Murder by Chance (Betty Chance Mystery) (11 page)

Oh-69, Oh-69,” the caller announced, his husky voice reaching into the far corners of the packed bingo hall. It was a little past two in the afternoon and all five hundred seats were filled. The majority of the players used a traditional ink dauber to stamp the numbers on their paper cards. Others used a hand-held portable electronic bingo machine. Even something as simple as bingo had become high-tech.

A thin, raspy voice echoed throughout the vast hall in response. “Bingo!”

Groans of disappointment rippled through crowd. Betty recognized the nicotine-drenched tone. She turned around and located the winner—Hannah.

Tillie said, “Thank God, no one else has called Bing …” She was interrupted by the sound of another “Bingo” being yelled out, followed by two more simultaneous screams of the five letter word. Hannah glared at her fellow winners, the ones who would share her four hundred dollar jackpot.

If looks could kill
, Betty thought, but then dismissed the observation. At the moment, the last thing she wanted to think about was death. All she wanted was to play a few mind-numbing games. If humanly possible, she wanted to block out any thoughts of Farsi, knives, bloody business cards, and the irritating fact that she hadn’t been to sleep in over thirty-six hours.

She needed to zone out, if only for a little while. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to function rationally. As sleep deprived as she was, she could only keep awake by tapping into an adrenaline rush created by anxiety, caffeine, and sugar.

A floor attendant stood next to Hannah to verify the numbers. The attendant read out loud the numbers Hannah had marked off on her bingo card: “B-14, I-23, N-41, G-46, Oh-69.”

“Bingo!” a familiar voice called out.

“That’s a good bingo,” the announcer called. A wave of disappointment and curse words crashed across the rows of people. The attendant headed toward the other winners to verify their numbers as well.

Tillie shook Betty’s shoulder and said, “Look at Hannah go!”

Hannah was up from her ‘lucky seat’ and doing ‘the happy dance’ while simultaneously waving four purple-haired miniature troll dolls in the air. The crowd broke into applause but Hannah didn’t smile in return. Smiling was something she rarely did, even when she won. By dancing, she was merely following her rules of superstition.

The happy dance and troll dolls were Hannah’s personal edge on winning. She did the jig no matter how small the bingo.

“There’s at least a dozen more dolls on the table in front of her,” Betty noted.

“I can’t believe she thinks trolls are lucky,” Tillie said as she lined up seven tiny plastic figurines in front of her. “Doesn’t she know only leprechauns bring good luck?”

“Or four-leaf clovers,” Betty added, pointing at the large plastic green clovers each of Tillie’s leprechauns sat on.

Throughout the vast hall, talismans were placed on tables in front of players. The amulets ranged from trolls, stuffed animals and gemstones, to pictures of grandkids or dream houses. The numerous waitresses, who passed out free beverages, were often the beneficiaries of such widely held beliefs. Seasoned gamblers knew the nicer they were to a casino employee, the nicer the gambling gods would be to them.

“The next game will be a postage stamp,” the caller announced as the winning card pattern flashed on the giant LED screen behind him. The winning card would need a block of four numbers called in one of the card’s four corners.

Betty looked to the stage as the balls began to roll inside the large wired cage, pushing against each other as if they were struggling to be the one chosen. Finally, a numbered white ball shot down the channel and into the caller’s hand. The crowd immediately fell silent, waiting reverently to hear the first number called.

“G-53,” the caller bellowed. The number flashed on the oversized screen behind him.

“Louder,” yelled a man from the back of the room.

“Louder,” griped a few other players from the front table as well. For many of the seniors in the room, the call could never be loud enough.

“G-53,” the caller repeated one more time. I-23 was the next ball to roll down the chute.

“Woo hoo! I-23 is my lucky number,” the woman seated behind Betty yelled with glee.

Betty looked at the three bingo cards laid out in front of her. The last number called was not lucky for her. In fact, none of the numbers called so far had been. But, try as she might, not even the sounds of the caller could block out the fact that someone was working hard to frame her or Tillie for murder.

