“She didn’t -?” Felix croaked, dumbfounded.
Donny looked up at him with unfocused eyes. He walked to the ticket booth. Suddenly, he raised his fist, smashing it down onto the wood paneling. A shower of splinters hit the air.
“Two. Women. Defy me in a single night!” he roared. “I’m god-damn done with these crazy broads.”
Felix flinched and stepped back. For a moment, he said nothing. Some dark scheme seemed to be playing through in his mind as he scratched his ripped ear.
“We don’t need another heist,” he finally said. “I can get your hands on the freak-show, boss. I got another way. Trust me. I’ll bring her right where ya’ want her.”
Donny turned sharply to face him. “You’re damn right you will. I’m going to end that bitch if it kills me. By tomorrow night.”
Felix nodded. “What about the chippy?” he asked, nodding to the empty stairs that led up from the subway.
Donny’s eyes narrowed, maliciously. “She just signed her own suicide note.” He threw the photograph onto the ground. “And you can leave this for her daddy.”
The car ride home was silent.
Betty watched the houses flash by, from tall city apartments to brownstones, and finally the cookie cutter lawns of suburbia. She should have been elated. She was so close. Donny was on his knees, his head in the guillotine. He was bankrupt, his assets robbed from him, his accountant fled, his crooked business partners and best hitmen taken out. All she had left to do, was release the blade.
But none of it seemed to matter right now.
George’s stony silence was breaking her heart. Finally, he spoke, but so quietly, she almost missed it.
“Who is he, Betty? Really?”
The question stung. There was no point telling him the truth. It was far too complicated and incriminating. Instead, she thought it, as if she were speaking aloud, wishing George could hear and understand, and never ask again.
I’ve known him since I was a child. He helped make me who I am. Who I really am. A murderer.
Perhaps a half-truth was the best she could offer.
“I met Jacob a long time ago, George. I suppose – I never expected to see him again. But then he returned my bag and I suppose it sparked some memories, that’s all.” It was a dilution of the truth, and the best she could do.
“Sparked some memories,” George repeated.
“Yes. I knew him as a child.”
“You’ve never spoken about your childhood before.”
“There isn’t much to speak of. It was all perfectly normal until my parents passed away, just before I met you. I told you that.”
“And Jacob?”
“Lived nearby, a few years older than myself. We walked home from school together and rode bikes on weekends.”
“Just a chum, was he?” George growled.
“Well, perhaps I was sweet on him for a while – but George, this is silly! It’s been years. I was a child then and you know how devoted I am to you now.”
George looked at her apprehensively. He fell quiet again and they rode the distance home with silence an unwelcome third-party, prickling the space between them. As their black Chevy purred into the driveway alongside the white picket fence, Betty was desperately relieved to see Officer Parker’s car sitting in the darkness under the red maple tree opposite. He had simply been late, after all. Without a word, George gathered his coat from the back seat, stepped around the car, and stiffly held the passenger-side door open for his wife.
“Thank you, dear,” Betty said, with an infusion of warmth in her voice, as if nothing had transpired. If her weak explanations couldn’t melt his unnaturally icy demeanor, Betty could only hope to chip away at it with her usual unbridled optimism. George was jealous, and it was entirely her fault for making him so. She didn’t need to read his mind to be sure of that. Her husband had always been simple and honest, wearing each mood like a hat, clear as day for all to see. It was one of the things Betty adored about him. No searching for ulterior motives, no secrets or shadows. And he’d never had cause to wear anything but good humor. George was like a breath of fresh air.
Until recently. Now, Betty felt his inner thoughts may be changing. He seemed angry and confused, and every so often, a shadow of darkness flickered behind his eyes. Her heart roared with a need to protect him from it. From her. But she had never, would never, take the privacy of his own thoughts away from him by reading his mind.
What’s she hiding? came a sudden voice in her head, not her own.
Betty stopped still, almost stumbling into her husband who was now twisting his key into the front door. The voice was unexpected and unfamiliar, and it took her a moment to realize where it had come from. Not George, she breathed a sigh of relief. Even inadvertently, she would be devastated to break her oath. But someone – a man. Betty turned around, her eyes searching the darkness.
