Murder by Chance (Betty Chance Mystery) (15 page)

To stop from screaming, Betty put her hands to her lips. The gunshot wasn’t part of Boris the Baffler’s act.

Audience members fled up the aisles and out of the auditorium. Only a few brave souls including Betty and Lori, stayed behind, transfixed by what was happening onstage. Two of the show’s volunteers remained frozen in their chairs. The showgirls had dashed away the moment Slevitch hit the floor. Boris stood in the center of the stage, his eyes scanning the theater, undoubtedly looking for the attacker. If he was a true mentalist, his skills weren’t working very well.

On stage Tillie knelt next to Slevitch. He was still alive. His arm shook as he reached up and grabbed Tillie’s hand. He mouthed a few words and then immediately let go. His arm fell to the floor. Slevitch was dead.

Tillie lifted herself up slowly and backed a few paces from the body. The woman who said her name was Kelly O’Sullivan placed her hands on Tillie’s shoulders. As she did, she positioned her lips near Tillie’s ear and whispered something. Betty watched as the bus driver’s eyes widen.

Tillie’s hands grasped at her stomach, as if in pain. The woman known as O’Sullivan pulled Tillie to a chair and forced her to sit. Then the woman glanced at the stairs where security guards were already blocking anyone from leaving the stage.

Betty’s focus darted between the stage and the balcony. She wanted to keep an eye on Tillie, yet she was on the lookout for another shot as well. She assumed the bullet came from the upper level. As far as she could tell, except for the lone soundman in the booth, no one was up there.

“Should we grab Tillie and run for it?” Lori asked as she clutched Betty’s sleeve.

Before Betty could answer Tom Songbird rushed into the auditorium, pushing his way down the aisle. Severson was close behind, along with several of his men. The sheriff leapt onto the stage and knelt next to the splayed body. He placed two of his fingers on the man’s neck.

“We need to get Tillie off that stage,” Lori said abruptly, and dashed out of her row. She was half way down the aisle when Betty managed to catch her. She stopped Lori and pulled her back into a row of seats.

“We can’t,” Betty informed her, knowing the sheriff would certainly question their motives on getting Tillie away from the crime scene. Even if it were only a coincidence, a person connected to Take A Chance Tours was once again standing next to a corpse.

“The sheriff’s in charge,” Betty reminded Lori. “He’s the one who gets to tell her when to leave. Not us.”

“He’ll listen to me,” Lori said, her breath becoming more rapid.

Betty said, “Not this time.”

Lori relented and sat down again in a seat. Betty sat next to her and turned her attention to the O’Sullivan woman who was now standing at the back of the stage. She watched as the redhead paced in small circles, her hands balled into fists. The woman was mumbling to herself as she occasionally stared at the balcony. Betty knew that Kelly O’Sullivan—or whatever her name was—figured the shot originated from the second level. Just like Betty did.

It was ironic the same woman Betty thought of as a hero earlier was now someone who frightened her. And it was even odder that the woman had spoken to Betty in a Minnesota accent, yet chattered on stage in perfect brogue Irish. And there was no doubt in Betty’s mind that the woman was also the retired Flamenco dancer who’d hit a jackpot earlier.

Just who are you, Lady
? And what are you up to? Betty wondered, as she sat in the chair, her forefinger tapping thoughtfully up and down against her lip.

It took every bit of self-control for Betty to stay put. She too wanted to yank Tillie out of the theater. She could only begin to imagine what the driver was feeling. If the bullet had strayed only a foot to the right, Tillie’s chest would have been the one that was ripped apart.

The sheriff turned to one of his men and yelled angrily, “Check everyone’s ID in this room. Get their names and get them out of here.”

The deputy jumped off the stage. One by one, he interviewed the few audience members that were left. It took him only a few minutes to reach Betty and Lori.

Betty was just about to hand him her driver’s license when the officer said, “I know who the two of you are. You both can leave.”

“Thank you,” Betty said.

As soon as Betty and Lori exited the theatre she saw that Severson’s men were interviewing people. It surprised Betty that one of the men being questioned was Mr. Ogawa. He hadn’t been at the show, yet he seemed to know what happened. When it came to murder, news traveled at warp speed.