She looked at her wristwatch. She planned on playing only a few games. Besides a bit of stress-relief, she’d shown up to help corral her riders, pass out their pre-paid game vouchers and try to make her clients feel as if they were still one big, happy family. Betty leaned toward Tillie. “I’m out of here. Can you take care of anything that might pop up?”

“Sure enough,” Tillie reassured her. “And I have smelling salts in my purse, in case Hannah hits the big one.”

Betty liked Tillie’s idea. Hannah winning the big one, a $50,000 cover-all, would be sweet. She’d at least stop pestering them for a little while. Or until she came-to.

Betty scurried out of the bingo hall, and into the corridor toward the gleaming brass and glass front doors of the casino. She’d possessed the foresight to bring her parka and knew that taking a walk outdoors would help to clear her thoughts. As soon as she stepped outside, the frigid arctic air pierced her lungs. She zipped up her jacket and started down the cleared pathway.

The resort was located in the center of the reservation. The tribe’s maintenance crew continually cleared the parking lots, sidewalks and roads. A guest could easily walk for miles in the winter wonderland and never leave tribal property.

Betty stopped briefly to reach into her pocket. She pulled out her silver iPod. The tiny device contained over 100 hundred albums as well as seventeen audio books—all of them mysteries. She chose to listen to the soundtrack of
The Pirates of the Caribbean
with the volume turned low so she could still think her own thoughts and not be caught up in the music.

Betty enjoyed listening to a film score even more than watching the movie itself. She was self-observant enough to know that the music made her feel slightly heroic or even a bit terrified at moments, depending upon the composer’s intention. Oftentimes, when she listened to the Pirate’s score, she’d find herself thinking that all she really wanted out of life was to command a ship and head out to sea. Of course, if she clicked on the music of
Jurassic Park
, commanding a sea-faring vessel lost out to the appeal of taking on a T. rex or two. And battling a charging, ticked-off dinosaur was something she was used to since Hannah became a regular on her tours.

Passing the corner of the hotel, Betty checked out the parking lot for employees and tour busses located at the side of the building. In the far corner, the Take A Chance bus sat alone, roped off by yellow crime scene tape.

Betty shoved her gloved hands further into her pockets and hastened her pace. There was a lot to think about, and it all originated with Farsi. She still hadn’t figured out how someone was able to get inside the locked restroom to kill Farsi. There was always the chance the killer knew the combination to the spare key box. But then, how could that same killer force a knife deep into Farsi’s back without anyone hearing? And how did the same someone lock the door again from the inside, once Farsi was stabbed?

Considering his enormous size, it surprised her that Farsi could fit into the tiny cubicle at all, much less a second individual. The miniscule restrooms were a constant complaint from plus-sized passengers.

The small skylight did offer the possibility of outside access, if the murderer was a ten-year old. The opening was extremely narrow and positioned directly above the toilet. The skylight acted as both ventilation and as an emergency window, if necessary. But it too had been locked tight.

The roar of an engine revving and the subsequent blaring of a car horn brought Betty out of her ruminations. She looked up just as Tours by Tina passed. The pesky tour owner waved from inside the bus. Betty waved back, even though she knew Tina wasn’t pleased to see her.

Tina looked at Take a Chance Tours as competition, but so did all the other tour operators. When the Midwest casinos first opened, tour companies specializing in the casino industry multiplied like rabbits on Viagra. Then, when the recession took hold, only the strong survived. Tours by Tina was one of them. Consequently, Tina hated any newcomers, like Take A Chance Tours.

A few flakes of snow brushed against Betty’s cheeks. The weatherman predicted more snow to fall in the afternoon and evening. She and Tillie would have to keep an eye on the forecast. They were scheduled to leave Moose Bay in twenty-four hours.

She decided to circle around the back of the resort. As she continued walking, she listened to her music and ruminated on what she knew to be true about the murder.

