Murder by Chance (Betty Chance Mystery)

by Dennis, Pat

  Tillie pointed to the drapes and said, “I could use those after a night shift. Not a golden drop of sunlight gets through.” She looked up. “But, I don’t need that,” she said as she pointed her index finger to the center of the ceiling. “Not unless I decide to become kinkier than I already am.”

  Betty was shocked. She hadn’t noticed the small web cam on her previous visit. She’d never been as thankful in her life that she’d turned down sex with a beautiful man.

  Betty gestured toward the six-framed headshots of Boris that lined the walls, each one featuring a different pose and costume. “I guess Boris doesn’t have an issue with self-esteem.”

  Tillie answered, “Sure he does. That’s why he has a half-a-dozen pictures of himself. He has one of those Neapolitan complexes, because he’s little.”

  “Napoleon,” Betty said, correcting Tillie’s misspeak, but not feeling the need to explain further.

  “Yeah, him too,” Tillie said, not noticing the correction. “Even with that stupid hat of his, Napoleon was still looking at other people’s belly buttons twenty-four seven.”

  Tillie paused before adding, “This bed is weird.”

  “Looks nice to me.”

  “I’m talking about the way the bed is positioned.” Tillie cocked her head. “Most people insist the bed is placed parallel to the road. The sleeper doesn’t get tossed around as much when the driver hits a pothole.”

  Betty shrugged. “Maybe, the bed’s too long to be turned the other way.”

  Tillie took a quick glance around the room. “I’ll be damned.”

  She swung around and yanked the curtains open. Instead of a window, the curtains covered a solid wall.

  “Where’s the window?” Tillie asked. Tillie began placing one foot in front of the other and walked toward the front of the bus. As soon as she reached the end of the bus she yelled back to Betty, “Fifty-two! It’s only fifty-two feet!”

  “What are you talking about?” Betty yelled back.

  Tillie raced back to Betty’s side. She said, “I figure my clunkers are about a foot each in length. According to my fake Blahniks, this bus interior is fifty-two feet long. There’s eight feet of bus missing.”

  “But how could ...?”

  Tillie interrupted, “I know busses, Betty. Trust me, this one is sixty-feet long. I check out every bus I see. And there is a rear window on this motor coach. I’ve seen it.”

  “Where is it?”

  Tillie said, “Behind the solid wall the curtains are hiding. The back window is inside a secret room.”

  “Get out!”

  “No, really! I’m positive there’s a secret room.” Tillie spread her gloved hands wide and placed them on the back wall. She began methodically tracing up and down on the wall. She asked, “Do you see anything that could be a button or a switch? Something that could open a secret door or entryway?”

  “No.”

  “Then go through the drawers,” Tillie instructed. “It could open by remote control.”

  Betty rushed to the nightstand and pulled out the drawer. As the contents fell onto the bed, she jumped back quickly into the air as a handgun bounced upon the mattress.

  “God, I’m sorry. If this thing had gone off, you ...”

  Tillie interrupted her. “We don’t have time for apologies. Give me that thing.”

  Betty reluctantly handed the gun to her. Tillie clicked on the safety but instead of handing it back, Tillie slipped the gun inside one of the pockets of her coat and zipped it shut.

  “Tillie, I don’t think you should take the ...”

  “Keep looking for a door. We’re running out of time.”

  Reluctantly, Betty returned to her search, concerned that the former felon she knew as a friend was in possession of a weapon. If Tillie were found with a gun, she’d definitely end up back in jail.

  Betty rummaged through the drawer, announcing each of her finds to Tillie. “One tube of chap stick, two bottles of lotion. Oh ick. Six packages of condoms, a boxed DVD, and oh ick again, double ick.”

  Tillie turned around. “What did you find?”

  “The DVD’s an adult DVD,” Betty admitted.

  “Big deal,” Tillie answered.

  “That’s the problem. It is a big deal. Now, I know why Boris was attracted to me. I’m a fetish!” Betty held the DVD up in the air so Tillie could read the title.

