by Dennis, Pat
Betty answered, “No. Perhaps, someone just wanted to remember our driver’s name.”
“Any idea whose blood it’s soaked in?” he asked.
“Not a clue, Sheriff,” Betty answered, honestly.
Severson glared at Tillie. “What about you?”
Betty answered for her friend, “She doesn’t.”
“I was talking to Tillie,” he said, pointing at the driver.
Betty could see Severson was growing more agitated. His pen pressed into the notepaper so hard Betty thought it would go straight through his clipboard. But, she understood. One murder was one too many to investigate, and two would have been overwhelming.
Severson said, “Obviously, someone wanted us to discover your card.”
“I agree,” Betty responded.
“How easy are your cards to come by?” he asked.
“They’re stapled inside our brochures. The brochures are spread across the entire city of Chicago. They’re also mailed to every casino or senior group in the Midwest. That card could have been picked up by anyone in a five-state area.”
Severson’s eyebrow arched quizzically. “Still, doesn’t it seem odd to you that one of them ended up inside a suite where no one is registered?”
Betty squared her shoulders and replied, “Of course, it does. If I were you, I’d be thinking the same thing. But I can guarantee you that Tillie, Lori and I are not involved in any way.”
“Is there anyone else at Take A Chance that might be?” he asked, glancing up as the door opened and Lori swept inside.
Her niece headed toward the young sheriff and positioned her body directly in front of him, hands at her waist, legs spread wide, resting firmly on her stilettos. Her breathing was deep enough to move her cleavage up and down, as if her breasts were on a joy ride all by themselves. Severson’s facial expression changed from a tough cop attitude to a puddle of adolescent desire.
In a disgusted tone Lori said, “Gloria Morgan is the only employee we have. And, as long as the victim can’t outrun her and her cane, she’s your killer.”
The sheriff was speechless. But that didn’t surprise Betty. She knew that at twenty-four years of age, Severson’s brain was in a constant battle with his testosterone. This time his cerebral cortex lost out to boobs, stilettos, and long blonde hair.
Lori turned around and sat down across from him, crossing her legs in the process. “Actually, Sheriff,” she added, “Gloria wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Lori turned toward the two women and asked, “Are the rumors true? Was someone else murdered?”
Betty answered, “Not that we know. Where did you hear that?”
“Where do you think? Hannah. She told me she heard it from a number of other riders.”
Severson said, “We haven’t discovered a body yet, but there is blood splattered throughout the bathroom. In fact, your aunt’s business card was found in the middle of it. Tillie’s name was scribbled on the card, as well.”
Severson reached into his jacket and pulled out a small digital camera. He fiddled with the buttons and scrolled through the pictures that popped onto the camera’s screen. He searched until he found the one he wanted and handed the camera over to Lori. The image displayed was that of the bloody bathroom.
Lori squirmed at the photograph and mumbled, “My God.”
The sheriff said softly, “I’m sorry to have to show you that.” Then, as if remembering he had an investigation to lead, his testosterone retreated and his authoritarian demeanor returned. His voice was stern as he addressed the trio.
“Either someone associated with your company is responsible for the murder or one of you is being framed. There has to be a damn good reason for your card to be in this suite. I don’t believe in coincidence,” he announced.
Betty bit her tongue. She kept reminding herself over and over that the young man in front of her was in charge. The case was not hers to solve. And, he would resent her if she acted like she was his equal.
“Do you have any other questions for us?” Betty asked, taking a glance at her watch. “I need to check on my people. After all, I am here on business.”
He reminded her, “So am I. I’ll need your employee’s contact information.”
Betty reached over and took his clipboard from him. Reluctantly she wrote Gloria’s home telephone number on the pad. There was no telling what her jabbering co-worker would tell Severson.
“Can we go?” Tillie asked as soon as Betty handed the clipboard back. “The bingo session starts soon and I bought a forty-dollar package.”
Severson’s eyes moved to Lori. “Do you need to leave as well?”
