Murder by Chance (Betty Chance Mystery) (13 page)

“Let me get this straight,” Severson leaned back in the conference room chair, his hands linked behind his head. “Your cell phone is missing. Your laptop was ripped off from your hotel room around the same time your Chicago office was broken into and your office computer taken which just happened to contain the file pertaining to the trip you’re on.” He paused. “Is that about right?”

Betty fidgeted as she sat across from the sheriff. She said, “I don’t know if it was
exactly
the same time, but darn close. Our assistant was out of the office on her coffee break when it happened.”

“Did she leave the office unlocked the same way Tillie left the bus unlocked?” Severson taunted.

Betty admitted, “I don’t know. Sometimes, Gloria forgets things. But, it’s never caused a problem until now.”

Severson shook his head in disgust. “Does anyone from Chicago ever bother to lock a door?”

Betty didn’t respond. The two were alone in the conference room the sheriff had deemed as his temporary on-site office. His men were upstairs in her hotel room, going over it inch-by-inch, looking for any shred of evidence.

She had dispatched Tillie and Lori to check up on any passengers they could find. Taking care of her clients was something Betty was used to doing by herself. The guilt of neglecting them on this trip was nagging at her. She didn’t have time to answer idiotic questions from a stupid man-child.

Severson jotted down a few notes and asked, “Did the stolen file contain information about the tour you’re currently on?”

Betty reached for the carafe of coffee sitting on the tabletop. She refilled her cup as well as well as the sheriff’s. If acting like a girly-girl secretary would help him to treat her with respect, she’d do it.

She answered, “Fortunately, the file’s information is on the USB drive I burned for you earlier. All we have to do is figure out why my office and hotel room were broken into at the same time. Obviously, whoever took my laptop from my room is connected to someone back in Chicago.”

Severson glared at her with a smug look on his face. “We?”

Betty knew she’d taken a leap of faith to include the term we in regards to the investigation. She said, “I know I can help you. We can go over the information together. If there’s anything that looks suspicious or out of place, I can ...”

“Solve the mystery? Like some sort of Angela Lansbury?” he interrupted right before half-a-grin emerged.

Betty couldn’t tell if he wasn’t being sarcastic. He appeared ready to accept her offer of help.

He removed his arms from behind his head and pointed his finger accusingly at her whenever he used the word
you
. “I know
you
like working a case and that
you
think of yourself as an amateur detective.”

“Why do you think that?”

Your son called me this morning.”

“Codey called you?”

“He told me you and your husband would …”

“Ex-husband,” she corrected.

Severson continued, “…work his unsolved cases together when you two were married. I guess even the Chicago Police department considers you something of a …” he paused.

She grimaced at what word could have been said about her constant involvement. “Buttinsky?” she asked.

“Expert at crime analysis,” Severson answered. For the first time, his remark sounded like a compliment rather than an accusation.

She relaxed and leaned back in the comfortable swivel chair. “My son would say that, but I’m not sure that my ex would completely agree. I couldn’t figure out he’d been sleeping around from day one of our marriage. I think that proves I’m not the great amateur detective I thought I was.”

Severson smiled gently. “Maybe you didn’t figure anything out because you didn’t think there was anything to figure out.”

“You’re right, I didn’t,” she said. One of Betty’s biggest flaws was in trusting the people she loved unconditionally.

“Well,” Severson said thoughtfully, “a spouse shouldn’t have to.”

Betty looked at the Sheriff who seemed to grow a little older before her eyes.

The sheriff turned his attention back to the case. “There must be a connection to Take a Chance.”

Betty realized that, without saying so, Severson had just accepted her offer of help. Or, at the very least, admitted she was no longer an adversary.

Severson reached into his attaché case and pulled out a stack of papers. They were the printed version of the documents Betty had given to him on the USB drive. He started shifting through the items. “There has to be some sort of incriminating evidence with this file, or it wouldn’t have been stolen.”

“Or there’s a third possibility,” Betty suggested, pausing to ensure he wanted her to continue.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“The murderer is trying to throw us off track. He, or she, knows we will spend a lot of time investigating the data in this file.”

