. I could tell my grandchildren. They watch Murder She Wrote every time they visit. They gave me the Special Edition DVD collection for my birthday.”
“Then you’ll be happy to know you are a suspect, Mrs. Kotval.”
“Really?” Mrs. Kotval’s eyes lit up.
“Everyone is,” Betty admitted giving her a reassuring smile.
Betty noticed Mrs. Kotval’s look of surprise turn to disappointment. She regretted having said it. Clearly, Mrs. Kotval was enjoying the suspicion.
“I can’t wait to tell my family,” her client beamed. “For once I’ll be like those wicked women on TV. My grandkids won’t call me Angela Lansbury anymore! I’ll be more like Joan Collins.”
It took Betty only a few more steps to discover another rider. She leaned in close to the seventy-seven old woman playing Double Bonus Video Poker or DBVP as the die-hard gamblers referred to it. Betty said loudly, “Mrs. Browne?”
The tiny sprite exhaled a blast of cigarette smoke that rushed to join the massive thundercloud swirling overhead. The woman bent and rubbed her cigarette out in an already overflowing, red plastic ashtray.
“What can I do for you, dear?” Mrs. Browne asked absently, not turning around to see who called her name. With one hand she fiddled with her hearing aide while her other hand tapped the Max Coin button. Every hit of the button cost her a total of one dollar and twenty-five cents.
Betty continued, “I have good news and bad news. The bad news is that the sheriff wants to interview all of my passengers this morning.”
“Why, that would mean stopping everyone from gambling,” Mrs. Browne said and shot Betty a withered pout. “I haven’t had a straight yet this morning, much less a royal flush.”
“You’ll still have plenty of time for gambling,” Betty assured her.
Mrs. Browne looked down at her pale, spindly hands. “Time is the one thing that most of us seniors do not have, Betty.”
Betty was accustomed to her clients complaining about their age. It didn’t come as a surprise. Betty whined about her own aging as well.
“Don’t you want to hear the good news?” Betty asked.
Mrs. Browne quipped sternly. “If it’s about religion, I’m not interested.”
Betty chuckled. She loved that old people said whatever they wanted to, regardless of the consequences. She announced in an upbeat tone, “The entire tour’s been given complimentary show tickets. You can see Boris the Baffler for free.”
“But I see Boris right now, dear,” Mrs. Browne responded, and proceeded to hack up an unfiltered tsunami as she pointed to the main entrance of the casino.
Betty’s eyes followed the direction of Mrs. Browne’s nicotine stained and blue-veined spindly digit. She expected to see yet one more life-size glossy advert. Instead, what she saw was far more impressive—Boris himself was being escorted through the casino.
His entrance was worthy of kings. Had he been sitting astride a white horse, Betty felt his appearance could not have been grander. Boris stood at the top of the steps that led to the casino floor in an unbuttoned, black lame jacket that covered a partially unbuttoned white silk shirt. The shirt’s collar was stiff and turned upward. The chest hair that peaked through his clothing was covered by two gold chain necklaces that could easily tow a Ford Fiesta in winter. An extravagant rhinestone belt buckle shaped like a lightning bolt held up his pristine and pressed white silk pants. The fact that most of his fingers glittered with opulent rings was almost as interesting as the handcuffs that locked his wrists.
An entourage of short, paunchy uniformed security guards surrounded him. Their presence only heightened Boris’s stature and regal demeanor.
That guy deserves an Oscar! Betty mumbled before laughing out loud.
Suddenly, the soft rock Muzak overhead changed to the sound of heralding trumpets. Except for a few hardcore gamers, nearly every head in the casino turned to watch the procession.
Boris reached the middle of the room and stopped. Holding his cuffed hands over his head, he surveyed the room. His presence was so overwhelming that Betty noticed a few women gasping. A few others giggle. The men chuckled. One or two mumbled, “give me a break”.
The entertainer swirled sideways and stared directly at a large, black haired woman sitting in front of a dollar slot machine. Betty could have sworn the woman gave him an evil glance. But then the lady’s demeanor changed and she smiled widely at the mind reader.
Good God, Betty wondered, did the entertainer use mind control off stage as well?
“What is your name, darling?” Boris asked in a thick accent that reminded Betty of the Slavic storekeepers in her neighborhood. But there was a twinge of Russian in it as well. Perhaps even English. Boris sounded as if he grew up moving quickly from one country to another. His voice was strong enough to reach across the room.
“Conchita Catalina Mendoza de Arroyo,” the woman answered in a brisk Spanish accent. “I am here on a tour of the Americas. In Madrid, I was a famous Flamenco ...”
Boris’ hand shot up immediately in a stop position. Conchita bit into her lip hard, as if it were almost impossible for her to stop her babbling.
With a flourishing bow Boris informed her, “You’ll be happy to know you’ll soon win a jackpot.” Murmurs of amazements and scoffs of disbelief rippled through the gambling crowd.
“A jackpot?” she asked, using her arms in a bent and upward position as she snapped her fingertips, in a classic Flamenco dancer stance.
