Murder by Chance (Betty Chance Mystery) (3 page)

Betty intervened. “We turned the interior lights down after dusk. The lights were turned off completely after our stop in Tyler Falls.”

Severson’s eyes narrowed. “Tyler Falls is only an hour from here. Why’d you bother stopping when you were already late? Something doesn’t add up with your story,” he stated.

Betty’s discomfort quickly turned into anger. The sheriff was obviously suggesting they were hiding something. She spat out, “I felt both Tillie and the passengers needed a break to stretch their legs because of the road conditions. I was the one who insisted that Tillie pull into the truck stop.”

“Did Farsi get off the bus when you stopped? Did he go inside the truck stop?” Severson asked in a singsong voice that suggested the idiots in front of him wouldn’t have noticed anyway.

Betty clinched her teeth before admitting, “I can’t say for sure.”

The sheriff shot a glance at Tillie. “Did you ‘stretch your legs’ as well?”

“Sure did, plus I bought a cup of Joe for the road,” Tillie responded, then realized it was irrelevant information.

The sheriff asked the next question, as if he already knew Tillie’s answer. “Did you manage to lock the bus when you went into the truck stop?”

Tillie’s face turned red and for the first time she was completely flustered. “I don’t remember if I did. So, I guess the answer is … maybe?”

“Didn’t you count the passengers when you left the truck stop to make sure they all got back on?” he demanded.

“We did,” Betty sputtered, realizing what she was about to admit. “Well, not actually
count
because it looked to me like everyone was in their seats. And I knew for sure none of our passengers were still inside the truck stop.”

Severson looked into Betty’s eyes for a moment. “Exactly how…” he began to ask, his lids blinking rapidly like valves allowing his frustration to escape. “… did you know for sure?”

Betty could tell he expected her response would simply continue the downward spiral. She wished her answer could change that but she knew better. “Because,” she answered honestly, “I was the last one out of the truck stop. None of my passengers were inside when I left. I assumed they were all back at the bus.”

Severson turned to Tillie and asked accusingly, “Are you sure the only thing you did in Tyler Falls was buy coffee?”

Betty fumed. While she recognized that she and her crew were not have been as vigilant as they perhaps should have been, she was proud of the company she built—the company she
had
to build after her law-enforcement husband (“Defend and Protect”, indeed) left her to fend for herself. She was proud of the hard work she and Tillie put in each and every trip. She would not let Sheriff Severson bully her into thinking she was incompetent.

Betty interrupted, “Why are you asking her that, Sheriff?”

“For two reasons.” He paused, letting their imaginations run a little. “One, if the EMTs are correct, Farsi was killed an hour before you arrived at the casino, which, coincidently” (he nodded toward Tillie without looking at her) “was about the time Ms. McFinn was supposedly buying her latte.”

Tillie exhaled. Her last bit of cheerfulness dissipated. Her chin dropped to her chest.

“And the second reason?” Betty asked, trying to contain her anger.

“I don’t trust her and neither should you,” said Severson.

“And what’s that, Sheriff?”

“Because,” he said, leaning forward and folding his hands on the table, “your driver’s an ex-con.”

Betty grumbled to herself as she opened the door to her hotel room, still furious at Sheriff Severson’s attitude toward Tillie.

She walked to the bed and fell backwards on top of it. She wasn’t going to sleep. The sheriff had made her too angry to sleep. Not only was he rude and accusatory, there was no need of him to remind her of her friend’s background. Tillie had revealed all of it the first day they met.

Betty recalled how Tillie strolled into the offices of Take A Chance Tours, smelling of Aqua Net hairspray and menthol cigarettes. Her tight denim skirt ended three inches from the top of her knee-high black leather boots. The short faux fur jacket she sported was as shockingly pink as her lip-gloss. Numerous tattoos were easily visible. Betty guessed that at least another dozen more were hidden beneath her ensemble.

She stopped in the middle of the room, her feet planted shoulder-width. As she placed her hands hard on her hips, her bracelets slid down her arms coming to a screeching halt at her wrists. She looked like she was prepping herself for battle, as if defending herself was an everyday occurrence. Though she was small in stature, an Amazonian warrior would look timid in comparison.

“Who’s in charge of this juke joint?” Tillie asked loudly.

Well, thought Betty. This office is hardly a “joint.” but when Tillie flashed her big, winning smile, she knew the brash woman in front of her was just being friendly.

Betty stood up and reached out her hand.

“I’m Betty Chance, the owner.”

“Chance? As in no chance in hell?” Tillie asked, unleashing that smile again.

Betty resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Since marrying into the Chance family, she’d heard that particular phrase a million times. But at least this warrior princess hadn’t used the one she dreaded the most:  fat chance.

“It’s not as uncommon a name as you might think,” Betty replied. “And you are…?”

“I’m your new driver,” Tillie said, shaking Betty’s hand firmly. “I’ve just been hired by Chicago Bus & Truck.”

Tillie’s eyes roamed the room until they caught Betty’s expectant look.