Ogawa was pointing toward her. She assumed he was telling the officer he was one of her riders. Or perhaps he was telling the policeman that he was able to cross another item from his
88 Things To Do
list: seeing a man shot to death.

Betty shivered at her own dark humor and started to walk out of the lobby when Lori put her arm on her shoulder and stopped her. “Aunt Betty?”

Betty’s ears perked up. Lori almost never used the “A” word unless she was either worried, afraid, or the bearer of bad news.

“What is it?” Betty asked, as Lori stepped in front of her.

Lori’s face was stern. “Maybe we should cut this trip short. We could head back home tonight.”

Betty shrugged, despairingly. “We can’t. We’re scheduled to be here until tomorrow afternoon at two. Besides, we still don’t have a bus to take us back. We can’t ask senior citizens to hitchhike to Chicago.”

“We could charter a plane,” Lori suggested. “It would cost a fortune but considering what our clients have been through ...”

“Most of our clients won’t set foot in a plane. Why do you think they travel by bus?”

Lori’s shoulders momentarily collapsed, as if she could no longer carry the weight of the world. She said, “I just—well—this tour doesn’t seem to be working out for anyone. I mean … people keep dying! I just thought if we left now, we’d …”

Betty placed her arm around Lori. “I can’t leave early, Lori, but if you’d like, go home. I can handle this. I’m sure Tom would arrange for a private plane for you …” Betty stopped talking as Mr. Ogawa walked up to them.

She studied the thin, balding, grey haired man, his body bent over, held up by a cane. Betty was extremely worried about him. Stress could kill a senior almost as quickly as a heart attack.

“Are you all right, Mr. Ogawa?” she asked.

“Oh yes. I am fine, thank you very much,” he said, looking up, a serious look on his face. “May I ask a question, Miss Betty?”

Even in the midst of chaos, Ogawa was as polite as ever.

“Of course.” She smiled back. If only all of her clients were as pleasant as Ogawa.

“I have never been on a gambling tour before. Do all of the tours include the sort of things that have been happening on this one?”

Betty shook her head. “Not at all. Usually, the only excitement is finding out its Seafood Night at the buffet.”

“I see,” Ogawa said, before admitting timidly, “perhaps this is my fault after all.”

“How so?” Betty asked.

“It was the last thing on my list, number eighty-eight. ‘Have the most exciting day of your life—even if it involves death’”, Ogawa said sadly. “But I meant my own death, Miss Betty, not anyone else’s.”

Betty swallowed hard. She felt so sad for the kindly old gentleman. She could tell he actually felt guilty. “Mr. Ogawa, there’s no way you could have caused the murders.”

“Oh, but there is. If I had shown up, perhaps the shooter would have shot me instead of Mr. Slevitch. I would have volunteered. To be onstage is also on my list and I’ve yet to accomplish it.”

Betty was surprised Ogawa knew the man’s name. She said, “Mr. Ogawa, no one on Take A Chance Tours had anything to do with Slevitch’s murder.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” a voice boomed behind her.

Betty swirled around to see Sheriff Severson holding up a Ziploc bag in the air. Even a novice in the art of crime could tell that what he was holding up was evidence.

Normally, she’d be fascinated to see what he’d gathered as evidence. But, she wasn’t. Inside the plastic bag was one of her business cards covered with blood. Tillie’s name was scribbled on it.

The ice cubes clinked against the cocktail glass as Betty walked across her hotel room. A splash of rum and coke spilled onto the beige carpeting while a few droplets managed to leap into the air and land on the front of Betty’s blouse. In her other hand she carried two beers. Tillie grab the non-alcoholic one, while Lori reached for the Heineken.

Betty plopped into an overstuffed chair and sifted through her purse. She pulled out a package of Lucky Strike Lights. There was only one cigarette in it. She placed the pack on the table next to her.

Lori shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. She said, “Are you sure you want to do that? It’s been years since you ...”

Betty interrupted, “I’m not going to light it. It just helps when I am stressed to know I can.”