“Si!” Boris growled back, his face a bit stern for the occasion Betty thought.
Conchita spun around on the stool and pressed a button of the one-arm bandit on the Wild Cherry slot machine. The reels spun and stopped. A cluster of bars, blanks appeared. Not a single cherry had materialized. Conchita hit Max Coin again and another three dollars disappeared from her seventy-six dollar credit posted on the machine. There was only one bar. On her third try and subsequent loss, Boris shrugged to the crowd and walked away.
The woman continued pushing the button on her slot machine. Boris walked only a few feet down the aisle before he stopped. He folded his arms across his chest and adopted an omnipotent smirk. He turned his head slightly and looked behind him, toward Conchita. On her next try the self-proclaimed former Flamenco dancer hit a jackpot of one thousand dollars.
The crowd around her burst into yelps and applause. Boris continued his parade, the security guards in close proximity. Suddenly, a man seated at a slot machine, dressed in overalls and a flannel shirt put his hand in front of Boris to stop the processional.
The grizzly gambler said, in a loud, irritated tone, “Help my wife win. She’s never won more than five bucks in her life.”
One of Boris’ eyebrows shot upward in disbelief. “That’s not true, Sir.”
“Sure it is,” he insisted.
“No it isn’t. She won your heart, didn’t she? That has to be worth more than five dollars,” Boris told him.
Instead of a satisfied sigh, a loud grunt came out of the man’s mouth. He said, “Trust me. I ain’t no prize.”
“Sure you are. You’re a retired plumber with a good income and ...”
The man’s eyes opened wide. He asked, “Hey, how did you know that?”
Boris ignored his question and said, “And you’ve been married for twenty-nine years.”
“My God, you can read minds!” the man sputtered.
“And you read Playboy,” Boris paused in a dramatic fashion and then added, “for the articles, of course.”
The burly man’s wife mouth dropped opened in shock, while he sputtered, “Okay, you can stop right there.” Avoiding his wife’s eyes, he continued, “You win. I’ll buy a ticket to your damn show.”
“Thank you,” Boris said, and continued down the aisle. As he did, dozens of gamblers asked him to predict when they would hit a jackpot or tell them their fortune. He only nodded slightly in recognition of their requests. He spoke to no one until he reached the end of the aisle and stood directly in front of Betty.
His hazel eyes looked at her with a mischievous glint that bordered on leering. Boris was at least twenty-years younger than Betty.
She decided to be as bold as Boris. “Are you reading my mind?” she asked, giving him a look that suggested he was.
He answered, “You’re very brave, aren’t you? I like that in a beautiful woman.”
Betty played along. “I like that in a beautiful man.”
“You’ll need help getting inside your hotel room, no?” he purred, his words dripping with possibilities.
Betty was surprised when she found herself becoming flustered. Was this Euro Trash actually making a pass at her? A woman old enough to be his mother? (Well, his sister; Okay, his mother.) And shamelessly in front of a crowd? At the same time, suggesting she needed help, his help to get into her hotel room? What else would he think she needed once they were inside?
Betty laughed at the thought that she might be on the prowl. She’d read that older women hitting on a younger guy was in fashion. Cougars they were called. Too bad she couldn’t tell Boris that the only clothing she was interested in removing was good-old fashion support hose. Even then, it would only be to soak her aching feet.
“Ah, but you do,” he teased seductively. “As always, you’ve lost your room key.”
Betty immediately put her hands in her pockets to retrieve the key. Nothing. She quickly opened her purse and rummaged. Nothing. She laughed out loud. What she thought was a come-on was just a part of his act. It was true. She had lost her hotel key.
Boris started to walk past her, but stopped even with her. He leaned over and whispered into her ear, “Don’t worry. Your business will not suffer because of the homicide. In fact, you’ll be more successful than ever.”
Betty almost fell over in shock. But she was surprised even more when he added, “And yes, Liberace would be very jealous of my outfit.”
Could Boris actually read minds? She’d thought the burly, Playboy reading ex-plumber was just a shill, someone who was paid a few bucks to act surprised. But there was no way Boris could know her thought about Liberace’s ghost.
And what about the jackpot that just happened to the retired Flamenco dancer? How could Boris have predicted that? Could this alleged mentalist actually forecast when a jackpot would be hit? Or could he somehow make a machine pay out?
Tom Songbird was right. Boris the Baffler was a great showman and his powers were beyond baffling. They were friggin’ scary.
Chapter 10
It was only 11 a.m. as Betty returned to her hotel room for a fix. A glass cabinet was filled with items that could satisfy any impulse—at exorbitant prices. The alcohol held no interest for her. Chocolate was her drug of choice and the truffles called out to her. Their siren song was as irresistible as a Kentucky Fried Chicken drive-thru two blocks south of a fat farm.