First of all, even Farsi’s name was fraudulent. Whoever killed him had to be very clever. Farsi was carrying two million dollars—a huge amount of money. She assumed the sheriff was checking to see if the bills were counterfeit. Because of the high-tech equipment available to even the most common of counterfeiters, it took an expert nowadays to determine the validity of genuine currency.

The one thing she didn’t understand was why the money hadn’t been taken when Farsi was dead. If someone were clever enough to slay him in a locked room, wouldn’t they be able to manipulate a simple lock on an under-carriage luggage compartment?

And why would they keep trying to make a connection to Take A Chance? Her plasma-decorated business card found in a bathroom was hardly an accident. Perhaps it was merely a ploy, an attempt to point the sheriff in the wrong direction. Or perhaps someone had a grudge against her, Lori or Tillie.

Unless a Chicago Public Library patron was ticked off about being forced to pay a late fee, her office worker Gloria was hardly a target for revenge.

As Betty reached the end of the employee parking lot, with its hundred cars and dozens of tour busses, she saw the private motor coach belonging to Boris the Baffler. It would have been hard not to notice it. The purple vehicle was accented with gold lettering and silver stars and featured an image of a reclining Boris, hand on cheek while his body was positioned in a seductive repose.

Like many entertainers, Boris probably spent half of his life on the road. The decked-out transport was his home on wheels. Betty knew a lot of stars refused to use hotel accommodations, preferring instead to stay in elaborate motorhomes.

So, it wasn’t too much of a surprise when the door to Boris’ bus opened, and the performer himself stepped out. But the person she saw right behind him caused her knees to buckle.

“
Ogawa?
” she muttered out loud as the elderly gentleman followed Boris down the stairs. Ogawa’s cane was held in mid-air and it looked like he was shaking it at Boris. He was also yelling but Betty couldn’t discern what he was saying.

“Mr. Ogawa?” she yelled over the roar of a passing engine. For the briefest of moments, she could swear the old man turned her way and glared at her in rage. But, in that same split-second the universe decided to smack her upside the head, causing her world to turn dark as her legs flew willy-nilly into the air. Almost instantly, her body crashed backwards onto the asphalt as an avalanche of snow buried her alive. It not only stopped her calling out for help. It stopped her from breathing.

Speaking with a heavy Minnesota accent, a lilting voice bellowed, “Lady, are you okay?”

Betty’s eyelids struggled to open underneath the weight of the snow while her eyelashes turned into icicles. As she opened her mouth to breathe, she gagged on an incoming deluge of flakes. She forced herself to sit upright as she brushed mounds of snow, slush, and ice from her torso and face.

“Wh-What happened?”

“You fell backwards into a big pile of plowed snow, you did,” said the Viking-like woman standing directly above her.

A twinge of pain shot through Betty’s back. “How did that happen? One minute I was fine and the next minute everything went dark and ...”

The woman interrupted her with a comforting tone, “Now, now, there’s no reason to be concerned. All you did was slip on black ice, you betcha. Done that a hundred times myself, growing up here in Minnesota like I did.”

“I fell?” Betty asked, surprised. She glanced sideways and downwards at the road. It was true, a thin layer of ice coated the asphalt but she had been walking carefully, her walking shoes gripping the road.

“Yeah, sure. Good thing, I was out for my daily one-mile run. I’m on a diet, you know. Gotta lose this weight or lose my job. I’m a gym teacher. Principal says I’m not a good example for the kids. Hooey is what I say. Here, let me help you up.” The woman grabbed both of Betty’s hands and yanked her to an upright, standing position.

Betty yelped in pain, her left ankle stinging. She smiled graciously at the woman whose Nordic features glistened with sweat while her blonde pigtails bounced about in the breeze. Her bulbous, potato shaped nose was as red as Rudolph’s.

“You got a headache or anything?” the woman asked.

Betty shook her head. “I think I’m okay. The snow must have cushioned my fall.”

The woman answered, “Yah, you betcha it did. You looked like a snow angel for a moment there, your arms flapping all about.” Her eyes were warm and inviting.

