Murder by Chance (Betty Chance Mystery)

by Dennis, Pat

  Lori’s shoulders momentarily collapsed, as if she could no longer carry the weight of the world. She said, “I just—well—this tour doesn’t seem to be working out for anyone. I mean … people keep dying! I just thought if we left now, we’d …”

  Betty placed her arm around Lori. “I can’t leave early, Lori, but if you’d like, go home. I can handle this. I’m sure Tom would arrange for a private plane for you …” Betty stopped talking as Mr. Ogawa walked up to them.

  She studied the thin, balding, grey haired man, his body bent over, held up by a cane. Betty was extremely worried about him. Stress could kill a senior almost as quickly as a heart attack.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Ogawa?” she asked.

  “Oh yes. I am fine, thank you very much,” he said, looking up, a serious look on his face. “May I ask a question, Miss Betty?”

  Even in the midst of chaos, Ogawa was as polite as ever.

  “Of course.” She smiled back. If only all of her clients were as pleasant as Ogawa.

  “I have never been on a gambling tour before. Do all of the tours include the sort of things that have been happening on this one?”

  Betty shook her head. “Not at all. Usually, the only excitement is finding out its Seafood Night at the buffet.”

  “I see,” Ogawa said, before admitting timidly, “perhaps this is my fault after all.”

  “How so?” Betty asked.

  “It was the last thing on my list, number eighty-eight. ‘Have the most exciting day of your life—even if it involves death’”, Ogawa said sadly. “But I meant my own death, Miss Betty, not anyone else’s.”

  Betty swallowed hard. She felt so sad for the kindly old gentleman. She could tell he actually felt guilty. “Mr. Ogawa, there’s no way you could have caused the murders.”

  “Oh, but there is. If I had shown up, perhaps the shooter would have shot me instead of Mr. Slevitch. I would have volunteered. To be onstage is also on my list and I’ve yet to accomplish it.”

  Betty was surprised Ogawa knew the man’s name. She said, “Mr. Ogawa, no one on Take A Chance Tours had anything to do with Slevitch’s murder.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” a voice boomed behind her.

  Betty swirled around to see Sheriff Severson holding up a Ziploc bag in the air. Even a novice in the art of crime could tell that what he was holding up was evidence.

  Normally, she’d be fascinated to see what he’d gathered as evidence. But, she wasn’t. Inside the plastic bag was one of her business cards covered with blood. Tillie’s name was scribbled on it.

  Chapter 22

  The ice cubes clinked against the cocktail glass as Betty walked across her hotel room. A splash of rum and coke spilled onto the beige carpeting while a few droplets managed to leap into the air and land on the front of Betty’s blouse. In her other hand she carried two beers. Tillie grab the non-alcoholic one, while Lori reached for the Heineken.

  Betty plopped into an overstuffed chair and sifted through her purse. She pulled out a package of Lucky Strike Lights. There was only one cigarette in it. She placed the pack on the table next to her.

  Lori shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. She said, “Are you sure you want to do that? It’s been years since you ...”

  Betty interrupted, “I’m not going to light it. It just helps when I am stressed to know I can.”

  Her favorite brand of smokes had been discontinued the same year her marriage ended. She took that as a sign from the universe—time to get rid of bad habits, even if you were married to one.

  Betty caught Tillie’s surprised expression and explained, “I didn’t smoke until I met Larry. It was his idea for me to start. He said it made me look sexy. But, the minute I found out he’d been …” Betty paused. She didn’t want to use the words ‘screwing his brains out’ or ‘a lying scumbag’ while Lori was in the room. Larry was still her uncle. Betty finished, “… seeing someone else, I quit. Besides, I only smoked because he did.”

  Tillie, however, did not hold back. She said, “Too bad you didn’t screw everything that moved, because he did.”

  Betty chuckled. Tillie’s spirit may have been broken a few hours earlier by seeing a man die in front of her, but she was back in full form. Betty responded, “If I had to do it all over again, maybe I would have had a few one-day stands. The UPS men were unbelievably hot.”