“Time that could be spent investigating other leads,” he said, finishing her thought. The sheriff nodded his head in understanding. “Could be. By the way, is anyone connected with Take A Chance involved in any sort of criminal activity or have a criminal background?”

Betty wondered if he were still testing her. “You mean a criminal background other than Tillie’s? I assume you already know everything about her felony conviction.”

“I mean anything of late. I’m looking for an activity that wouldn’t be on the books.”

Betty answered, “Not that I know of. To be honest, even though we’ve become friends, Tillie and I don’t socialize outside of work. But, I’m sure she’d never do anything that would land her back in prison.”

“How long has Tillie been an employee?”

“Technically, Tillie doesn’t work for us. She works for the bus company we contract with. If I ask her however, Tillie will do favors for me while on tour—like track down a passenger. I don’t pay her a salary but I tip her very well. The only employees at Take A Chance are Lori, Gloria and myself.”

“What about Lori? Any dark secrets lurking in her background?”

For a change, Severson didn’t blush when he mentioned Lori’s name.

Betty grinned. “Her one continual act of lawlessness is speeding. But, my niece usually charms her way out of any ticket.”

Severson tapped his pen methodically on the tabletop. “What about the people the three of you hang with? Are any of them experiencing problems? Drugs? Gambling? Money issues?”

Betty shook her head. “Not only are the three of us boringly normal, but so are our friends.”

“Even Gloria?”

“Well, she did tell me she would like to kill every single patron who failed to return their library books, but other than that she’s pretty normal.”

“Still, you don’t spend every single moment with either Tillie, Lori or Gloria,” he reminded her. “There’s no way you can know what a person is up to behind closed doors.”

“That’s true,” Betty answered.

“Let’s examine this file,” he said, dividing the papers into three stacks.

One stack contained the filled-out information forms for the trip. The second contained Betty’s cheat sheet on each client. The third stack provided the accounting information, including individual costs and forms of payment.

The sheriff said, “We need to analyze each bit of information on each of the passengers.”

Betty noted the “We” and smiled to herself.

“Let’s look at their method of payment,” he continued. “Their likes or dislikes ...”

Betty nodded. She knew they couldn’t disregard any bit of information. A single flake of evidence could lead to an avalanche of proof.

Betty stood up and walked to the large presentation board on the wall. Grabbing a black dry erase marker from the aluminum tray she turned to the sheriff. “Where do you want to start?”

“Let’s begin with the ones who are related.”

“Well, we have five married couples,” Betty said, as she listed their names on the board. “Four of the couples have traveled with us before.”

“Put an asterisk next to the new riders,” Severson suggested.

Betty followed his suggestion. While continuing to write she said, “There’s a mother and daughter who are repeat customers, as well as a new mother and son. We also have a grandfather and grandson. The grandfather told me it’s the boy’s eighteenth birthday today.”

She drew asterisks next to their names and continued, “There are three sisters as well as a pair of sister-in-laws.” Betty placed the marker back in the metal tray. “As far as I know, no one else is related.”

“Tell me what you can about the new riders,” the sheriff instructed.

Betty glanced at her watch. It was already past four-thirty. She was scheduled to meet a few of her clients for dinner at six before heading to the showroom by seven. She’d have loved to return to her room for the shower she still hadn’t been able to take. There was no telling what her make-up or hair looked like. Still, finding the killer was more important than smearing on lip-gloss.

“Group the new riders into similar likes and dislikes,” Severson suggested.

Betty connected the riders who preferred poker tournaments. Slot machine aficionados were on their own, as well as bingo players. In her time as a tour host, she’d found most gamblers habitually stayed with their game of choice throughout the entire trip.

She wrote a “CC” next to their name if they’d used a credit card for payment, a check mark if they paid with a check, or a dollar sign if they had paid in cash.

“Did any of them mail in a cash payment?” Severson asked.

Betty answered, “No. A cash client has to come into the office and prepay for the trip or they’re not guaranteed a spot.”

“How many people paid in cash?”

She tallied up the figures. “Seven.”

“You sound surprised. Is that a lot?”

“It’s more than normal. Usually, two or three pay in cash. Hannah is always one of them.”

Severson asked, “Besides Farsi, how many of the new riders paid cash?”