  “Big Old Mommas Gone Wild,” Tillie read out loud before adding, “I wonder if there’s a series called Redheaded Bus Drivers I’d Like To …”

  “Okay, back to work!” Betty interrupted and glanced at her watch. “The show’s over in eighteen minutes.”

  “Check out the other areas in the bus for switches, or a remote,” Tillie instructed.

  Betty rushed to the front and pressed every button and switch she could find, also jiggling the thermostat, pushing every number on the microwave, and working the TV remote in the living area. Nothing did anything except what it was supposed to do.

  “Wait a minute!” Tillie yelled from the back room and rushed to Betty’s side.

  “I’m smaller than you, right?”

  “Ah, yeah, give or take by about eighty pounds.”

  “Go to the bedroom and wait for me.”

  Betty watched as Tillie scrambled off the bus. She raced to the back room. Whatever Tillie had in mind was important.

  Betty’s heart skipped a beat. She didn’t know if she was excited or terrified. She’d always wanted to be a cop, to be one of the good guys chasing down the bad. She just didn’t envision doing it as a fifty-five year old tour operator.

  “Betty? Can you hear me?” Tillie’s voice was coming through the back wall.

  “Yes!”

  “I think I found the switch to the secret room,” Tillie yelled. Within seconds the door on the back wall slid open. Tillie stood in the middle of the once hidden room. Breathless, she said, “Not only did I find the switch back here to open the wall up, but I figured out earlier that the entrance to this secret room was located in the luggage compartment underneath the coach. That’s how I got into this room. I entered through the luggage compartment. I’m small enough to fit.”

  “But not Boris, Rose, or Slevitch.”

  “Or Farsi, or anyone else of size. Bottom line, whoever could squeeze through the luggage compartment was in control of the room.”

  “And that alone could tick off a plus-sized crony.”

  “Enough to kill?”

  “Maybe. Take a gander at what’s hidden back here.”

  Tillie stepped aside and Betty entered the tiny room.

  A countertop rested along the backside of the room. In the center sat a computer along with inkjet printer and a paper cutter. The shelves above the counter were divided into sections, filled with bottles of brown and green liquids, reams of paper, and what appeared to be stacks of blank plastic cards. A blow dryer sat next to them.

  “Look at that thing,” Tillie said, pointing toward the elaborate ceiling exhaust fan.

  “That’s pretty fancy for a bus.”

  “Not if you’re using chemicals.”

  “You think Boris is a counterfeiter?” Betty asked, wondering why she bothered asking the obvious.

  Tillie said, “They’re all counterfeiters. This isn’t a one-man job. See the sink? Remember how Rose claimed to work at a Laundromat? And how Boris glared at her?”

  Betty’s face lit up in recognition. “Boris was furious at Rose for admitting onstage what they were up to! Not only are they counterfeiters, but they were laundering money.”

  “Not exactly,” Tillie said. “I think Rose was complaining about having to wash new currency to make it look old. See the chemicals and the sink?”

  Betty asked, “You know how this counterfeiting thing works?”

  “Counterfeiting was one of the trades I learned in jail, just in case my sobriety didn‘t work out. I called it my 13th step. It’s actually pretty easy to do. Any kid with a thirty-dollar ink jet can turn five b
ucks into a fortune.”

  Betty said, “Until he gets caught.”

  Tillie responded, “Most people get caught because they’re stupid. Boris and his gang aren’t dumb. Look at what they’re making.” Tillie pulled out a printed piece of paper from the printer feed. She showed Betty the front and flipped it around to show the back of it. “Three perfect looking five-dollar bills on one sheet.”

  “Fifteen dollars that cost pennies to make.”

  “Look around you.” Tillie used her index finger to count the reams. She stopped at twenty-four. “Five hundred sheets multiplied by twenty-four equals 12,000 sheets.”

  Betty did a quick mental calculation. “At fifteen dollars on one sheet, that’s would be $180,000 in fake bills. Just think what they would have if they’d printed a hundred dollar bill.”

  Tillie answered, “They wouldn’t. They’re too smart. Who checks a five-dollar bill? You walk into a store with a hundred, odds are, the clerk will hold it up to a light. But, paying with a crummy old Abe Lincoln? Who gives a crap?”

