Murder by Chance (Betty Chance Mystery) (16 page)

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.”

“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.

It took only a few minutes for Tony to win the first game. A Four of a Kind made it easy for him. The second game was won by him as well, and then another.

“Good job,” Lori gushed after his third win, happy for him as he gathered more chips, yet unhappy for herself. Her stack was already dwindling in number.

“Thanks,” he said, paying little attention to what she said. He was deep into his zone of concentration.

The martini drinker next to him didn’t notice Tony’s solitary demeanor. Instead, he growled, “Well, at least I can tell my grandkids I lost their inheritance to Tony Gillette.”

As to be expected, Tony kept on winning. But, Lori surprised everyone by calling an all-in on the tenth game and raking in a mound of chips as her prize.

“I’m out,” one of the men said, shooting her a look of shock and awe. “You’re a lot smarter than you look, Lady.”

She didn’t take offense. She’d just taken $2,000 off the man. “Thanks but I’m just movie star dumb and very lucky,” she admitted playfully and readied her chips for the next bet.

During the next hour of play, a few players came and went. Tony and Lori remained firmly in their seats, sipping water as the others chugged down their free booze.

Tony continued to take the majority of the hands. Lori managed to win a few. She was riding high when two men in dark suits walked up to the table. One of the burly giants placed a large hand on Tony’s shoulder and gripped it tightly. He said loud enough for everyone at the table to hear, “Please come with us, Mr. Gillette.”

Tony stiffened. He didn’t ask why they wanted him to follow. He set his cards on the table downside. “Is there a problem?” he asked, through gritted teeth, his granite-like face showing no emotion.

“Please, follow us,” the giant repeated. Lori noticed that two more suited men had appeared in the doorway. They were all wearing the same stern expressions.

Grabbing his chips, Tony stood up abruptly. He glanced at Lori, and in a brief change of attitude said, “Have fun.”

He turned and proceeded out of the room. The gang of men closely followed behind.

“What the …” One of the men exclaimed, stopping in mid-sentence to drink a large portion of his vodka on rocks.

“You think he was cheating? Maybe card counting?” a young man, seated next to Lori on her left, asked. He looked up at the dozen or so eyes in the skies. “Man, oh man, if he was, he is so screwed.”

The martini drinker retorted in disgust, “Of course he wasn’t counting cards. He’s Tony Gillette, for Pete’s sake. And don’t you know you’re not supposed to swear at a table?”

“Screwed isn’t a swear word,” the young man said, and then must have realized it would be better for him to apologize. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

You think you’re sorry, now? Just wait till I’m done playing you, you’ll be more than screwed. You’ll be broke!
Lori thought in retaliation. Tony was obviously in some sort of trouble, and the punk next to her had made light of it.

Abruptly, another player took the side of the young man by adding, “Just because someone’s a champion, don’t mean he can’t be a cheater.”

It was then that three words drifted into Lori’s mind about Tony that she’d never thought she’d imagine.
Or a murderer
.

Disgusted with that thought, Lori quickly forced it from developing any further. She had absolutely no reason to think that Tony was connected to either Farsi or Slevitch’s death. Besides, she didn’t want to think about
that
right now. She couldn’t. Right now she only wanted to think about winning.

As the next card was dealt Lori’s concerns disappeared. Instead of being worried about Tony, she concentrated on the game. When she saw the three Aces she’d been dealt, she knew the fates were on her side.

For the next six hours, she didn’t think of Tony once. At 7:00 A.M., when she finally left the table, she was holding in her hands what the others once held: their money.

It is so cold—Polar bears are buying fur coats.

It is so cold—my lawyer’s putting his hands in his own pocket.

Every Rodney Dangerfield one liner she’d ever heard about being cold jumped into Betty’s brain. If nothing else, at least she’d freeze to death with a grin on her face. It was nine in the morning and Betty was standing in twelve-degree weather waiting for Tillie. According to the irritatingly happy weather woman on the local channel, the wind chill stood at twenty-two below zero.

She pushed her gloved hands further into the pockets of her hooded parka. A red wool muffler covered most of her face. How she’d carry on a conversation outdoors was beyond her comprehension. But when she called Tillie’s room a few minutes earlier, Tillie refused to speak to her, either on the phone or indoors.

Betty felt Tillie was being paranoid, but her fears could turn out to be justified. Casinos were known to go to any measure to protect their interests.

“Hey,” came a voice cutting through the thick, frigid air. “Cold enough for ya?”

Betty turned and saw that Tillie hadn’t bothered to wear a muffler. The Cubs cap her friend had on provided minimal protection in the piercing wind. At least Tillie’s faux rabbit fur jacket looked warm.

“Could be colder, ya know,” Betty shot back.

The interchange of over-the-top Minnesota dialect had been their favorite in-joke on the drive north. The women were die-hard fans of the movie
Fargo
. Despite the film’s title, the movie was set primarily in Minnesota, not North Dakota. Betty and Tillie had perfected their Minnesota tongue all the way from Chicago to Moose Bay.