Betty glanced over toward the parking lot. Boris and Mr. Ogawa were nowhere to be seen. If they had witnessed her fall, neither had come to her rescue. She didn’t know about Boris, but that seemed odd behavior for the kindly Ogawa. Immediately, she became concerned for his well-being.

“Let me walk you back to the hotel. You shouldn’t be out here alone,” the woman insisted, placing a strong arm around Betty’s shoulder.

Betty declined the woman’s assistance. She felt she needed to check on Ogawa, to see if everything was all right with him. She had no choice but to head to Boris’ trailer.

“I’m fine, really. And there’s something I need to do,” Betty said, staring at the entertainer’s bus.

The woman must have noticed Betty’s interest, and gestured toward the vehicle. She said, “I can go with you to that there bus, if you want. I’ve nothing else to do but lose another twenty on those blasted machines.”

Betty answered, “No, that’s okay. But, thank you. Thank you very much.”

“Okay, then. Promise me, you’ll be careful.” The woman took off jogging toward the hotel.

“I will,” Betty yelled out as the woman pulled a cell phone from her rear pocket. I hope I didn’t make her late for something, thought Betty. Good deeds like hers should be rewarded by the universe, not punished.

Betty started walking toward the bus, carefully doing what she now thought of as The Minnesota Shuffle—sliding a bit on icy patches. Still, it took her only a few minutes to reach her destination.

The first thing she noticed was the motorhome’s vanity plate—
Baffler 777
. The bus was licensed in Nevada. Betty had been inside dozens of conversion buses. The deluxe models were always featured at conventions for the travel industry. Lori and she would always make the same corny joke—when they won the lottery, they’d buy one to save money on hotels.

The unspoken punch line was that a conversion bus starting price was usually half a million. It would take a lot of nights on the road to justify spending that kind of money. The end price on the conversion coaches was limitless, depending upon the needs of the entertainer. She’d be surprised if Boris hadn’t paid a million bucks for his rig.

But that was a lot of money for any entertainer to spend for comfort, especially one who wasn’t an internationally known celebrity. Plus, she’d heard many complaints about the dwindling salaries in the entertainment world. Many of the once-famous, and now nearly-dead aging rock stars, were working for next to nothing to see their names in lights one more time—or simply to pay the bills. Even Ringo Starr played a casino in Wisconsin.

As soon as Betty reached the bus, she climbed up the metal steps and peered through the sliver of glass in the doorway. She could only make out the driver’s seat as she reached over and pushed the doorbell.

No one answered. She pounded on the door. She waited a few seconds and then jiggled the door handle. To her surprise, it wasn’t locked. The door swung open and she gingerly stepped inside, completely forgetting her promise to the Nordic Giantess that she’d be careful. She realized there was certainly nothing cautious about entering someone’s home uninvited.

“Hello?” she said in a hushed tone. Then, called, “Anyone home? Hello? Mr. Baffler?”

There was no response. She peered down the center aisle. On the left side of the aisle, a plush sofa filled the space. Across from it sat two red swivel chairs. A small foldable table rested between the two chairs. Betty realized it could probably fold up and out, and would easily sit four. The furniture on
The Jetsons
wasn’t as clever as the furniture designed for luxury motor coaches.

She walked down the dark aisle. “Hello?”

Though it was daylight the interior had the feel of dusk. Tapestry curtains covered the windows and blocked out most of the sun. She could barely make out the pictures in the framed photos of Boris on the walls. In every photo, the mentalist struck an elaborate pose that suggested glamour, mystery, and possible gender hopping. Vintage advertising posters from the turn of the century completed the artwork hanging in the room. Colorful images of contortionists who rivaled the flexibility of pretzels or ominous looking magicians in action seemed to leap off the walls.

Betty continued slowly down the center of the coach, past the kitchen area, to the back wall, where a closed door was situated in the center. Behind it, Betty assumed, was the bedroom.

She lifted her hand to knock on the door and held her breath in anticipation. She discovered she didn’t have to worry about what lie ahead; it was the loud and angry voice coming from behind her that she needed to be concerned about.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the man’s voice bounced off the paneled walls.