  Betty held a printed sheet of bills in the air. “How do they get the bills to look old?”

  “They’re dipped in iodine and whatever else they come up with. Look at the date on the bill.”

  Tillie handed Betty the sheet.

  “1988,” Betty read aloud.

  “That’s because, after that, the feds have all sorts of do-dads to check any new currency. Like a security strip hidden in the paper next to Abe’s face. Look at the packaging on one of unopened reams of paper. Tell me who makes it.”

  Betty slipped a ream from one of the shelving units. “I can’t tell. The printing on the packaging is foreign.”

  “Exactly. This paper was probably made in China or Iran. The paper you buy at Office Max is made in the good old USA from wood pulp. The stuff Boris is using is made from cotton fiber, just like the paper the Feds use.”

  “You do know a lot about this,” Betty said in awe.

  “Like I said, Prison 101.”

  “So you’re saying that if a clerk touches one of their counterfeit bills, it feels right.”

  Tillie nodded. “And looks okay. That’s where Rose comes in. The chemicals she uses makes the bills feel and look old. But that’s not all that’s going on.” Tillie picked up one of the thin black cards. “Can you guess what they’re doing with this?”

  “They’re counterfeiting credit cards?” Betty asked, looking around for a machine of some sort that would emboss the cards.

  “Not credit cards. The plastic is too thin for that, but not thin enough for a microchip. Inside one of these suckers is a chip strong enough to override a slot machine’s computer once its slipped inside the ticket-in, ticket-out slot.”

  “Hannah claimed there were too many jackpots being won,” Betty recalled.

  Tillie added, “Including one for thirteen million dollars.”

  Betty scanned the room once more. “There’s enough evidence here to put Boris away for eternity. We’ve got to find the sheriff.”

  “I agree. You head out the front and I’ll leave the same way I came in, through the luggage compartment.”

  “But, it’ll be quicker to use the front door.”

  “I want everything to look normal, in case Boris gets back here before we do,” Tillie insisted.

  Betty stepped out of the room and watched as Tillie pressed a switch. The wall slid shut and Tillie disappeared from sight.

  As Betty turned to leave she heard a small whirring sound and looked up. The web cam that she and Tillie thought was for bedroom games was following her every step. Betty raced outside and down the slippery steps. According to her wristwatch, the matinee was over in a matter of minutes.

  “Hurry up!” Betty cried, waiting for Tillie to emerge from the compartment underneath the bus.

  She waited only a few seconds more before she went blank.

  Chapter 27

  “Aunt Betty! Wake up!”

  Someone was shaking Betty’s shoulders like they were a sack of Idahos. For the briefest of moments she hoped it was only a bad dream, one that included a hand grenade detonating inside her head. A shock of icy cold startled Betty awake. Kneeling above her was Lori, who was holding a second handful of snow that waited to be tossed into Betty’s face.

  Betty asked, “Did I fall again?”

  “Not unless you tripped on a stuffed sock,” Lori said, holding up a bulging athletic sock tied tightly at the top with a pink ribbon.

  Betty pulled herself into an upright position and looked around, still confused. She mumbled, “Tillie?”

  Lori misunderstood what her aunt was asking. “It wasn’t Tillie who did this. I was halfway across the parking lot when I saw that Irish woman and Ogawa running towards you. You know, the one who was on stage when Slevitch was killed?”

  “She’s Serbian, not Irish. And her name isn’t Kelly, it’s Rose,” Betty informed her, as she stood upright.

  Lori said, “Well, whoever she is, she struck you across the back of your head with this sock filled with pennies. You went down immediately.”

  “You said Ogawa was running?” Betty rubbed her forehead. If she was going to continue being an amateur detective, she’d better start carrying aspirin.

  “Like a fifty-year old athlete,” Lori answered.

  Ogawa probably took lessons from Kevin Spacey’s performance in The Usual Suspects—or the other way around. In a flash Betty realized Boris’ tour bus was no longer there. It was missing. And so was Tillie.

