Murder by Chance (Betty Chance Mystery) (5 page)

“This sure beats breakfast at Denny’s!” Tillie cooed above the din of table chatter and silverware clanking. At 7:45 A.M. the 300-seat Hungry Moose Buffet was packed with salivating patrons. The casino’s patrons were either in line at each of eight different food stations, or happily chowing down at their table.

Betty grinned. “Sure does. They’ve actually managed to out-Vegas Vegas.”

She pointed upward to dozens of chandeliers lighting up the room. Each one featured twelve small Tiffany lanterns, with stained glass panels, suspended from bronzed shaped twigs and leaves.

The ceiling was painted to look like a blue sky, filled with cumulous clouds that moved slowly across the horizon. The visual feat was accomplished by a series of clear ceiling tiles that allowed 3-D images to be projected upon them. In the evening, the blue would slowly change to black of night and glistened above with thousands of twinkling LED stars.

“Is the food as good as the place looks?” Tillie asked, her green eyes roaming over the hand-painted Native American scenes on the walls.

Betty nodded. “Yep. I rated it a five popped buttons.”

When Betty made the decision to rate restaurants, she decided to forgo the traditional “five star” or even “five fork” rating systems. Instead, popping buttons from the strain of too much food made more sense to her. One popped button meant the food was barely edible. Five popped buttons meant not only would your pants fall down from eating too much, you wouldn’t even care.

Betty saw that many of the diners were whispering to each other while staring at Tillie. Almost everyone, it seemed, was checking out the driver’s off-duty ensemble. Black spandex Capri pants seemed painted onto Tillie’s thighs, while a skin-tight, polyester top of black and white tiger stripes hid just enough of her voluptuous torso to remain decent. On her feet were open-toed, red high heels. Glossy black and white, wooden giraffe earrings dangled from her earlobes. Her ample cleavage threatened to escape her shirt’s deep V-neck. A portion of an entire American flag, tattooed on Tillie’s right breast, could be seen waving patriotically with each breath she took.

If Tillie were working the Strip in Vegas—say as a drag queen imitating Dolly Parton—her outfit wouldn’t be noticed. But in northern Minnesota, a casino patron’s normal attire was a tribute to everything flannel. The men donned their best plaid while women wore pastel sweat suits with embroidered images of bunnies hopping playfully across their heaving bosoms.

“Follow me,” a short round hostess smiled and led the two women to a table in the middle of the room.

Betty pulled up a chair, while Tillie asked. “Would you mind ordering coffee for me? I’ve got to grab some grub. I’m starving.”

“No problem.” Betty smiled. She watched Tillie sashay her way to the Egg Cetera station, the name of which was proclaimed from a dangling neon sign. Throughout the day, the signs would change with the crowds, evolving from a breakfast buffet to lunch to dinner. It was a metamorphosis barely perceptible to the human requiring slow-motion photography for its intricacies to be observed.

Tillie stood in line, waiting for the omelet chef to ask her what she wanted. Her choice of ingredients ranged from freshly diced Roma tomatoes to chunks of Maine lobster and medallions of range-fed bison. Next to the station stood a variety of other egg dishes such as spinach quiche, frittatas, and various egg casseroles.

Betty’s favorite food station was titled Southern Comfort. Hot baking powder biscuits, peppery gravy, and two-inch thick sausage patties called to her as soon as she stepped foot inside the buffet. She momentarily fixated on the tantalizing scent of smoked maple-flavored bacon wafting through the room. She envisioned trays of thick slices butted up against vats of steaming grits or steel cut oats. A carving chef waited patiently, behind the counter, willing to slice off a hunk of a ham the size of an eighteen-wheeler.

A server appeared at the table and asked, “What would you like to drink?”

“Coffee for two, please,” Betty answered.

She needed caffeine. She could barely keep her eyes open. She hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. Plus, she was trying to project an upbeat, positive attitude for her tour group. She couldn’t let anyone see the concern and fear she was actually feeling.