Lori slowly uncrossed her legs and stood up. The sheriff averted his stare as she did. Towering over him, she answered, “If you have no further questions, then yes.”
He nodded. “I want to be able to reach each of you. Does everyone own a cell phone?”
The three women wrote down their cell numbers. Betty knew the first number he would be calling would be Lori’s.
Chapter 14
Oh-69, Oh-69,” the caller announced, his husky voice reaching into the far corners of the packed bingo hall. It was a little past two in the afternoon and all five hundred seats were filled. The majority of the players used a traditional ink dauber to stamp the numbers on their paper cards. Others used a hand-held portable electronic bingo machine. Even something as simple as bingo had become high-tech.
A thin, raspy voice echoed throughout the vast hall in response. “Bingo!”
Groans of disappointment rippled through crowd. Betty recognized the nicotine-drenched tone. She turned around and located the winner—Hannah.
Tillie said, “Thank God, no one else has called Bing …” She was interrupted by the sound of another “Bingo” being yelled out, followed by two more simultaneous screams of the five letter word. Hannah glared at her fellow winners, the ones who would share her four hundred dollar jackpot.
If looks could kill, Betty thought, but then dismissed the observation. At the moment, the last thing she wanted to think about was death. All she wanted was to play a few mind-numbing games. If humanly possible, she wanted to block out any thoughts of Farsi, knives, bloody business cards, and the irritating fact that she hadn’t been to sleep in over thirty-six hours.
She needed to zone out, if only for a little while. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to function rationally. As sleep deprived as she was, she could only keep awake by tapping into an adrenaline rush created by anxiety, caffeine, and sugar.
A floor attendant stood next to Hannah to verify the numbers. The attendant read out loud the numbers Hannah had marked off on her bingo card: “B-14, I-23, N-41, G-46, Oh-69.”
“Bingo!” a familiar voice called out.
“That’s a good bingo,” the announcer called. A wave of disappointment and curse words crashed across the rows of people. The attendant headed toward the other winners to verify their numbers as well.
Tillie shook Betty’s shoulder and said, “Look at Hannah go!”
Hannah was up from her ‘lucky seat’ and doing ‘the happy dance’ while simultaneously waving four purple-haired miniature troll dolls in the air. The crowd broke into applause but Hannah didn’t smile in return. Smiling was something she rarely did, even when she won. By dancing, she was merely following her rules of superstition.
The happy dance and troll dolls were Hannah’s personal edge on winning. She did the jig no matter how small the bingo.
“There’s at least a dozen more dolls on the table in front of her,” Betty noted.
“I can’t believe she thinks trolls are lucky,” Tillie said as she lined up seven tiny plastic figurines in front of her. “Doesn’t she know only leprechauns bring good luck?”
“Or four-leaf clovers,” Betty added, pointing at the large plastic green clovers each of Tillie’s leprechauns sat on.
Throughout the vast hall, talismans were placed on tables in front of players. The amulets ranged from trolls, stuffed animals and ge
mstones, to pictures of grandkids or dream houses. The numerous waitresses, who passed out free beverages, were often the beneficiaries of such widely held beliefs. Seasoned gamblers knew the nicer they were to a casino employee, the nicer the gambling gods would be to them.
“The next game will be a postage stamp,” the caller announced as the winning card pattern flashed on the giant LED screen behind him. The winning card would need a block of four numbers called in one of the card’s four corners.
Betty looked to the stage as the balls began to roll inside the large wired cage, pushing against each other as if they were struggling to be the one chosen. Finally, a numbered white ball shot down the channel and into the caller’s hand. The crowd immediately fell silent, waiting reverently to hear the first number called.
“G-53,” the caller bellowed. The number flashed on the oversized screen behind him.
“Louder,” yelled a man from the back of the room.
“Louder,” griped a few other players from the front table as well. For many of the seniors in the room, the call could never be loud enough.
“G-53,” the caller repeated one more time. I-23 was the next ball to roll down the chute.