Her favorite brand of smokes had been discontinued the same year her marriage ended. She took that as a sign from the universe—
time to get rid of bad habits
, even if you were married to one.

Betty caught Tillie’s surprised expression and explained, “I didn’t smoke until I met Larry. It was his idea for me to start. He said it made me look sexy. But, the minute I found out he’d been …” Betty paused. She didn’t want to use the words ‘screwing his brains out’ or ‘a lying scumbag’ while Lori was in the room. Larry was still her uncle. Betty finished, “… seeing someone else, I quit. Besides, I only smoked because he did.”

Tillie, however, did not hold back. She said, “Too bad you didn’t screw everything that moved, because he did.”

Betty chuckled. Tillie’s spirit may have been broken a few hours earlier by seeing a man die in front of her, but she was back in full form. Betty responded, “If I had to do it all over again, maybe I would have had a few one-day stands. The UPS men were unbelievably hot.”

“Yep,” Tillie said, raising her beer in a toast. “Nothing like a man in uniform. Or better yet, out of it.”

“Why did you want us to get together?” Lori asked, one leg bouncing nervously up and down against the other.

Betty could tell Lori wanted leave. Maybe Lori just needed to be alone. Betty knew her niece tended to isolate herself when overwhelmed with life. But, considering what had happened, being alone wasn’t wise.

Betty said, “There’s safety in numbers, Lori. I think we should spend the night together.”

Lori responded solemnly, “There were over five hundred people at Boris’ show and that didn’t turn out to be safe.”

“True,” Betty relented. “Maybe we can use this time wisely. We can put our heads together and figure out why Take A Chance is connected to every single murder scene.”

Tillie said, “The killer is probably shifting the blame to us on purpose. You’re an easy target, just like I am. Farsi was stabbed on your bus.”

Lori piped in, “And if they are trying to frame one of you, that could be the reason your business card keeps popping up around dead people.”

Betty swirled the cubes around in her glass. She said, “I can’t be framed because I can’t be convicted. Wouldn’t I need a reason to kill someone? I don’t have one.”

Tillie said, “Some people kill just because they can.”

Betty had to agree. Psychopaths were more common than she’d like to think. She leaned forward and said, “That’s true, but I’m not a serial killer or a nutcase. My instinct is telling me the reason someone is planting my card, with Tillie’s name scribbled on it, is a personal vendetta of some kind.”

Tillie responded, “Are you sure it’s not one of your competitors? Maybe someone who wants to take over your business?”

Both Lori and Betty burst into laughter.

Betty said, “Thanks for that, Tillie. I needed a laugh. After our measly wages are paid this year, Take A Chance’s annual profit will be around four thousand bucks. Someone would have to be insane to want to take over our company.”

Tillie shrugged her shoulders and leaned back on the bed. “Well, if it’s not the company they’re after, then it’s one of us. We all know I’m an ex-con, so that certainly makes me a suspect. But take a gander at Lori. There’s nothing wrong with her. How could anyone possibly frame her? She’s not only perfect physically, her personality’s flawless.”

“At least the sheriff thinks so, ” Betty said as she smiled at Lori, who didn’t return the gesture.

“I’m hardly perfect,” Lori shot back, her body noticeably tensing up. “I use a lot of makeup to get this look. And trust me, my personality is not that what you think it is.”

“At least no one hates you,” Tillie said. “I can name at least a dozen people that detest me, and that’s just relatives.”

Betty swore she saw tears well up in Lori’s eyes right before she mumbled, “No, my relatives don’t hate me. Yet.”

“Okay, kiddo.” Betty jumped up and grabbed the bottle from Lori’s hand. “No more alcohol for you!”

“Like I said, I’m not perfect,” Lori said, smiling weakly.

Betty asked, “What about you, Tillie? Is there any way you’re connected? Even by accident?”

Tillie played with her empty bottle before tossing it a good five feet. It landed perfectly inside the wastebasket. “Nope, not me, not my friends, and not even the ex-cons I still write to,” she answered abruptly.

Betty stated, “I wanted to ask you about the Irish woman on stage with you. There’s something about her that’s very odd.”