Tillie increased her speed. Her short, muscular legs sped down the sidewalk. Betty struggled to keep up, mumbling through her scarf, “How far are we walking?”

“I’m thinking Florida,” Tillie answered.

Betty lowered her muffler and said, “Okay, but we’re stopping in St Louis for a pee break.”

They walked in silence for a while, their path following the sidewalk that circled the property. Only two other people were outside—a lone jogger and a single maintenance man operating a snow blower.

After a few minutes Tillie said, “Remember the woman who was on stage with me last night?”

“The once Flamenco dancer slash Viking blonde slash Irish redhead?” Betty asked, rolling her eyeballs upward to make sure they hadn’t frozen in place.

Tillie said, “She and I met in prison years ago.”

“Tell me about her.”

“Her real name is Rose. She was always larger than life, even when she weighed a hundred pounds less than she does now. Her weight gain is the reason I didn’t immediately recognize her,” Tillie admitted, her breath escaping with every word and hanging in mid-air like comic-strip dialogue.

“Get out of here!” Betty said, suddenly feeling empathy for the woman. Gaining a hundred pounds could make anyone go bananas. She, if no one else, could understand that. Still, exchanging binge eating for binge killing was hardly the answer. Weight Watchers is usually the preferred choice.

Tillie admitted, “I thought she looked familiar. But, I couldn’t place her.”

The two women walked down the plowed sidewalk, watching their steps as they negotiated patches of ice. Betty kept quiet. Tillie’s memories were obviously painful for her. The best thing to do would be to let her friend open up at her own pace.

After a dozen yards Tillie said, “I didn’t know her very well. She was the leader of a Serbian gang. Their main enemies were the Croatian prisoners, who also did their fair share of ass kicking. As did the Irish, Italian, Baptist, Jewish and Aryan gangs.”

“What gang did you belong to?”

Tillie chuckled. “The musical theatre gang. Now that’s a guaranteed way to get your butt kicked in the pen.”

“Or in high school!” Betty added.

“Anyways, that’s how I met Rose,” Tillie explained, pulling her bill cap a bit farther down on her forehead.

“She was part of the theatre group?” Betty asked, realizing that could explain the woman’s penchant for impersonation. That, or she suffered from multiple personality disorder.

Tillie said, “No, but she wanted to be. When we held auditions for
West Side Story
, Rose stormed in and demanded we give her the lead. She claimed she was born into a family of brilliant actors.”

“Did she get the part? If so, I’m guessing it was as Tony and not Maria,” Betty said, wondering if someone could freeze to death while both talking and walking. She watched as cars carefully negotiated the parking lanes and plowed roads.

Tillie said, “We told her she couldn’t carry a tune and offered her a job with the stage crew. That infuriated her and she vowed to get even.”

“Seems petty,” Betty questioned.

“In prison, petty can seem pretty big.”

“Did she?” Betty asked as ice began to form on her eyelashes. “Get even?”

Tillie said, “The night of the performance, the set caught fire. The inmate who played Maria was seriously burned. No one could prove it, but we decided the arsonist was Rose.”

Betty decided if Rose took the chance of killing someone by arson she’d just as likely try to murder again. Betty revealed her chilled lips and asked, “Do you think she’s trying to frame you because you didn’t cast her? Wouldn’t that make her a total psychopath?” She replaced the knitted scarf back over her mouth.

Tillie shrugged. She said, “Trust me, all actors are crazy. But actually, I may be just a convenient fall guy for her. It could be coincidental that we’re both here at the same time. Or, who knows? Maybe she planned it. I’ve been your driver on other trips. It’s likely that I would be your driver again.”

The two reached the area where Betty had fallen the day before. Betty said, “It was right around here that I slipped.”

“Are you sure you slipped?” Tillie asked.

“Sure, I remember being near this part when I ...”

Tillie interrupted, “No, I mean, are you sure it was your fault? Rose was known for sneaking up on inmates and knocking them out from behind. Her trademark was flinging a coin-filled sock to the back of the head.”

To be honest, Betty couldn’t be sure what happened. She asked, “Why would Rose attack
me?
”

Tillie shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe it was because you’re my friend. Or Rose thinks you know something. Rose is half-psycho and half-bitch.”

Betty wrapped her arms tighter around her torso. She said, “I still don’t have a clue as to why people keep getting killed.”

“I might,” Tillie said as she lifted her jacket’s collar high around her bare neck. “Do you want to know what Rose said to me onstage?”

Betty nodded.

“‘If you sing, you die’. In prison, that was the Serbian gang’s warning about going to the cops.” Tillie shivered.

“Why didn’t you tell me last night when I asked?” Betty asked.