“All of them,” Betty answered.

She studied the five names: three men and two women. She racked her brain to discover a commonality among the group. She noticed a higher number of male riders than the norm. Females usually outnumbered the men two to one.

She focused again on newbies and the fact that one of new riders had been Farsi. Except for Mr. Ogawa, none of the men listed had been friendly toward her or Tillie. In fact they’d been distant and cold. She realized something else, something she hadn’t noticed before although it had been right there all along blocking her view.

“Well, Sheriff Severson,” she said, turning around to face him, a small smile emerging. “I just realized one more lie my husband told me.”

“What do you mean?” he asked intently.

“Size does matter.”

“Is this machine taken?” Tillie asked cheerfully as she sat down in front of a Wheel of Fortune slot. She’d recognized the man next to her as one of her passengers. She announced, “I love this machine. Every time Pat Sajak’s face pops up on the screen, I get excited. What a hunk!”

The man didn’t acknowledge her comment. Tillie carried on anyway, “I identify with Vanna, her loving rhinestones and such. I don’t mean to brag, but I know I could do her job. I’m real good at pointing things out that need to be pointed out.”

The man just grunted.

“You rode on my bus, didn’t you? Maybe you don’t recognize me? I’m Tillie, your driver.”

“I know who you are,” he said in a slightly agitated voice, his pale thick fingers continuing to work the machines.

Probably unfriendly because he was on a losing streak, figured Tillie. Gamblers were like that. Though he didn’t seem keen on her attention, Tillie believed it was her duty to converse with him for a bit longer. Later, after returning home, the sixty-some-year old would remember a sexy woman flirted with him. He’d immediately re-book.

Tillie continued to chat and spin the wheels. On her last attempt, she netted a nine-cent profit.

She pressed the cash out button and announced, “I always quit when I’m ahead.” She plucked the ticket from the slot and scrambled out of the seat. “Don’t forget, we have comp tickets for the seven o’clock show.”

His response was a grunt followed by a belch. Tillie scooted away as fast as she could, afraid of which orifice would next offer a greeting.
Men!
She grumbled, as she searched for more passengers. She noticed Lori heading toward Hannah. Hannah was shoving one bill after another into the machine. At the end of the row was another passenger. He too was enormous. His wide body easily spread across two chairs. One of his trunk-like legs stretched down the aisle and the other was scrunched between the machine and chairs.

Tillie slid into the chair nearest him. “You rode with us from Chicago, didn’t you?” she asked, her voice as bubbly as the cacophony of the surrounding machines. “I’m Tillie, your driver.”

“Slevitch,” he muttered, never letting his eyes leave the video poker machine. He continued pushing the button on the machine with a finger that could have doubled as a corn dog.

The man was playing one quarter at a time. If he hit a royal flush, he’d only win two hundred bucks, instead of the $24,000.00 progressive if he’d bet five quarters at a time. Either he was broke or he wanted what Tillie wanted, to lose his money as slowly as possible.

She asked sweetly, “Have any luck, yet?”

He rasped, “There’s no such thing as luck.”

“Really? I thought all gamblers believed in that four-letter word.”

Slevitch growled out, “I don’t. There’s only one thing that counts. Mathematics. It takes strategy to play the odds.”

He picked up his ice-filled drink. Tillie could smell the gin on his breath when he spoke. She noticed an accent but couldn’t place it. The man had boarded the bus could be from anywhere in the world. Tillie herself was half-Polish, as well as Irish.

Tillie asked, “Mathematics? Like in two plus two kind of math?”

He crunched on a piece of ice. “It’s more complicated than that.”

She sighed. “Well, no wonder I’m not a good gambler. Unless I have a calculator, I can’t add one plus one, much less two.”

For the first time he laughed. As he did, he reached up and pressed the deal button. Five cards appeared on the screen, three of clubs, seven of spades, five of hearts, and a pair of queens. He pressed the hold button in front of the queens and discarded the rest.

She leaned over and whispered, “You’re not one of those card counters I’ve heard about, are you?”

His smirk told Tillie that he was amazed by her lack of intelligence. He hit the deal button and three new cards appeared, a seven of hearts, four of clubs and another queen. The royal triple netted him an eight-buck win.