  “Yep,” Tillie said, raising her beer in a toast. “Nothing like a man in uniform. Or better yet, out of it.”

  “Why did you want us to get together?” Lori asked, one leg bouncing nervously up and down against the other.

  Betty could tell Lori wanted leave. Maybe Lori just needed to be alone. Betty knew her niece tended to isolate herself when overwhelmed with life. But, considering what had happened, being alone wasn’t wise.

  Betty said, “There’s safety in numbers, Lori. I think we should spend the night together.”

  Lori responded solemnly, “There were over five hundred people at Boris’ show and that didn’t turn out to be safe.”

  “True,” Betty relented. “Maybe we can use this time wisely. We can put our heads together and figure out why Take A Chance is connected to every single murder scene.”

  Tillie said, “The killer is probably shifting the blame to us on purpose. You’re an easy target, just like I am. Farsi was stabbed on your bus.”

  Lori piped in, “And if they are trying to frame one of you, that could be the reason your business card keeps popping up around dead people.”

  Betty swirled the cubes around in her glass. She said, “I can’t be framed because I can’t be convicted. Wouldn’t I need a reason to kill someone? I don’t have one.”

  Tillie said, “Some people kill just because they can.”

  Betty had to agree. Psychopaths were more common than she’d like to think. She leaned forward and said, “That’s true, but I’m not a serial killer or a nutcase. My instinct is telling me the reason someone is planting my card, with Tillie’s name scribbled on it, is a personal vendetta of some kind.”

  Tillie responded, “Are you sure it’s not one of your competitors? Maybe someone who wants to take over your business?”

  Both Lori and Betty burst into laughter.

  Betty said, “Thanks for that, Tillie. I needed a laugh. After our measly wages are paid this year, Take A Chance’s annual profit will be around four thousand bucks. Someone would have to be insane to want to take over our company.”

  Tillie shrugged her shoulders and leaned back on the bed. “Well, if it’s not the company they’re after, then it’s one of us. We all know I’m an ex-con, so that certainly makes me a suspect. But take a gander at Lori. There’s nothing wrong with her. How could anyone possibly frame her? She’s not only perfect physically, her personality’s flawless.”

  “At least the sheriff thinks so, ” Betty said as she smiled at Lori, who didn’t return the gesture.

  “I’m hardly perfect,” Lori shot back, her body noticeably tensing up. “I use a lot of makeup to get this look. And trust me, my personality is not that what you think it is.”

  “At least no one hates you,” Tillie said. “I can name at least a dozen people that detest me, and that’s just relatives.”

  Betty swore she saw tears well up in Lori’s eyes right before she mumbled, “No, my relatives don’t hate me. Yet.”

  “Okay, kiddo.” Betty jumped up and grabbed the bottle from Lori’s hand. “No more alcohol for you!”

  “Like I said, I’m not perfect,” Lori said, smiling weakly.

  Betty asked, “What about you, Tillie? Is there any way you’re connected? Even by accident?”

  Tillie played with her empty bottle before tossing it a good five feet. It landed perfectly inside the wastebasket. “Nope, not me, not my friends, and not even the ex-cons I still write to,” she answered abruptly.

  Betty stated, “I wanted to ask you about the Irish woman on stage with you. There’s something about her that’s very odd.”
r />   Tillie stopped smiling. She said, “Go on.”

  Betty continued. “She’s the one who pulled me from the snow bank when I fell. Except when she yanked me up she spoke with a Minnesota accent, and not an Irish brogue. She also claimed to be a gym teacher, not a laundry worker like she told Boris. And I’m pretty sure she also pretended to be Spanish yesterday.”

  Tillie’s face went ashen. When she didn’t respond, Betty asked, “What did she whisper to you onstage?”

  Betty couldn’t tell if Tillie was embarrassed or starting to hyperventilate. Her breathing became labored. Tillie stood up and her eyes turned to ice. She replied in a monotone, “Listen, officially I’ve been off the clock for hours. It’s been a long day. I’m going to my room.”

  Betty pleaded, “Tillie, I didn’t mean to ...”