“Woo hoo! I-23 is my lucky number,” the woman seated behind Betty yelled with glee.
Betty looked at the three bingo cards laid out in front of her. The last number called was not lucky for her. In fact, none of the numbers called so far had been. But, try as she might, not even the sounds of the caller could block out the fact that someone was working hard to frame her or Tillie for murder.
She looked at her wristwatch. She planned on playing only a few games. Besides a bit of stress-relief, she’d shown up to help corral her riders, pass out their pre-paid game vouchers and try to make her clients feel as if they were still one big, happy family. Betty leaned toward Tillie. “I’m out of here. Can you take care of anything that might pop up?”
“Sure enough,” Tillie reassured her. “And I have smelling salts in my purse, in case Hannah hits the big one.”
Betty liked Tillie’s idea. Hannah winning the big one, a $50,000 cover-all, would be sweet. She’d at least stop pestering them for a little while. Or until she came-to.
Betty scurried out of the bingo hall, and into the corridor toward the gleaming brass and glass front doors of the casino. She’d possessed the foresight to bring her parka and knew that taking a walk outdoors would help to clear her thoughts. As soon as she stepped outside, the frigid arctic air pierced her lungs. She zipped up her jacket and started down the cleared pathway.
The resort was located in the center of the reservation. The tribe’s maintenance crew continually cleared the parking lots, sidewalks and roads. A guest could easily walk for miles in the winter wonderland and never leave tribal property.
Betty stopped briefly to reach into her pocket. She pulled out her silver iPod. The tiny device contained over 100 hundred albums as well as seventeen audio books—all of them mysteries. She chose to listen to the soundtrack of The Pirates of the Caribbean with the volume turned low so she could still think her own thoughts and not be caught up in the music.
Betty enjoyed listening to a film score even more than watching the movie itself. She was self-observant enough to know that the music made her feel slightly heroic or even a bit terrified at moments, depending upon the composer’s intention. Oftentimes, when she listened to the Pirate’s score, she’d find herself thinking that all she really wanted out of life was to command a ship and head out to sea. Of course, if she clicked on the music of Jurassic Park, commanding a sea-faring vessel lost out to the appeal of taking on a T. rex or two. And battling a charging, ticked-off dinosaur was something she was used to since Hannah became a regular on her tours.
Passing the corner of the hotel, Betty checked out the parking lot for employees and tour busses located at the side of the building. In the far corner, the Take A Chance bus sat alone, roped off by yellow crime scene tape.
Betty shoved her gloved hands further into her pockets and hastened her pace. There was a lot to think about, and it all originated with Farsi. She still hadn’t figured out how someone was able to get inside the locked restroom to kill Farsi. There was always the chance the killer knew the combination to the spare key box. But then, how could that same killer force a knife deep into Farsi’s back without anyone hearing? And how did the same someone lock the door again from the inside, once Farsi was stabbed?
Considering his enormous size, it surprised her that Farsi could fit into the tiny cubicle at all, much less a second individual. The miniscule restrooms were a constant complaint from plus-sized passengers.
The small skylight did offer the possibility of outside access, if the murderer was a ten-year old. The opening was extremely narrow and positioned directly above the toilet. The skylight acted as both ventilation and as an emergency window, if necessary. But it too had been locked tight.
The roar of an engine revving and the subsequent blaring of a car horn brought Betty out of her ruminations. She looked up just as Tours by Tina passed. The pesky tour owner waved from inside the bus. Betty waved back, even though she knew Tina wasn’t pleased to see her.
Tina looked at Take a Chance Tours as competition, but so did all the other tour operators. When the Midwest casinos first opened, tour companies specializing in the casino industry multiplied like rabbits on Viagra. Then, when the recession took hold, only the strong survived. Tours by Tina was one of them. Consequently, Tina hated any newcomers, like Take A Chance Tours.
A few flakes of snow brushed against Betty’s cheeks. The weatherman predicted more snow to fall in the afternoon and evening. She and Tillie would have to keep an eye on the forecast. They were scheduled to leave Moose Bay in twenty-four hours.