“You can’t count cards on a video slot,” he told her, hitting the deal button once more. This time when he reached up, the sleeve on his suit jacket edged down a bit. Tillie glanced at his wristwatch to see the time. What she saw half-hidden beneath his watchband, made her recoil. Instinctively, she wanted to bolt.

Instead, she took three deep breaths. Her prison counselor had taught her to do mindful breathing when her emotions took over her reasoning. In the joint, being afraid was a daily occurrence. If she didn’t handle her emotions, she’d pay the price. And in the joint, that price could be death.

It’s just a tattoo
, she reminded herself blocking out the image of the ink beneath the timepiece, nothing more. It could mean anything. She had over a dozen tats herself and none of them meant anything more than one too many Pina Coladas.

To be honest, she wasn’t one hundred percent sure what she saw on the hairy wrist. The inked image that peeked out a bit from underneath Slevitch’s watchband was partially hidden by dark fuzz. She could have been mistaken.

Against her better judgment, she decided to find out for sure. She looked around to see if anyone was watching. Oddly enough, a big, brassy blonde woman, ten machines away, was giving her a dirty look. Tillie wondered briefly if the woman was Slevitch’s wife. Then she remembered seeing him ride alone on the bus.

Tillie pushed her torso toward Slevitch, placed her hands inside her waistband and pulled her blouse down, revealing more of her cleavage. She could feel Slevitch’s eyes leering. It would be hard for him not to notice. Tillie had positioned herself so that her breasts were almost resting on top of his hold button.

Without touching Tillie, Slevitch managed to maneuver his finger to the deal button. As he did, his sleeve slipped upward. Tillie stared at the 18k gold Cartier watch once again. Although the timepiece covered most of the inked image, she could see clearly a part of the tattoo beneath it. The smudged inked tat was exactly like those done in prison. They were created with urine, soot and a Bic pen. Every gang had their own symbol. Tillie recognized the one that marred Slevitch’s wrist.

She mumbled, “I guess I’m done gambling for the day,” and jumped up, staring down at his wrist as she did. Slevitch must have noticed her gaze because he immediately placed his other hand over his watch.

She continued babbling nervously. “Nice looking watch. I saw that same watch on the Home Shopping Network for only three payments of $29.95. I would’ve bought it for my boyfriend, if I could’ve decided which boyfriend to buy it for.”

She waved a quick goodbye and fled to the end of the slot area and fell against a wall. Her stomach clinched in pain, and sweat began to form on her forehead. Slevitch’s tattoo matched the skin art of the women in prison who prided themselves on being Tillie’s enemies. Before Tillie was released, she’d heard the gang had put a price tag on her life.

She wanted to run and find Betty, to tell her about the man’s tattoo. But, she didn’t know if she should.
What was she going to say? That she thought the Take A Chance paying passenger was an ex-con? And that he was sent there to kill her for some petty, jailhouse grudge?

Her thinking was out of control. Slevitch had done nothing wrong to her. And, if he were an ex-con, so what? The tattoo could have been just a coincidence. It’s not like a prison gang held a trademark on symbols.

Tillie shook her head in self-disgust. If she’d learned anything in prison, it was that a stool pigeon was the lowest form of life. Besides, maybe Slevitch was only guilty of having bad taste in tats, like the angry ex-husbands who tattooed their ex-wives’ faces on their butt cheeks.

Whatever his reason, Tillie decided she wasn’t going to start spreading rumors. Not yet. She wasn’t going to do anything until she figured out why the woman who gave her a dirty look when she spoke to Slevitch was now shooting her a look that could kill. And more importantly, why the woman looked so damn familiar.

**

Lori knew there’d be hell to pay if she asked this particular client for a favor, but she decided to do it anyway.

“Hannah, can I bum a cigarette?” Lori asked, standing directly behind the woman as she gambled at a slot machine.

“You’re smoking again?” Hannah chided, pausing to take another drag from her non-filtered stick of tobacco. “I thought you quit! At your age, you shouldn’t smoke!” Hannah crushed the remains of her cigarette into an ashtray.

“And you?” Lori asked.

“At my age, it doesn’t much matter,” Hannah replied.