Across the road, under the red maple, Officer Parker was stirring in his car. Betty and George were home, and his undercover protection was no longer needed. But he wasn’t leaving. Without a moment’s hesitation, she reached into Parker’s thoughts. Bother. He’d been following her. He knew. An image of Rex Hatfield’s corpse sprang into her mind from his thoughts, the body uncoiled and sprawled on the rug with a purple face and lolling head. Parker had seen Carmine and Earl too, dashing up the alley in a bid to be gone. He’d seen her, leaving Rex’s office afterwards.
Bother. Bother. Bother, Betty frowned. This is a fly in the ointment I really don’t need.
“Oh dear, I’ve left my purse in the car,” she said cheerfully, stuffing her glittering handbag under the coat hanging over her arm. “You go in, George dear. Mind not to wake Mrs. Porter in the spare room. I’ll only be a minute.” George stepped through with a nod. As soon as he’d set foot on the staircase, Betty pulled the front door gently closed behind him.
Within seconds, she was tapping at the window of the unmarked car.
“Good evening, Officer Parker,” she said, briskly. The man inside startled. Apparently, he’d been lost in thought. He quickly opened the door and stepped out into the chilly air.
“Ma’am,” he said, tipping a hat that wasn’t there, by force of habit. He let his arm fall, embarrassed.
“I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.” She held out her hand and he shook it lightly. “Mrs. Betty Jones. For what it’s worth, my husband George doesn’t know you’ve been watching the house,” she added. “I’d prefer it stayed that way.”
“I never intended to -”
“You’ve been following me,” Betty cut him off. “It’s alright, I don’t blame you. I should have assumed you would. I’m normally quite careful with these things, but I’ve been a little… preoccupied, lately.”
“How did you know?”
“I saw you, of course.”
Parker frowned, his eyes narrowing under the dim light of the street lamp.
“You found Mr. Hatfield, then?” she said, getting down to business, with a glance to the still-closed front door.
Parker’s mouth fell open.
“You knew he was there?” Parker said. “I wondered if perhaps you didn’t see him. A nasty thing for a lady to see.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I saw.” Betty unfolded her coat from her arm and pulled it on against the cold night air. “You’re a good man, Officer Parker,” she said, studying his face under the street lamp. “Rex was a bad one. I don’t think anyone will mourn him.” Betty looked around again, conscious not to take too long. The last thing she needed was for George to come out looking for her.
“Was he dead when you arrived, then?”
“I suppose he must have been,” Betty said vaguely.
“Who bumped him, then?”
“That I can’t say.”
“Those two fat-heads I saw skipping off?”
“No, it wasn’t them. They don’t know anything, so don’t bother chasing them. Barely a wit to rub together between them, to be honest.”
“So, who then?” Parker crossed his arms against the night chill.
Betty smiled but didn’t answer.
“Alright, then why were you there?”
“I just stopped by to collect a debt,” Betty said, cagily. “Which has now been returned to its rightful owners. Sergeant Lawrence can attest to that.”
Parker looked shocked. “The Sergeant already knew about this?” His eyes narrowed and his mouth drew tight in irritation.
A flicker of concern caught Betty’s throat. In the rush of the Gala Ball preparations, Betty had forgotten to mention her latest outing to Jacob.
“Of course,” she lied, trusting Jake would cover for her well enough. “I suppose you reported it to him anyway?” Betty asked. “Of course, you did, it’s only right. We can’t leave bodies lying around in rugs for people to stumble over. The smell would be terrible.”
“Actually, no,” Parker said, testily. “I reported it to Sergeant Lovett instead. Sergeant Lawrence has been – preoccupied – lately as well. I couldn’t get a hold of him on the telephone.”
Bother. The last thing I need is another shadow on my tail.
“– and before you ask, Mrs. Jones – no, I didn’t mention your name, out of respect for Sergeant Lawrence asking me not to at the beginning of this detail. But that’s not to say I won’t.” He bounced on his toes, looking agitated, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm. “You know Ma’am, I’m not one to question the virtue of a lady, but I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth. Women don’t just ‘stop by’ to pick up packages from dead bookies.”