The voice was so powerful that it shook the motorhome in its wake. She spun around to see Boris standing directly behind her. Sputtering, she said, “Please, don’t be alarmed. I realize I shouldn’t be in here, but …”

“Then why
are
you here?” he demanded, his muscular arms positioned at his sides, his large hands balled into fists. He looked like a gladiator posed for attack.

“I was worried about Mr. Ogawa.” Betty slowed her words, hoping he would buy into her excuse for trespassing.

“Ogawa?” Boris questioned, and then relaxed his stance. “You mean the old man that was here a few minutes ago?”

Betty nodded, relieved. “He’s one of my clients. I saw him coming down your steps. I called his name right before I fell on the ice and hit my head. I must have blacked out for a few seconds because when I awoke I …”

“You’re with the casino?” Boris asked, his tone softening.

“I’m a tour operator. Mr. Ogawa is our oldest rider. I’m worried about him slipping on the ice,” she lied. The fact Ogawa might fall hadn’t crossed her mind. What had crossed her mind was the fact Ogawa had been enraged when she saw him.

“I was afraid for him too, that’s why I insisted on escorting him back to the hotel, list or no list,” Boris told her.

Betty instantly regretted having such a vivid imagination. She’d turned a perfectly innocent scenario into something suspect. She realized it when Boris mentioned a list. Boris must be telling the truth.

She asked, “You mean Mr. Ogawa’s list of eighty-eight things to do before he dies?”

Boris smiled. “Ogawa asked me to help him with number sixty-six, learning to pull a rabbit out of a hat.”

“And did you?”

Boris shrugged. “I told him I was a mentalist, not a magician. Besides, I’m fresh out of rabbits.”

Betty laughed.

“Is that why Mr. Ogawa was so agitated?” she asked. “I could hear him yelling as he walked down the steps. That surprised me. He’s always so sweet and ...”

Boris interrupted, “The old guy’s in his eighties, but he’s still a guy. He was upset because I thought he needed help walking. Even the elderly can be macho, Miss …”

She held out her hand. “Betty Chance. I’m sorry I invaded your privacy. But, when there wasn’t an answer at the door, I ...”

“Don’t apologize. I would have done the same thing,” he said as he slowly released her hand. He then reached over and touched a button next to her. The wall partially opened. The integrated refrigerated door that flowed seamlessly into the woodwork had been hidden from site. He removed a Champagne bottle and two crystal flute glasses from an overhead cabinet.

“Mr. Baffler, I …”

“Please, call me Boris.”

“Mr. Baff … I’m sorry … I mean, Boris. I can see you’re expecting company. I’ll just be on my way.” She turned to leave.

“You’re right. I am expecting company,” Boris said.

She took a step toward the door of the motorhome.

“But Betty,” he continued, “The company I am expecting is you.”

She turned back to see Boris smiling at full-wattage, cradling a bottle of
Dom Perignon
in his hands as if it were a newborn.

“Boris, I don’t have time to …”

He interrupted her. “We met before, didn’t we?” He set the glasses on the counter. He uncorked the bottle and began to fill each flute.

Betty nodded. “Yes, when you were making your rather grand entrance.”

He looked embarrassed. “I know it’s hokey to make an entrance like that, but it attracts people to the show.”

Then he did something that surprised Betty. He began to move his eyes slowly up and down her body, like he was memorizing every inch. Betty shivered and realized it wasn’t from fear or the Minnesota temperature. Boris’ powers were more than that of a master mentalist. They were sexually compelling as well.

He placed a filled glass of the chilled imported bubbly in Betty’s hand.

“I don’t have much time,” she said.

“Ah, but there’s always time for champagne,” he said and lightly clinked her glass. A single, perfect note rose from the crystal glasses and hung in the air.

Betty didn’t know what shocked her more—the fact that the bedecked, bejeweled and over-the-top Boris was attempting to seduce her, or that she was totally enjoying it.