Lori watched the final remnants of cigarette smoke escape from her client’s mouth. Lori instantly recalled the nickname her aunt had given Hannah—Dragon Lady of Calumet City.

“I’m feeling a little antsy,” Lori admitted.

Hannah handed Lori a yellow plastic lighter and yanked a cigarette from her pack. “Is the fact that a man was killed on your tour getting to you?” Hannah asked.

Lori lit up and inhaled deeply. It had been eleven months since her last puff. The old habit felt new again. It felt wonderful.

“Kind of,” Lori muttered, knowing the murder was only one of the many reasons her world seemed to be falling apart.

“Wanna know why?” Hannah asked, although it sounded like more of a statement. “Because you’re young, that’s why. You’re not used to people dying. At my age, you get used to seeing your friends drop dead like flies.”

Lori nodded. Farsi’s death did trouble her. But her inability to stop gambling scared her even more. As she remembered the amount she’d already lost at Moose Bay, a sound came from deep inside her that was a combination of a groan and a cry for help. Fortunately, the only one that heard it was Hannah.

Hannah informed her, “If that’s your stomach I hear growling it’s because of that damn international buffet. You can’t trust anyone to wash hands these days. It’s like the whole world is the third world, if you know what I mean.”

“My stomach’s fine, Hannah,” Lori answered as she looked around for other clients she could chat up. At least visiting with clients kept her away from the tables. “Thank you for the cigarette.”

“You won’t be thanking me when you get lung cancer,” Hannah warned.

“That’s true,” Lori said, turning to walk away.

“Lori, wait a minute,” Hannah said in a tone that was both strange and unfamiliar for Hannah. It sounded caring.

“I’ve been thinking about this murder thing, plus about the ride up here,” she said to Lori.

Lori sat down on the swivel stool next to her. “Do you know something Hannah?”

“It’s not what I know but what I observed. Just because I have cataracts, doesn’t mean I can’t see what’s going on.”

“What is it?” Lori asked, feeling impatient. If Hannah knew anything, Lori would need to let Betty, or the sheriff, know as soon as possible.

“On the bus ride here, it wasn’t only Farsi that was quiet, but other people as well. There were at least two other grumpy men on board. That’s just not right. Nobody’s unhappy on their way to a casino.”

Lori had to agree.

Hannah continued, “I don’t like sour pusses. The role of curmudgeon belongs to me and no one else!”

Lori had no idea that Hannah was so self-aware. Perhaps her Aunt Betty was right. Maybe Hannah just wanted attention after all.

“Do you remember who the riders were?” Lori asked.

“One of them was a really big man. He wore a Chicago Bears jacket the entire ride. He never once took it off, though the temperature was hotter than Hades.”

Lori knew the temperature in the bus was always kept on high. There were too many complaints from the senior passengers if it wasn’t. “What specifically did you see that was odd?” Lori asked.

“The two men didn’t play Bingo on the bus. Farsi didn’t either. That made no sense to me. The bingo games are free to play and the prizes are cash. What gambler in his right mind would turn down those odds?”

“Not many,” Lori agreed.

Hannah whispered, “There’s something else. I’ve been playing almost nonstop since we got here and I haven’t hit a single jackpot.”

“But, there are a lot of trips when you don’t win,” Lori reminded her.

“True, but not when it’s like this.”

“Like what?” Lori asked.

“Like it’s heaven on earth and there’s nothing but winning jackpots and free cocktails.”

“Come again?” Lori asked.

“Have you gambled since we’ve been here?” Hannah asked.

Lori felt her cheeks flush. “Only a little.”

“Slots?” Hannah asked.

Lori shook her head. “Poker.”

“Well, maybe that’s why you haven’t heard anything.”

“Heard what?” Lori asked.

“The sounds of jackpots being hit. I’ve heard at least a dozen and personally seen seven or eight. And all of them for $1,999.00.”

“Really?” Lori asked, knowing that wasn’t an unusual amount to win. One dollar more and the IRS would have to be notified of the win.

“No telling how many other jackpots have been won. Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

Lori agreed. “It does.”

Hannah rubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and immediately lit up another before stating, “Like I said, there’s something fishy going on in Minnesota. And, it stinks.”