  Tillie held her hand up. “You were fine. I’ve just hit the wall, that’s all.” She walked to the door and unlocked it.

  “Tillie, I ...” Betty said, standing up.

  Tillie turned around. “Trust me, you don’t want to know what she said to me.”

  Betty replied, “I do want to know.”

  Tillie shook her head in despair. She answered, “It was the same thing I heard in prison day after day. Whenever one of the eastern Europeans gang members wanted to terrorize anyone, they’d whisper five little words.

  “What were they, Tillie?”

  “Why don’t you believe me when I tell you it’s better you don’t know?”

  “What are the five words?” Betty demanded. But before she could stop Tillie, her driver threw open the door and bolted.

  **

  Tillie raced down the stairwell and reached the first floor landing in a matter of minutes. Sweat beaded on her face. Her make-up turned clammy. She opened the stairwell door and stepped into the hotel lobby.

  Tillie knew Betty would be worried, but she desperately needed time to think. She had to decide if it was worth the taking the chance of being killed to do the right thing. She made it as far as the glass doors of the hotel entrance when she heard her name being called.

  “Tillie!”

  Tillie groaned. Even without turning around she knew who was calling out to her.

  Her gut told her to run and not stop until she reached the Arctic Circle. When she did, she’d never look back again. But she repressed her desires and swirled around. “Yes, Sheriff?”

  “I’ve left you three messages,” he stated.

  “I haven’t been to my room and, and—maybe my cell battery is dead? You know the old joke about a single girl and her batteries?” Tillie hoped to sound funny. But she sounded pathetic, instead. Her best bet was to try to give the sheriff what he wanted—respect. Her demeanor turned serious. “What do you want, Sheriff?”

  His face tightened. “Did Slevitch hand you something right before he died?”

  Tillie bit into her lower lip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, ” she lied.

  “Mr. Ogawa told my Deputy he saw the victim place something in your hand when you were onstage, kneeling next to him.”

  She instinctively tightened her hand into a fist, as if she were getting ready to defend herself. Instead, she forced herself to stretch out her fingers as wide as possible. She began to silently count to ten. Immediately, her body started to relax, just the way her anger management counselor said it would.

  “Ogawa?” she questioned. “He wasn’t even at the show. Besides, isn’t he like two hundred years old or something? Can he even see that far? I thought all seniors have cataracts by that age.”

  “Evidently, not. He said you slipped the paper into your pocket. He said it looked like a note, or a business card.”

  “That’s crazy! Don’t you think I’d tell you?” she asked.

  “You do realize it’s against the law to lie to an officer …”

  Tillie interrupted, “Sheriff, do you see the clothes I’m wearing? It’s the same outfit I had on stage. It doesn’t even have pockets.”

  Tillie lifted her shirt at the bottom and turned around slightly, pushing out her ample rump outwards for emphasis. “Wanna search?” she mocked.

  The sheriff’s boyish look returned. But this time it was red from rage, not embarrassment. He demanded, “Why would Ogawa lie?”

  Tillie answered in a huff. “He was probably having a senior moment. He might have seen a shadow, or a flicker of a ring, or whatever. Who knows?”

  Severson adjusted his belt and pushed his gun further into its holster. “From now on, if I leave you a message, call me A.S.A. P.” he said abruptly, and then added, “For some reason, I’m not buying your story, McFinn.”

  “Why not?” Tillie asked.

  “Because once a con, always a con.”

  Chapter 23

  It was the perfect flirty dress—cotton candy pink with thin spaghetti straps that could break apart at any minute. The vintage find was not too short and not too long. A shiny lime green ribbon wrapped twice around Lori’s small waist and tied in a bow in the front. The full skirt, made puffy from Lori’s favorite inherited 50s petticoat, swished hello with every step. In her pink leather pumps, Lori’s fashion statement demanded, Look at me, world, I’m here.

  It was a little past midnight and Lori was wide-awake, unlike her aunt. Her aunt had almost collapsed from exhaustion and finally went to bed. She’d fallen sound asleep within moments. With Betty’s first soft snore, Lori had sneaked out of the room and back to her own room. A quick shower, fresh makeup, and a change of fashion did wonders for her attitude.

