stepped in front of Tillie.
An enormous male outfitted in a jogging suit filled the cubicle. His three hundred and fifty pound body was slumped face-first against the outside wall of the bus. The grey velour clothing covering his massive rump, thighs and back gave the appearance of an overstuffed chair crammed into the tiny space.
Tillie was right about one thing. There was nothing natural about this man’s death. Not with a butcher knife buried in his back.
Chapter 2
Betty stood next to the parked tour bus. She closed here eyes hard, squeezed for a hopeful moment, and then snapped them open. Damn! She wasn’t having a nightmare . This was real .
She shivered in the frigid air, buttoned up her jacket and turned her collar up around her neck. She rubbed her hands together for warmth and noticed her breath was forming little clouds of frost. She watched as the paramedics pushed the gurney toward the ambulance. The EMTs weren’t bothering with IV’s. She’d overheard an officer tell them the moment they arrived the body was ready to be bagged and tagged.
“I can’t believe this, Tillie, ” Betty said, burrowing her hands deep into her jacket. It was the fifteenth tour the two women had worked together. By the seventh trip they had become close friends.
“I can’t believe him ,” Tillie said, pointing to the law enforcement officer that stepped out of their tour bus. “He kind of looks like the sheriff in that cartoon flick, if the sheriff was sexy, that is.”
“ Toy Story? ” Betty asked.
Tillie nodded, her eyes remaining fixed on the officer.
Betty agreed that the short, muscular man bore a striking resemblance to the animated character of Sheriff Woody. His wavy reddish brown hair flopped around on his head in the strong wind. His eyes were small brown pupils surrounded by a sea of white. His face was long and his prominent chin square and strong. His skin was as pale as sweet cream.
“You think a man who looks like a cartoon is sexy?” Betty asked.
“I think all men are sexy, animated or not,” Tillie responded. “How old do you think he is?”
“It’s hard to say. Could be like Dick Clark was and look twenty years younger than he actually is,” Betty responded.
“Well, then he’s got to be thirty-four because he looks fourteen to me.” Tillie said. But before wrapping her arms tighter around her body, she unzipped her jacket to reveal a bit of cleavage.
Betty applied the brakes: “Oh no, you don’t Tillie. This is not the time to flirt. Not only could it hurt our business, it might hurt the investigation. The sheriff has to have his eyes on the crime, not your spectacular boobs.”
Reluctantly, Tillie zipped back up.
The Sheriff stomped over. He said crisply, “I’m Sheriff Severson. Let’s go inside to talk, ladies.” He pointed toward the building and abruptly walked toward it.
His dismissive attitude didn’t bother Betty. She understood policemen. Not only had she spent decades being married to one, she’d been born into a family of Chicago cops. Homicide investigations were as familiar to her as cookies at Christmas.
Betty and Tillie followed the sheriff inside. As they entered the lavish hotel lobby, squeals of joy and moans of disappointment escaped from the casino floor. Even at one thirty in the morning with death at its door, Moose Bay was a maze of people racing to find their fortune.
Betty noticed Mrs. Kotval waiting patiently on one of the overstuffed, burgundy leather sofas. Tall ferns and a brass coffee table enveloped her. The Beatles We All Live in a Yellow Submarine was being projected softly overhead. Mrs. Kotval’s white Velcro strapped sneakers tapped reflexively on the travertine marble floor to the beat of the music.
“Sheriff, will you excuse me for just one minute?” Betty asked, beelining to her client before he could answer.
She placed her arm gently on the woman’s shoulder. “I assumed the hotel staff had taken care of you, Mrs.
An enormous male outfitted in a jogging suit filled the cubicle. His three hundred and fifty pound body was slumped face-first against the outside wall of the bus. The grey velour clothing covering his massive rump, thighs and back gave the appearance of an overstuffed chair crammed into the tiny space.
Tillie was right about one thing. There was nothing natural about this man’s death. Not with a butcher knife buried in his back.
Chapter 2
Betty stood next to the parked tour bus. She closed here eyes hard, squeezed for a hopeful moment, and then snapped them open. Damn! She wasn’t having a nightmare . This was real .
She shivered in the frigid air, buttoned up her jacket and turned her collar up around her neck. She rubbed her hands together for warmth and noticed her breath was forming little clouds of frost. She watched as the paramedics pushed the gurney toward the ambulance. The EMTs weren’t bothering with IV’s. She’d overheard an officer tell them the moment they arrived the body was ready to be bagged and tagged.
“I can’t believe this, Tillie, ” Betty said, burrowing her hands deep into her jacket. It was the fifteenth tour the two women had worked together. By the seventh trip they had become close friends.
“I can’t believe him ,” Tillie said, pointing to the law enforcement officer that stepped out of their tour bus. “He kind of looks like the sheriff in that cartoon flick, if the sheriff was sexy, that is.”
“ Toy Story? ” Betty asked.
Tillie nodded, her eyes remaining fixed on the officer.
Betty agreed that the short, muscular man bore a striking resemblance to the animated character of Sheriff Woody. His wavy reddish brown hair flopped around on his head in the strong wind. His eyes were small brown pupils surrounded by a sea of white. His face was long and his prominent chin square and strong. His skin was as pale as sweet cream.
“You think a man who looks like a cartoon is sexy?” Betty asked.
“I think all men are sexy, animated or not,” Tillie responded. “How old do you think he is?”
“It’s hard to say. Could be like Dick Clark was and look twenty years younger than he actually is,” Betty responded.
“Well, then he’s got to be thirty-four because he looks fourteen to me.” Tillie said. But before wrapping her arms tighter around her body, she unzipped her jacket to reveal a bit of cleavage.
Betty applied the brakes: “Oh no, you don’t Tillie. This is not the time to flirt. Not only could it hurt our business, it might hurt the investigation. The sheriff has to have his eyes on the crime, not your spectacular boobs.”
Reluctantly, Tillie zipped back up.
The Sheriff stomped over. He said crisply, “I’m Sheriff Severson. Let’s go inside to talk, ladies.” He pointed toward the building and abruptly walked toward it.
His dismissive attitude didn’t bother Betty. She understood policemen. Not only had she spent decades being married to one, she’d been born into a family of Chicago cops. Homicide investigations were as familiar to her as cookies at Christmas.
Betty and Tillie followed the sheriff inside. As they entered the lavish hotel lobby, squeals of joy and moans of disappointment escaped from the casino floor. Even at one thirty in the morning with death at its door, Moose Bay was a maze of people racing to find their fortune.
Betty noticed Mrs. Kotval waiting patiently on one of the overstuffed, burgundy leather sofas. Tall ferns and a brass coffee table enveloped her. The Beatles We All Live in a Yellow Submarine was being projected softly overhead. Mrs. Kotval’s white Velcro strapped sneakers tapped reflexively on the travertine marble floor to the beat of the music.
“Sheriff, will you excuse me for just one minute?” Betty asked, beelining to her client before he could answer.
She placed her arm gently on the woman’s shoulder. “I assumed the hotel staff had taken care of you, Mrs.
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