“And your name…?” Betty asked.

“Oh, sorry,” she said laughing, “the name’s Tillie. Tillie McFinn.”

Betty sat.

“Welcome aboard!” she said and motioned for Tillie to follow suit. She did.

“You didn’t have to come in to meet with me in person,” Betty said. “I trust the company to hire the best.”

“It’s better we get acquainted beforehand,” Tillie replied, crossing her legs.

“I suppose you’re right since we’ll be spending a lot of time together.”

Her top leg began bouncing up and down as if a toddler were onboard. Tillie was one hundred and twenty-five pounds of nuclear energy compressed into a five-foot two-inch frame.

“Well. I like to get everything out in the open before a working relationship is established,” she said.

Out in the open? Betty leaned back in her leather chair. Whatever Tillie was going to tell her it was guaranteed to be interesting.

“First of all,” Tillie continued earnestly, “I’m a real good driver. I’ve driven professionally for over seven years. I’ve never had an accident or a ticket.”

“Yes, I know,” Betty began, “You come highly recommended and …”

“Plus, I go to Mass once a week,” Tillie continued anxiously, “sometimes even twice.”

“Well, that’s great,” Betty said, wondering if Tillie had ingested seventeen gallons of Starbucks prior to her arrival. She’d never met anyone who was so apologetic and high-strung at the same time. “But you really didn’t have to come all this way …”

“Yes, I did!” Tillie said with such force that it stopped the conversation.

Betty straightened the pen on her desk.

“Like I said,” Tillie resumed, softening her voice. “I don’t like surprises and neither do most people.” Her leg stopped its galloping. She took a deep breath and looked Betty in the eye. “At least not when it comes to finding out that the person they work with served a little time.” Tillie fell silent. And waited.

Well, well, Betty thought, the one-woman fun factory in front of her had been in prison.

She feigned innocence. “Time?”

Tillie let out a slow breath. “I did ten years in the Dwight Correctional Center for armed robbery. I was released seven years ago this June.”

“Armed robbery?” Betty asked, now feeling a twinge of worry.

“If it helps, it was only a tiny gun, and I
was
only nineteen at the time. But, I did have a gun, and it was a robbery.”

Betty asked, “And who did you rob, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A stupid convenience store.” Tillie rolled her eyes as she had done so many times since the night she walked through the door of the dimly lit establishment of narrow aisles, crammed shelves, and three-day old pastries. “And to top it off, it happened on the worse night of any girl’s life.”

Betty lifted on eyebrow quizzically.

“Her best friend’s wedding,” Tillie responded. “Not only was my BFF leaving me to live with some dweeb in What-the-F, Ohio, but I was PMSing big time, stoned, craving chocolate and desperately needing a tampon.”

Tillie paused as if remembering something incredibly horrible. Her shoulders shuddered and she added, “…and don’t even get me started on the dress I was forced to wear. Let me just say that day-glow orange is never a good color choice, no matter what the season.”

Betty bit her lip to refrain from laughing. She’d been to too many autumn weddings where the bridesmaid ensemble had the sex appeal of a traffic cone with ruffles.

Tillie continued. “My driver for the evening was the best man, the groom’s brother. As soon as I got in the car, he tells me not to worry. That he’s packing heat in case someone tries to hijack the car.”

“I assume he too was from What-the-F, Ohio?” Betty asked.

Tillie nodded. “I thought he was just a small town kid who’d come into the big scary city for a family wedding. I demanded he hand me the gun immediately or I wouldn’t let him give me a ride home.”

“Bad idea?”

“Big time bad idea. Right after I slipped the 38mm into my rhinestone clutch bag, I insisted we stop at the nearest minimart. Like I said, I needed a fresh tamp and I was jonesing for a Snickers. So when he pulls into the parking lot, I get out alone and head into the store in my full-length taffeta nightmare. I managed to cram myself and my puffy skirt down the skinny aisles. When I came to the sanitation needs section, I opened my bag. Naturally, I had to pull the gun out of the bag to get to my money.”

“Naturally,” Betty concurred.

Tillie continued. “The cashier immediately held his hands up in the air like I was there to rob the place. It took only a half a minute to hear police sirens in the distance. I assumed the cashier set off the security alarm because he saw the gun.”

“What happened next?”

“I panicked. The only thing I understood completely was that I still needed Tampax. So I grabbed a box and shoved it in my purse. What I shouldn’t have done was spend four minutes trying to find the Snickers. You know, it used to be easy. You wanted a Snickers, you grabbed a Snickers. Now they have Snickers Caramel, Snickers Dark Chocolate, Snicker lite, Snickers Everything-But-The-Kitchen Sink. Just give me a friggin’ Snickers!” Tillie took a breath. “Anyways, that gave the police cars enough time to arrive.”

“Cars?” Betty asked. It was hard enough to get a cop car to arrive at a crime scene, must less plural. The convenience store must have been in one of the worst neighborhoods in Chicago.

