Murder by Chance (Betty Chance Mystery) (14 page)

Betty slid into the plush seat between Tillie and Lori just as the house lights dimmed.

“Did all of our people show up for tickets?” Lori asked, scanning the main level of the theater. The auditorium was completely packed. Only the balcony seats were empty.

Betty held up a single ticket in her hand. She said, “Everyone except Mr. Ogawa.”

Lori suggested, “Maybe he’s on a winning streak?”

Betty shook her head. “I hope so. Learning to gamble was on his list of
88 Things To Do
before he dies.”

Tillie said, “What’s to learn? You slip a buck into a machine and press the play button. Presto—you’re a gambler. It doesn’t take a pocket scientist to play a slot machine.”

“Or a
rocket
scientist either,” Betty affirmed sitting back into the stadium-styled seating.

Music filled the auditorium while a laser light show of red, blue and white beams zigzagged across the stage. The score from
Chariots of Fire
rose to a deafening pitch. Suddenly, fireworks exploded onstage as a purple fog emerged from the sidelines. Two Las Vegas style showgirls danced across the stage.

The duo wore large, white feathered headdresses that fanned out three feet on each side. Their ensemble was a skimpy flesh colored bikini, covered completely in diamond rhinestones. Their bottoms were adorned with three-foot tail feathers. Their bikini tops barely covered their multiple assets. The two glided gracefully in four-inch high heels and posed dead center on the stage. They positioned their arms in a dramatic fashion and pointed toward the empty space between the two of them.

Tillie leaned over. “Do you think they’re real?”

Betty asked, “Their diamonds?”

Tillie answered, “Their boobs.”

The man behind them must have heard Tillie’s comment because he leaned forward and said, “Who cares?”

The showgirls did a half turn. Their barely covered rear ends became visible to the audience.

“Oops,” Tillie said and pointed toward the artificially enhanced women. “I guess no one’s invented silicone butts, yet. Even with feathers, their rear ends are as flat as a pancake.”

The man crouched forward one more time and whispered. “Like I said, who cares?”

Betty had to agree. Ass or no ass, the women were gorgeous.

White smoke began to swirl around the showgirl’s feet and raced to the ceiling in a torrent, completely shrouding the young women in its wake. A large explosion popped and the white smoke fog seemed to separate. Boris rose dramatically from the bowels of the stage and now stood between the two showgirls. There was another explosion and one of the girls jumped into the air with fright. With his right hand, Boris reached out and caught the heavy headdress as it slipped suddenly off the leaping showgirl’s head.

The audience burst into a round of applause. Boris grinned and gallantly replaced the bulky headwear back on top of the young woman. The two women ran off stage, holding onto their headdresses with both hands as their pink tail feathers fanned up and down.

Boris said, with a flourish and a bow, “Welcome to Boris The Baffler.”

The audience began to applaud again but Boris held his palm upward, signaling them to stop. He said, “Please, there’s no need to show your appreciation. See, I already know what you’re thinking.”

Chuckles, as well as moans, rippled across the crowd. Betty realized that Boris’ charm captivated the audience as quickly as it had captivated her only a few hours earlier.

The showgirls ran back on stage. This time they were dressed in navy blue janitor jumpsuits that were cut off into short shorts and halter-tops. Red baseball caps and stilettos completed their sensational look. They began to set up a row of five metal chairs, center stage.

Boris looked upwards and spoke to the sound booth at the back of the balcony. “Bring up the house lights, please.”

As the lights lit up the room Boris said, “Keep the lights up for the rest of the show. I’ve nothing to hide, although I know a lot of you think I do.” He peered out over the crowd. “I would like five volunteers from the audience. Raise your hands if you’d like to be chosen.”

Tillie jumped up and waved her hands wildly in the air. At least twenty others did the same.

With one hand on his forehead, Boris’ eyes scanned the audience. He selected four other people to join him before his eyes caught Tillie’s. He gestured for her to come onstage.

Although she was the last to be chosen, Tillie was the first to make it onstage. “Should I sit down?” she asked, as she stood next to Boris.

Boris sighed playfully, as if he were eternally bored with his job of being a mind reader and said, “I knew you would ask that.” Tillie plopped herself on the first chair. The other four—a man and three women—soon followed.

From her seat in the audience, Betty recognized the male volunteer. Slevitch was one of Betty’s new passengers who paid in cash. He was also one of the men that she’d asked Severson to investigate. She pointed out that all of her new riders, including the now dead Farsi, were people of enormous size. In fact, they actually looked as if they could be related.

As far as she knew, the sheriff hadn’t been able to find Slevitch to question him. Slevitch hadn’t shown up for his scheduled interview with the sheriff’s department either. Yet, here he was, volunteering to be part of the Baffler’s show. And more surprising was seeing Tillie’s reaction when he worked onstage. Tillie seemed to recoil slightly, as if she were terrified.

Boris’ voice boomed across the theater as he handed a stack of index cards to each of the showgirls. “My lovely assistants, Maddie and Heather, will hand each of the volunteers an index card. But first, I’d like the girls to memorize what is written on the cards.”

The two dancers quickly scanned each of the cards.

Boris asked, “What three words are written on only four of the cards?”

“Tell the truth,” the pair said in unison.

“And what three words are written on the other card?” Boris demanded.

“Tell only lies!” they announced.

“Shuffle them and then give one to each of our volunteers, face down,” he instructed. “I would like each of you seated to refrain from looking at the card that is given to you until I tell you to do so.”

When the two showgirls passed out the final one, Boris turned to the audience and said, “Because we are in a casino, I am assuming most of you know what a
tell
is.”

His statement was met with “You betcha’” and nodding of heads.