  “Did you see Tillie get off the bus?” Betty asked.

  Lori answered, “No. All I saw was Rose and Ogawa jumping on. They drove that way.” Lori pointed her finger northward.

  Betty could see the purple and white vehicle as it sped past cars and maneuvered around snow blowers. She pointed at the speeding motor coach. “Tillie’s inside the secret room. We’ve got to stop it.”

  Lori’s gaze took on a look of concern. “Secret room? Aunt Betty, are you feeling okay?”

  “Yes,” Betty answered, although the inside of her head whirled like a Maytag on rinse. “Trust me, there’s a secret room in that bus and Tillie is inside it.”

  “I’ll call Severson,” Lori responded as she opened her purse to find her cell.

  “Call him from there, ” Betty pointed toward the roped-off Take A Chance bus. “We don’t have a second to lose.”

  “But, ...”

  “We have to follow Ogawa now!” Betty said, already sprinting toward the bus.

  For the first time in her life Betty’s extra weight acted like propulsion forcing her body forward at break-neck speed. She could tell her niece was struggling to keep up. Within a minute, Betty was at the side of the Take A Chance bus and yanking yellow crime scene tape off its door.

  Betty lowered herself onto the frigid asphalt and reached underneath the frame. She felt around for a few seconds and announced, “I know Tillie keeps a spare key somewhere down here.” She pulled out a small black metal box. “Here it is!”

  Sounding surprised, Lori said, “I have a magnetic box like that for my car. She has one for a friggin’ bus?”

  “It’s a Chicago thing,” Betty acknowledged as she slid open the top of the little container. She removed a key and opened the door. “Moms make their daughters hide a key in case their boyfriend wants more than a kiss. And Tillie will always be, no matter how tough she thinks she is, a South Side Girly-Girl.”

  Betty didn’t bother to pull down the steps, but instead hoisted herself up and onto the landing.

  Lori followed her, while managing to look inside her purse. As she began to rummage through her pockets, she groaned, “I don’t have my phone!”

  “We’ll use the phone on the bus to call the dispatcher.” Betty held the ignition key out to Lori. “You take the wheel.”

  Lori stared at the maze of pedals in front of her. “I can’t. I’ve never driven a manual transmission.”

  Betty said, “Okay, I’ll drive.”


  “You’ve driven a stick?” Lori asked.

  “Once,” Betty answered, sliding into the driver’s seat.

  “Once?”

  “When I was sixteen,” Betty said, slipping the key into the ignition.

  Lori stood next to her. She grabbed the vertical bar.

  Betty started the engine, pushed the clutch pedal down, shifted into first and stepped on the gas. The bus took off with a jolt that tossed Lori back onto the front seat.

  The windshield was dirty causing Betty to squint to see through it. She fiddled with buttons and levers and managed to turn the windshield wipers on. Another switch splashed washer fluid over the entire window. But, the frigid weather outside made the wiper fluid freeze almost instantly. Blowing snow played havoc with her limited vision. If the wind gusts picked up speed, she’d soon be dealing with driving in a blizzard.

  Lori pointed toward the stoplight a quarter mile away. “Ogawa’s bus is stopped behind an RV at the casino entrance.”

  Betty could see half a dozen news reporters and their trucks stationed along the shoulders of the road up ahead. She knew there was no way Ogawa could get around them safely. She might be able to catch up with him after all.

  Betty shifted into a higher gear, and pressed her foot hard against the gas pedal. The Take A Chance bus leapt over a concrete curb. She deftly guided the vehicle back onto the road.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Lori shouted, “The light’s turned green. Ogawa’s turning left.”

  “They’re heading to the freeway,” Betty said, worried. The expressway was only five miles away.

  “I bet they’ll try to make it to Canada,” Lori added, right before her aunt scraped the sides of both a parked Volvo and a rusted pick-up.

  “Crap,” Betty mumbled, gripping the steering wheel even tighter. She shifted gears. The sound of clunks and squeals rattled the air. The engine revved like a motorcycle driven by a teenager on his first ride.

  “I hate stick shifts,” she muttered.