Tillie came back to the table, carrying a plate filled with goodies. A Pepper Jack & Cheddar cheese omelet covered a third of her plate. The rest of the plate was overflowing with hash browns, fresh fruit, and miniature Stuffed Pecan French toast sticks drowning in pure maple syrup. As she sat down, she asked, “Aren’t you going to eat before you start scheduling passengers for the sheriff to interview?”

Betty nodded as the server filled their cups to the brim with steaming coffee. She stirred in a dollop of cream, took a sip and then looked around the restaurant. She could see at least ten of her clients having breakfast. Mr. Ogawa was one of them. Unless the sheriff had a hole in his head, Mr. Ogawa would be off the hook as soon as he said hello.

Betty took a big gulp and announced, “I’ll talk to a few clients on my way to Southern Comfort.”

Tillie forked another pile of hash browns and said, “Let me know if you need help.”

Standing up, Betty pulled a small notebook and pen out of her purse and headed toward Ogawa’s table.

“Good morning,” she said, and added the biggest smile she could muster. Except for Mr. Ogawa, no one smiled back. At any moment she expected to hear a barrage of complaints from her clients. She was certain their sullen mood was because of the murder. Instead, true to a gambler’s nature, she quickly found out their anger was related to their missed fortune. It wasn’t only Hannah who felt the jackpot should have been theirs.

“You heard about the dollar jackpot for thirteen mil?” Harold Turner asked right before a mound of catsup-drenched hash browns disappeared into his open mouth.

“I did,” Betty said, trying to sound upbeat. “I guess that was one lucky player.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Turner said, as a few of the potatoes escaped through the side of his mouth. He didn’t notice. “Those machines never pay off,” he continued. “I don’t care if they’re supposedly linked to Vegas or not.”

Multi-linked progressive slots were linked with other machines in casinos spread across the country. The headquarters for the company running the nation-wide games was located in Las Vegas. By pressing the spin button, a player could hope to hit the same jackpot as one who was playing the same progressive machine two thousand miles away.

Turner scoffed. “Who’s got that kind of money to pay out nowadays? I’ll bet you 3-to-1 the casino says the win isn’t legit.”

Betty had heard the same gripe about wins being legitimate before. Rumors were spread throughout the gaming world about local casinos using bogus excuses to refuse big jackpot payouts. It didn’t help that every slot machine was tagged with a sign reading,
Machine Malfunctions Voids All Pays
.

“Mr. Turner, Moose Bay is a very reputable casino,” Betty explained. “In fact, it was voted one of the …”

Turner interrupted her, “Has the jackpot winner been paid, yet?”

“I have no idea,” Betty answered honestly, assuming the man had been paid, but sometimes with a payout that large there’s a delay until the win is verified.

“And who knows who would have won it if we hadn’t been late?” Mildred Pudlowski said, her razor-sharp lips forming a pout. “I could’ve been the one playing that machine.”

Betty sighed. There would be no choice but to repeatedly apologize on this trip, though being late seemed to be a trifling matter compared to what Mr. Farsi suffered. She said, “Again, I’m sorry we arrived late. But to be honest, considering the weather, I’d still insist the driver took a break. The roads were very icy.”

Mr. Ogawa reached up and touched her arm. “There’s no need to apologize, Miss Betty. We arrived safely and that’s what counts. If I’ve learned one thing in my eighty-eight years, it’s that no one can predict the future.”

Mildred rested her fork and admitted, “That’s for sure. In fact, I’m getting so old I can’t even remember my past, much less figure out what’s going to happen next. Well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter who won the money. If I had, I’d end up putting it back into the machines.”

Betty grinned. “If I remember correctly, you only play penny slots. It would take you a while.”

“Oh, if I won the big one, I’d move up to nickel slots in a heartbeat.” She pointed at her table companions. “I’d even pick-up the breakfast tab. Maybe even lunch.”