Momentarily setting aside her frugality, she reached inside the cabinet and pulled out one of the twelve-dollar candies. When it came to chocolate, Betty had always been promiscuous. When she saw the size of the temptation that awaited her, there was no way she could have said no. It was the largest truffle she’d ever seen. Its sole purpose on this earth was to be devoured by someone like her. Betty carefully unwrapped the gold packaging, slowly peeling back the wrapping, allowing the bittersweet scent to drift upwards. She inhaled deeply as if capturing the musky scent for an eternity. Next, Betty took a moment to appreciate the sheer beauty and weight of the chocolate and raspberry cream delight that had been rolled in a layer of cocoa powder. She bent her head downwards as she lifted the god given morsel close to her lips. She opened her mouth and prepared herself for an invasion of mouth tingling pleasure. Her white teeth sank slowly into the dark, succulent globe. The candy burst onto her tongue and Betty shivered in delight. Belgium chocolate was better than sex. And the best part? She didn’t have to shave her legs to experience something better than an orgasm.
She set the second chocolate morsel on top of the armoire as a future reward. Once she created a spreadsheet of the murder—evidence, motives, suspects—she’d allow herself the pleasure of another truffle.
As she powered up her laptop three short knocks interrupted her.
“Room service,” called the voice on the other side of the door.
Betty headed for the door but didn’t bother to peer through the small, brass peephole. “What are you? Some freak who knocks on women’s hotel doors trying to seduce them?” she asked.
“I’m a freak who knocks on men’s hotel doors to seduce them,” the smooth voice said in an exaggerated whisper.
Betty yanked opened the door and said, “Too bad.”
The head of security stood outside in the hallway. “Got a few minutes?” Tom Songbird asked, his dark eyes sparkling.
“Sure,” she answered, motioning for him to come inside.
Though he was twenty-some years younger than Betty, the two had hit it off during her first visit to Moose Bay. When he met her niece Lori on the same trip they too became fast friends. If he wasn’t gay, Lori swore she would have married him the first day she met him. So did Betty.
Betty sat back down at the square table in the room, next to her laptop. Tom sat across from her, his long legs stretched out to the side.
“What’s up?” she asked, leaning back, eager to hear his response.
“I need to talk to you about a couple things. But first, I ran into Lori as she was checking in. She said she’d meet you at the buffet at noon.”
“Great,” Betty said.
He continued, “I find myself worrying about you. You have to be under a lot of stress right now. Are you doing okay?”
Betty pointed toward the empty candy wrapper on the desk. “I’m coping the best way I know how.”
“Have you been able to work on your blog?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I did a quick post, but that was it. I’ll manage to write more before the tour is over. If you’re concerned, the buffet will be given another five popped buttons.”
Tom shook his head. “I’m not worried. If we need to improve, we want to know. Just write the truth like you always do.”
She appreciated his reaction. She’d already been banned from two casinos because she wrote the truth. But, there was no way she’d give five popped buttons for sliced turkey that could double as retreads.
Tom leaned over and spoke quietly. “I promise you this will go no farther than this room, but do you have any idea what’s going on? Why someone was murdered on your bus? Or who did it?”
She said, “Honestly, I haven’t a clue. That’s why I came back to the room. I thought I’d go over the notes I keep on our clients. To see if anyt
hing came up as unusual.”
“Want another opinion for a couple of minutes?” he asked.
“Sure, you can help me with my suspect spreadsheet. A rating of ten bullets puts the suspect on the same level as Jack the Ripper. One bullet means they’re as pure as Snow White.”
Tom gave her a sideways grin. “Really? Snow White, pure? She was shacking up with seven men.”
Betty quipped back: “They were short. Add them all up and you’ve got one NBA center.” With a click of the mouse, Betty opened her copy of the current junket’s file. Inside were individual documents on every passenger. Her eyes scanned the list of names. The cursor landed on a document. She clicked it open.
She said, “As far as Severson is concerned, everyone on the bus is a suspect. So let’s start with seventy-seven-year old Lydia Browne. Widow, chain smoker, and retired kindergarten teacher. She likes video poker and prefers restaurants to buffets. And Mrs. Browne douses her body in White Diamonds perfume.”
Tom asked, “Is that the Elizabeth Taylor brand? I think my mom wears it.”
Betty nodded. “I made that notation because I’ve had complaints. I try to sit her next to someone who won’t mind being assaulted by fragrance.”
“Anything else about her?” Tom asked.
Betty continued, “She walks twenty minutes a day while carrying portable, water-filled dumbbells. This is her sixth trip with us. Her astrological sign is Taurus, and I notify her two hours before any departure or she’ll forget about it.”
“I’d give her a rating of two,” Tom said, folding his muscular arms behind his head.
Betty’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Not a 1?”
“She’s a smoker. You never know what they’ll do if they run out of cigarettes. Tell me about someone who hasn’t traveled with your company before.”
Betty’s eyes scanned down the list of names and clicked on a document. “Here’s a newbie. His name is Marcus Slevitch. He’s sort of an odd duck.”
Tom sat forward. “How so?”
“I was in the office the day he signed up for this trip. He was barely communicative. When he paid, he just threw the wad of cash on the counter. He was very abrasive.”