Tillie stopped smiling. She said, “Go on.”

Betty continued. “She’s the one who pulled me from the snow bank when I fell. Except when she yanked me up she spoke with a Minnesota accent, and not an Irish brogue. She also claimed to be a gym teacher, not a laundry worker like she told Boris. And I’m pretty sure she also pretended to be Spanish yesterday.”

Tillie’s face went ashen. When she didn’t respond, Betty asked, “What did she whisper to you onstage?”

Betty couldn’t tell if Tillie was embarrassed or starting to hyperventilate. Her breathing became labored. Tillie stood up and her eyes turned to ice. She replied in a monotone, “Listen, officially I’ve been off the clock for hours. It’s been a long day. I’m going to my room.”

Betty pleaded, “Tillie, I didn’t mean to ...”

Tillie held her hand up. “You were fine. I’ve just hit the wall, that’s all.” She walked to the door and unlocked it.

“Tillie, I ...” Betty said, standing up.

Tillie turned around. “Trust me, you don’t want to know what she said to me.”

Betty replied, “I do want to know.”

Tillie shook her head in despair. She answered, “It was the same thing I heard in prison day after day. Whenever one of the eastern Europeans gang members wanted to terrorize anyone, they’d whisper five little words.

“What were they, Tillie?”

“Why don’t you believe me when I tell you it’s better you don’t know?”

“What are the five words?” Betty demanded. But before she could stop Tillie, her driver threw open the door and bolted.

**

Tillie raced down the stairwell and reached the first floor landing in a matter of minutes. Sweat beaded on her face. Her make-up turned clammy. She opened the stairwell door and stepped into the hotel lobby.

Tillie knew Betty would be worried, but she desperately needed time to think. She had to decide if it was worth the taking the chance of being killed to do the right thing. She made it as far as the glass doors of the hotel entrance when she heard her name being called.

“Tillie!”

Tillie groaned. Even without turning around she knew who was calling out to her.

Her gut told her to run and not stop until she reached the Arctic Circle. When she did, she’d never look back again. But she repressed her desires and swirled around. “Yes, Sheriff?”

“I’ve left you three messages,” he stated.

“I haven’t been to my room and, and—maybe my cell battery is dead? You know the old joke about a single girl and her batteries?” Tillie hoped to sound funny. But she sounded pathetic, instead. Her best bet was to try to give the sheriff what he wanted—respect. Her demeanor turned serious. “What do you want, Sheriff?”

His face tightened. “Did Slevitch hand you something right before he died?”

Tillie bit into her lower lip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, ” she lied.

“Mr. Ogawa told my Deputy he saw the victim place something in your hand when you were onstage, kneeling next to him.”

She instinctively tightened her hand into a fist, as if she were getting ready to defend herself. Instead, she forced herself to stretch out her fingers as wide as possible. She began to silently count to ten. Immediately, her body started to relax, just the way her anger management counselor said it would.

“Ogawa?” she questioned. “He wasn’t even at the show. Besides, isn’t he like two hundred years old or something? Can he even see that far? I thought all seniors have cataracts by that age.”

“Evidently, not. He said you slipped the paper into your pocket. He said it looked like a note, or a business card.”

“That’s crazy! Don’t you think I’d tell you?” she asked.

“You do realize it’s against the law to lie to an officer …”

Tillie interrupted, “Sheriff, do you see the clothes I’m wearing? It’s the same outfit I had on stage. It doesn’t even have pockets.”

Tillie lifted her shirt at the bottom and turned around slightly, pushing out her ample rump outwards for emphasis. “Wanna search?” she mocked.

The sheriff’s boyish look returned. But this time it was red from rage, not embarrassment. He demanded, “Why would Ogawa lie?”

Tillie answered in a huff. “He was probably having a senior moment. He might have seen a shadow, or a flicker of a ring, or whatever. Who knows?”

Severson adjusted his belt and pushed his gun further into its holster. “From now on, if I leave you a message, call me A.S.A. P.” he said abruptly, and then added, “For some reason, I’m not buying your story, McFinn.”

“Why not?” Tillie asked.

“Because once a con, always a con.”