The entire table burst out in laughter, except for Turner who continued to scowl. Nothing seemed to make him happy. He acted as if he was looking for a fight.

“I’m going to grab a bite to eat. If each of you could stop at my table on the way out, I’d appreciate it,” Betty said, and left without waiting for a response. She didn’t want to take the chance anyone would refuse, especially Turner.

On her way to Southern Comfort, Betty stopped by another table of six passengers and asked them to do the same. When she finally reached the station, she grabbed a large plate but filled it with tiny portions: a half of a biscuit, a tablespoon of gravy and a single turkey sausage link. She’d stop by one more station to try something new, something to review on her blog. But it, too, would be no more than a mouthful. Just because she wrote about food, didn’t mean she had to eat an entire portion to know how something tasted.

She didn’t want to pack on any additional pounds. Not when it took her as long as it did to lose ten. She cruised over to the next station, Griddle Me This, and wistfully looked at the variety of pancakes, Belgian waffles and French toast. She chose one small silver dollar pancake, and a miniature chocolate covered waffle.

She reached for a giant-sized blueberry & mango pancake, paused, and muttered out loud, “You have enough, girl.” She turned back to her table, shutting her eyes as she passed trays of jelly-filled donuts, custard filled Danish, and still-warm-from-the-oven, almond croissants.

By the time Betty made it back to the table, Tillie’s plate was clean.

“Is that all you’re eating?” Tillie asked, pointing to Betty’s plate.

Betty grinned. “I have enough,” she said, using her favorite phrase before reminding herself one more time,
I have enough
. For her, it was a string of words that kept her centered and on track, whether she was talking about money, food, family or friends. Betty always tried to remember that, in so many ways, her life was abundant.

After her husband deserted her, any comfort she could find came with accepting the fact that she was so blessed, and even without Larry, she had enough. She had enough money to subsist, enough friends with shoulders to cry on, and enough family to be with during the holidays. She had enough.

Of course, there were times when she wanted more, but having all she needed was all that really mattered. As long as she kept an attitude of gratitude, Betty knew she could handle anything that came her way.

Then she saw it coming.

The tiny, angry vintage steamroller was heading in her direction.

Anything that came her way
, she reminded herself. Or anyone.

Hannah abruptly stopped in front of Betty and began to tap the tiled floor with the tip of her metal cane. In Hannah’s hands, the cane was more than an aid to the elderly. It made her look like the high commander of a senior citizens’ SWAT team.

“Good morning, Hannah.” Betty smiled sweetly while preparing herself to be pounced upon verbally. She swallowed hard before uttering her next words, “Would you care to join Tillie and I?”

Tillie jumped up immediately. “I’m through eating. I have an appointment at the spa for a manicure.” She raced out of the buffet as quickly as she could, considering the shoes she wore. As she did, her swaying hips knocked into more than one table along the way.

Betty didn’t blame her. If she could have done the same, she would have. But, her job called for her to sit and listen to whatever venom Hannah would spew forth.

Hannah sat down across from her. She rested her cane against the table and snapped, “I called Lori this morning to complain. As far as I’m concerned, she’s the only good thing about Take A Chance.”

“Lori is wonderful,” Betty agreed. “She told me you called. Hannah, I promise that you’ll get a full refund.”

“Refund? I don’t want a refund. I want my thirteen million.”

“Hannah, a jackpot belongs to whoever wins it, not who wants to win it. If that was the case then everyone here would …”

Hannah interrupted, “Everyone
here
knows that it was
my
machine that hit the big one. I play that machine every time I’m here. I only leave it to eat or sleep, and at my age I don’t do either very long.”

“Look, we’ll give you back your money for the trip, and I’ll personally cover all your meals.”

Hannah just glared, her rheumy eyes taking on the sharpness of a sniper. “I could cover my own meals, if you give me my jackpot.”

Betty took in a sharp breath to calm herself before responding. “Hannah, you do realize I have bigger problems than you not winning a jackpot? You do remember one of my clients was murdered?”