“I didn’t want to get you involved or put you in danger. I keep forgetting that because we’re friends you already are.” Then Tillie asked hopefully, “We’ll always be friends, right Betty? No matter what?”

Betty placed her gloved hand on Tillie’s shoulder for reassurance. In a lighthearted tone, she quipped, “Like I’ve said before, ‘buds for life.’” But she knew Tillie would take her answer seriously, just as Betty did with their friendship.

Betty glanced back toward the casino hotel in the distance. In the cold and the wind, it felt like the picturesque entrance was three thousand miles away. She said, “Both Slevitch and Rose were both Serbian. Do you think they were related?”

Tillie answered, “I think they might have been married.”

Betty replied skeptically, “If he was her husband, she didn’t seem too upset when he was killed in front of her.”

Tillie waved off her answer. She said, “From what I hear about marriage, a lot of wives wouldn’t be upset if their husbands were killed.”

Betty stopped walking and suddenly announced, “Wait a minute! I just remembered Tom said Farsi was Serbian. It can’t be a coincidence they are all at Moose Bay at the same time.”

Tillie responded, “I agree. And didn’t you say Tom thinks there’s something fishy about the progressive jackpot win. Thirteen million could help to erase a lot of spousal guilt.”

Betty knew it was the right time to ask about Slevitch’s last moments on earth. She grabbed Tillie’s wrist and demanded, “What were Slevitch’s last words?”

Tillie stopped walking and wrapped her arms around her body tightly as if holding herself for comfort. She said solemnly, “He muttered the word ‘Boris’ and then said ‘look inside’”.

“Does that make any sense,” Betty replied.

“Actually it does make total sense, considering what he handed me,” Tillie said as she reached into her pocket. “I didn’t know what he gave me at first because it was wrapped up in a slip of paper.” She pulled out a brass key.

Betty asked, “Is that a house key?”

“No, it unlocks a bus.” Tillie lifted her hand and pointed her gloved finger at the purple and white bus with the words
Boris The Baffler
plastered across the side. She said, “That bus.”

Betty’s heart raced. Just yesterday the owner of the bus tried unsuccessfully to charm her Tuesday panties off her. Now that entire romantic episode had turned into something sinister. She asked, “What are you going to do with the key?”

Tillie answered cynically. “Use it, of course.”

“You could give it to the police,” Betty suggested, as a wind gust played havoc with her outerwear. Her moist breath was creating an ice wall on the inside of her muffler.
How do people live in Minnesota?
She wondered.

Tillie continued, “I can’t. What if there’s evidence in the bus that connects Boris to the murder? Or me or you?”

Reluctantly Betty realized she’d have to admit her little dalliance of the day before. She said sheepishly, “Well, you won’t be the first person from Take A Chance to break into his bus.”

Tillie gave her a quizzical look and said, “What are you saying?”

Betty explained how yesterday she’d seen Ogawa and Boris arguing on the stairs, right before she fell on the ice. She told how she’d entered the vehicle uninvited and that Boris had shown up. That he readily accepted her explanation of concern about her oldest rider, Ogawa. She was telling Tillie about the champagne and the disco ball hanging over Boris’ bed when Tillie stopped her abruptly.

“You were in Boris’ bedroom?”

Embarrassed Betty muttered, “The door to the bedroom was open. I only peeked inside.”

Tillie exclaimed, “Betty Chance! In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never flirted with a single man—or a married one. Does this mean you’re finally over that idiotic ex-husband of yours and moving on?”

Betty half-smiled. “Looks like I’m over that idiot ex and searching out other idiots.” Betty glanced at the bus. “When are we going to use the key? Now?” she asked, wondering if she’d actually have the nerve to go through with Tillie’s plan.

Tillie shook her head and turned around, heading back to the hotel. She said, “During Boris’ afternoon matinee.”

Betty shuffled alongside her. She said, “None of this seems real to me.”

Tillie brushed a few snowflakes off her faux fur. She said, “You got that right. Including the bit you told me about Ogawa.”

“Which bit?” Betty asked.

Tillie answered, “You said Ogawa showed up at Boris’ door, begging for help in learning how to pull a rabbit out of a hat.”

“What’s odd about that?”

“Remember when you asked me to check on passengers? When I found Ogawa, he was showing someone a card trick.”

Betty said, “Well, anyone can learn a few party tricks.”

Tillie said, “That’s what Ogawa said to me when I told him I was impressed. But one of the other passengers blurted out that Ogawa was the finest magician in all of Belgrade.”

“Belgrade? That’s in Serbia, isn’t it? Ogawa told me he was from Budapest.”

Tillie smirked. “Well that’s funny, because I heard him tell someone else he was from Krakow and his father was Japanese.”

Betty made a quick decision about Ogawa and his little list of things to do. She said, “I guess there’s one more thing Ogawa has put on his list before he dies.”

“What’s that?” Tillie asked.

“Learn to tell the friggin’ truth.” Betty answered.