She decided to circle around the back of the resort. As she continued walking, she listened to her music and ruminated on what she knew to be true about the murder.
First of all, even Farsi’s name was fraudulent. Whoever killed him had to be very clever. Farsi was carrying two million dollars—a huge amount of money. She assumed the sheriff was checking to see if the bills were counterfeit. Because of the high-tech equipment available to even the most common of counterfeiters, it took an expert nowadays to determine the validity of genuine currency.
The one thing she didn’t understand was why the money hadn’t been taken when Farsi was dead. If someone were clever enough to slay him in a locked room, wouldn’t they be able to manipulate a simple lock on an under-carriage luggage compartment?
And why would they keep trying to make a connection to Take A Chance? Her plasma-decorated business card found in a bathroom was hardly an accident. Perhaps it was merely a ploy, an attempt to point the sheriff in the wrong direction. Or perhaps someone had a grudge against her, Lori or Tillie.
Unless a Chicago Public Library patron was ticked off about being forced to pay a late fee, her office worker Gloria was hardly a target for revenge.
As Betty reached the end of the employee parking lot, with its hundred cars and dozens of tour busses, she saw the private motor coach belonging to Boris the Baffler. It would have been hard not to notice it. The purple vehicle was accented with gold lettering and silver stars and featured an image of a reclining Boris, hand on cheek while his body was positioned in a seductive repose.
Like many entertainers, Boris probably spent half of his life on the road. The decked-out transport was his home on wheels. Betty knew a lot of stars refused to use hotel accommodations, preferring instead to stay in elaborate motorhomes.
So, it wasn’t too much of a surprise when the door to Boris’ bus opened, and the performer himself stepped out. But the person she saw right behind him caused her knees to buckle.
“Ogawa?” she muttered out loud as the elderly gentleman followed Boris down the stairs. Ogawa’s cane was held in mid-air and it looked like he was shaking it at Boris. He was also yelling but Betty couldn’t discern what he was saying.
“Mr. Ogawa?”
she yelled over the roar of a passing engine. For the briefest of moments, she could swear the old man turned her way and glared at her in rage. But, in that same split-second the universe decided to smack her upside the head, causing her world to turn dark as her legs flew willy-nilly into the air. Almost instantly, her body crashed backwards onto the asphalt as an avalanche of snow buried her alive. It not only stopped her calling out for help. It stopped her from breathing.
Chapter 15
Speaking with a heavy Minnesota accent, a lilting voice bellowed, “Lady, are you okay?”
Betty’s eyelids struggled to open underneath the weight of the snow while her eyelashes turned into icicles. As she opened her mouth to breathe, she gagged on an incoming deluge of flakes. She forced herself to sit upright as she brushed mounds of snow, slush, and ice from her torso and face.
“Wh-What happened?”
“You fell backwards into a big pile of plowed snow, you did,” said the Viking-like woman standing directly above her.
A twinge of pain shot through Betty’s back. “How did that happen? One minute I was fine and the next minute everything went dark and ...”
The woman interrupted her with a comforting tone, “Now, now, there’s no reason to be concerned. All you did was slip on black ice, you betcha. Done that a hundred times myself, growing up here in Minnesota like I did.”
“I fell?” Betty asked, surprised. She glanced sideways and downwards at the road. It was true, a thin layer of ice coated the asphalt but she had been walking carefully, her walking shoes gripping the road.
“Yeah, sure. Good thing, I was out for my daily one-mile run. I’m on a diet, you know. Gotta lose this weight or lose my job. I’m a gym teacher. Principal says I’m not a good example for the kids. Hooey is what I say. Here, let me help you up.” The woman grabbed both of Betty’s hands and yanked her to an upright, standing position.
Betty yelped in pain, her left ankle stinging. She smiled graciously at the woman whose Nordic features glistened with sweat while her blonde pigtails bounced about in the breeze. Her bulbous, potato shaped nose was as red as Rudolph’s.