Boris continued, “For those who don’t, every human being has a tell, a small change in their behavior that is easily detected when they tell a lie. It can be a twitch of the neck, a pulling of the ear, or one eyebrow that raises a millimeter at the most. These actions are not noticeable to most people, but are easily noticed by someone trained in this art as I have been.”

Boris began pacing back and forth on the stage. “Being able to read minds isn’t magic. For instance, today I surprised a man in the casino by telling him he was a retired plumber. He failed to remember his union emblem was embroidered on his overalls. I shocked another woman when I read her mind. She was thinking that I,” Boris paused for dramatic effect, “was dressed like Liberace. As if, I hadn’t heard that before.”

The auditorium burst into applause while Betty thought,
well that explains that
, knowing she was the woman he was referencing.

Boris continued. “Reading minds is merely a skill passed down through the centuries from one generation of shaman to another.”

A man in the front row yelled, “Teach me how to read the dealer’s mind! I’m already down three hundred bucks.”

Boris responded with a smirk. “Actually you’re already down three
thousand
.”

The crowd erupted into laughter and when it quieted, the man added meekly, “Why’d you have to say that? My wife had no idea.”

Immediately, the woman to his left hit him in the head with her gold spangled purse.

The crowd roared again and Boris offered the man words of comfort. “Don’t worry. You’re going to win $20,000 this very weekend.”

The man jumped up and ran out of the auditorium toward the casino. His wife followed in hot pursuit.

The audience clapped loudly. Boris added, “Alas, I failed to let him know that his win will be when he’s playing Monopoly with his grandkids. But don’t worry. He’ll be ahead by the time he leaves the casino—by three dollars and seventy-seven cents.”

Betty grinned. She didn’t know how much of Boris’ act was staged beforehand, but it was certainly entertaining.

Boris turned away from the volunteers. “I want each of you to read the card my assistants have handed to you. Then, turn it over so I cannot see which card you have. However, do not show any emotion or reaction to what is on your card. Maintain your best poker face at all times.”

Each of the five participants read their cards. Betty could tell they were doing their best to follow Boris’ instructions. Even Tillie sat stone-faced and erect. In fact, she’d been that way ever since Slevitch walked onto the stage.

Boris said, “By merely watching the volunteer’s facial expressions while holding their hands, I will be able to tell who is lying to me, no matter how good a liar they might think they are.”

Boris turned to one of the senior ladies. He reached down and took each of her hands in one of his. “What is your name, dear?”

“Beverly England.”

“And what do you do for a living, Mrs. England?”

“I’m retired. I live on Social Security, a small investment portfolio,” and then with a hint of embarrassment, “and jackpots from penny slots.”

Boris chuckled. “And your favorite movie star is?”

“Why Harrison Ford, of course. The sexiest man alive!”

Quick laughter shot up from the crowd.

Boris leaned over and took a deep whiff. “Why, Mrs. England, you’ve had a very large margarita for Happy Hour.”

“I’ve had three,” came her huffy response.

“I know,” Boris said, patting her shoulder. “I was being a gentleman.”

Boris stepped over to the next participant, a large, redheaded woman. He took her hands in his and asked, “What is your name?”

“My name is Kelly O’Sullivan,” the middle aged redhead said proudly in a heavy Irish Brogue. “I’m on vacation from the sweetest of motherlands, Ireland herself.”

Although the accent was completely different, Betty recognized the woman’s voice. Kelly O’Sullivan was the same woman who had rescued her from the snow bank. Except when the woman befriended her, Kelly O’Sullivan spoke with a Minnesota accent and her hair was blonde.

Briefly, Betty wondered if she’d hit her head harder than she thought on the snow-covered concrete. It was then Betty noticed Boris’
tell
. His normally warm eyes glazed over in ice as he stared at the redheaded woman. He gave her the same, hardened look that he’d shot at the retired Flamenco dancer earlier.

In a stern monotone, he asked, “And what do you do for a living?”

There was a slight hesitation before the woman answered. “I work in a laundry. Nothing comes into me doors that doesn’t go out clean as a leprechaun’s whistle.”

Boris dropped her hands abruptly and moved in front of the next volunteer, Tillie. His demeanor instantly changed and he became friendly. He smiled as he placed Tillie’s hands in his. He asked, “What is your name, sweetheart?”

“Tillie,” she answered.

“And your favorite activity is …”

Tillie’s mouth dropped opened immediately and she quickly shut it, placing one of her hands over her lips. Even from where she sat, Betty could see that Tillie was blushing.

Boris responded gently, “Tillie, we’re all adults here. It’s okay for you tell everyone that your favorite activity is sex.”

Tillie rolled her eyes in defeat. “Whatever.”

A dozen men gave Tillie a standing ovation.

“And your second favorite?”

“Oh that’s easy, scrapbooking.” Tillie beamed and then added, “Of course I don’t keep a scrapbook about sex.”

After the crowd’s laughter died down Boris said, “Actually, I think you should. Now, what do you do for work?”

“I drive a tour bus. Plus, on the side, I sell a wonderful line of make-up.” Tillie leaned toward the audience. “I always have free samples, ladies.”

Boris turned to step toward the lone gentleman on stage; he reached out his hand as a loud clap of thunder roared throughout the hall. Boris spun around quickly and stared up at the sound booth. Betty realized whatever just happened, shouldn’t have.

There was another clap of thunder and smoke flew across the stage while laser light beams dashed randomly and strobe lights pulsated. Finally, there was a loud pop. It was the sort of pop Betty had heard at shooting ranges. The sort of pop that filled the air with the smell of burnt, rotting eggs. The smell of gunfire.

Immediately, Slevitch fell out of his chair, his large body crumbling onto the floor. Even from where she sat, Betty could see the front of his tan shirt was beginning to turn crimson.