  Besides, her gut was telling her a winning streak was heading her way. She failed to remember that every time she gambled and lost she felt the same way. But this time she convinced herself it would be different. It would solve problems, not create them.

  “Wow, great dress,” a young man said between puffs on his cigarette as she walked through the casino.

  Lori smiled back at him. “Thank you.”

  She was in a good mood, an incredibly happy mood, a manic one in fact. It was a little after midnight and she was on her way to the high limit poker room to meet Tony.

  As she walked the aisles, the sounds of the slot machines became a symphony of hope to her. It was unlike the sounds she heard the machines emit when she felt despair. Sometimes, after a big loss the electronic imitations of dropping coins came at her like bullets, tearing her apart. But now, in the happy mood she was in, the slot tones sounded as pure as Julie Andrews’ voice.

  She maneuvered her way through the late night crowd. She passed the penny, nickel, quarter, dollar and five-dollar machines. Eventually she worked her way to the row of twenty-five dollar slots. Behind the pricey one-arm bandits was the entrance to the high stakes poker room.

  The guard, standing next to the doorway, greeted her. “Good evening, Miss.”

  “Good evening,” Lori said in return as she walked into the sequestered room. Although any casino guest could enter the walnut paneled sanctuary, very few did. The hundred dollar minimum bet intimidated even die-hard players.

  There were only two tables in the room, and only one seat was available. It was next to Tony.

  She slipped in beside him. There were four other men seated around the green felt-top oval table. The fact there were only males at the table was good, Lori decided. The general consensus among the majority of men was that females couldn’t play poker worth a damn. She would use this to her advantage.

  “Hi there,” she said in her naturally low and sultry voice. She leaned over to brush Tony’s shoulder with her own.

  Tony smiled back and said, “That’s some dress you’re wearing.”

  Flipping her hair back with the tip of her hand she asked, “Think it’ll bring me luck?”

  A seventy-something-year old man seated at the end quipped, “That dress could bring you more than that.”

  “Not with you sport,” another player responded, setting down his beer. “Not unless the drink you have in your hand is liquid Viagra.”
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br />   “A martini is Viagra,” the old man snapped back.

  “Not four of them in a row,” the other player taunted.

  Both Tony and Lori laughed. She was glad to see that Tony didn’t’ mind the fact that other men flirted with her. He could have acted jealous, but instead he looked content, like a cat about to devour a very pink canary.

  A waitress, who managed to show more cleavage than Lori, bent over and whispered, “Beverage?”

  Lori responded, “Perrier, please.”

  “Same here,” Tony said, tipping the woman.

  “Thanks,” the waitress gushed, grinning as she pocketed the hundred-dollar chip.

  Tony slid five stacks of black chips toward Lori. She didn’t bother to count them. She knew there would be ten chips in each stack, each worth a hundred dollars.

  Lori nervously lifted her fingernail to her lip to bite it, but quickly lowered her hand. Stay cool, she reminded herself as her demeanor changed back to Ice Princess. As the first card was dealt, each of the players adopted their game face. The four presidents carved into Mount Rushmore were more animated than the men sitting at Lori’s table.

  As the cards were dealt, the witty repartee disappeared, along with any hint of sexual innuendo. Profanity, no matter how bad the loss, or how exhilarating the win, was not allowed while playing cards at most casinos. The game was a ballet of quiet etiquette, and hidden desires. It was no wonder Lori felt at home seated behind a stack of chips.

  The rules of poker had been easy for her to learn. The game was divided into hands where the object was to eventually achieve a certain combination of cards. Some combinations were easy to get, others almost impossible.

  But it was the nature of the game that intrigued her. Lori understood from her first day of playing poker that she wasn’t playing cards—she was playing people. They were the ones she had to beat, not the random shuffle of the deck.

  To survive in the game, she’d learned how to read tells, gestures, and attitudes of the gamers around her. She understood that if there were any real mentalists in the world, it was the ones sitting around an oval table knowing who among them held a Royal Flush.