“Two of them,” Tillie answered. “They screeched up the moment I stepped out of the front door. It was then I saw my supposed date speeding away, leaving me to face the Chicago police on my own. My temper got the best of me. Suddenly the whole evening flashed before my eyes. My best friend leaving me to face adulthood alone, the amazingly stupid dress I was wearing, a wedding band that only played ABBA, and then some jerk was deserting me and heading to Ohio, just like my BFF. It was all too much to take.”

“What did you do?”

“I lifted the gun and aimed it directly at his car. I took a shot and one of his back tires exploded. Fortunately, I knew enough to drop the gun and hit the ground in surrender. I didn’t want to die in a shoot-out with the cops.”

“And they gave you ten years for that?” Betty asked skeptically.

Tillie said, “They gave me ten years for choosing the wrong man to hang out with. Something I’ve managed to do all of my life. That small town rube was also a big time felon, wanted in two different states. The gun I had in my hands had been used in the killing of a highway patrolman. Bottom line, the judge threw the book at me for a first time offense.”

Betty totally understood what happened. When it came to murdering anyone in law enforcement, tears often blurred judgment.

Tillie added, “But I do know it was my fault. I shouldn’t have put the gun in my purse. I shouldn’t have gotten that stoned and drunk. I should not have taken the Tampax or the six candy bars. See, the thing with me and shooting out tires? That’s got nothing to do with me being a criminal. It’s got something to do with my having a short fuse. My shrink told me it’s genetic, something I inherited.”

Betty’s eyebrow arched up in confusion. “Genetic?” she asked.

Tillie’s chime-like laughter filled the room. “Can’t you tell by my red hair? I’ve got one hundred percent Irish DNA on my daddy’s side.” She mimicked in an Irish brogue, “McFinn, don’t ya know.”

Betty placed her hands over her lips, trying to hide her smile, and considered the situation. She appreciated the fact that Tillie wanted to be honest about her past and wondered how many people refused to hire her once they found out she’d been in prison. Betty believed people could change. She sensed that the thirty-some-year-old in front of her was a far cry from the gun-wielding kid of the past. She thought of Tillie’s joke: “As in no chance in hell?” But Betty believed in second chances, having been forced into one herself. She decided to live up to her name, and that of her company, and take a chance.

“Well, then,” Betty smiled, “we’re bound to get along.”

“You think?” Tillie replied, clearly relieved.

“Because,” Betty added, “I’m half Irish too.”

Tillie’s grin could have circled the moon.

“Then for sure we’ll get along!” Tillie said. She added mischievously, “Or maybe just het into a whole lot of trouble.”

**

A year later, lying on a hotel bed in Moose Bay, Betty wondered if trouble would once again become Tillie’s middle name. The sheriff had just inferred Tillie was a suspect.

Betty sat up and looked around the hotel room. Her luggage had been sitting in the unopened for hours. Normally, she would have been in the room almost as long as her bags. She would have updated her blog and checked her email. And since it was 3:07 A.M., she’d be sound asleep and not riding the rollercoaster of emotions she was feeling.

She knew she should call her son Codey before he left work for home. Like his dad, he was a Chicago cop. There was a good chance that by now he would have heard of a murder on a tour bus originating from the Windy City. Codey worked the third watch—the late shift—in Chicago’s nightclub district. Unlike his father, who investigated homicides, Codey had chosen vice.

Emotionally exhausted, she decided to wait until morning. She vacillated between wrath and overwhelming sadness. Farsi’s death wasn’t her fault but she felt guilty nevertheless. If she hadn’t started Take A Chance Tours, the man would be alive and Tillie wouldn’t be getting the third degree from a small-town-sheriff.

But what could she do? Find an office job? She’d fought dyslexia since birth. Her tying speed was only forth words per minute, unless you counted the mistakes—then her average speed was zero. Typing was one of the few things she couldn’t conquer. Another one was waitressing. She gave up after three days of short-changing the restaurant through her own mistakes. She pondered working as a Wal-Mart greeter like her friend Vicki but soon realized that standing on her feet all day, while remaining cheery, was something she could not carry off for more than a week. Not with her bunions and weight. Maybe she should have waited for her online blog to grow and eventually support her. True, her blog only earned around sixty dollars a month. Tops. But the income from it was growing daily—by pennies.

Betty decided if she couldn’t sleep, she might as well do one thing she was good at, tackle her blog. She was too tired to bend down, so she kicked off her shoes.

Usually, she posted an entry on Buffet Betty’s Blog as soon as the tour arrived at its destination. A few of her insomniac readers would certainly have noticed by now she hadn’t written a thing. In fact, they’d probably already commented in the response section. They’d be asking if she’d arrived yet or, teasing her that she’d forgotten her dedicated fans, if she was sitting mesmerized in front of a penny slot.

Tonight’s posting would be a challenge. Normally, she’d type in a few sentences that were fun and informative.
We’ve arrived safely at our destination! And I am now counting the hours until breakfast of Stuffed Pecan French Toast at the Hungry Moose Buffet! Stay tuned
!