“The whole truth is never the whole truth, Officer Parker,” Betty sighed. “But if you insist on investigating me, please talk to Sergeant Lawrence about it first.” Betty turned to leave, then paused.
“For what’s it worth,” she added quietly, “thank you for protecting my family over the last few weeks. I’m sure it’s taken precious time away from your own loved ones and I’m very grateful for your help.” She turned away.
Parker shook his head and looked around. The street was deserted, the lights of every house extinguished in slumber. A backdrop of idyllic suburban ordinariness. Not a hint of danger lurking anywhere.
“But why do they need protection, Mrs. Jones?” he called after her.
Betty stopped in the middle of the road. Creeping shadows settled in the creases under her tired eyes. It was well past midnight, and if tomorrow was anything like today, she would need more than beauty sleep to get through it. She turned around again to face the young policeman.
“If Sergeant Lawrence feels you should know, he’ll tell you,” Betty replied. “I trust his judgement implicitly. Goodnight, Officer.”
As Betty walked back to the house, she didn’t notice the light flicker above her, as George let the corner of the curtain slip back down against the window frame in the bedroom upstairs. Before she closed the front door, he was already in bed, feigning sleep.
Tiny specks of dust flew up, twinkling and suspended in the air all around Betty as she made her way through the house, feather duster in hand. Despite the urgency that begged her to begin the final phase of her plan against Donny, her family and housework came first. They were, after all, the reason she had so determinedly fought against him until now. Preservation of some semblance of normalcy, even at an inopportune time such as this, was paramount in keeping a cool head. Besides, she would hate for George or the children to think she was ruffled.
George had been unsettlingly quiet. This morning he’d simply uttered a thank you when she’d placed his hot breakfast on the table, barely said a word at church, and had since retreated to the front porch with his newspaper. No doubt it was a continuation of his silent protest at the goings-on at the Gala Ball the evening before. His unhappiness pained her. She’d been a fool to allow such an intimate conversation to take place on the crowded dance floor. I lost my head. And I can’t let it happen again.
Betty was bone-tired from over-thinking and wished for nothing more than a nice, warm bath to soak all her worries away. But there was still washing to be hung, beds to be made and Donny’s murder to plan before she could really put her feet up.
And plan it she had. Months of conscientious observation was on her side. Betty knew every movement Donny made, his vulnerabilities and his routines. Bankrupting him was never going to be enough, it was just the icing on the cake. One step closer to revenge. She had taken down all his best men, his business partners, his puppets. She had taken his money and his assets. Now, it was time to take him. Tomorrow morning, on Donny’s drive to the orphanage, she had a little detour for him in mind. Tonight’s filthy cigar would be his last.
Betty hung her feather duster on its hook in the laundry and walked through to the kitchen. A row of empty glass jars were lined up on the kitchen bench, ready for pickling the beets she’d collected from the church victory garden. Small circles of floral fabric with scalloped edges were neatly piled next to the jars, along with a spool of red ribbon to tie the fabric cover onto the lids. Nancy had painstakingly cut the fabric days earlier and neatly handwritten paper labels, ready to glue onto the jars before selling at the church market. She planned to teach Nancy how to boil up casein glue for the labels, using milk and vinegar, after the pickled beets were jarred. Before the war, scotch tape had done the trick of fixing the labels on nicely, but now, as with so many other factories, all adhesives were being used for the war effort instead. Home-front patching jobs couldn’t hold a candle to the importance of sealing up blood-plasma cartons or labelling weapon parts. Mend and make do, Betty had trilled to Nancy, who’d been miffed at the inconvenience after all her hard work writing out the labels.
Nancy would turn twelve years old in less than a month. Flashes of that same fiery determination and stubbornness that Betty claimed herself were now beginning to show up in her daughter. But, without the terrible experiences that Betty had endured in her own childhood, the girl was far more naïve and easily tempered. She used her imagination most effectively in playing out stories from her books, instead of plotting the murders of those who abused her, as Betty had done at Nancy’s age. Reading is a far healthier pastime for a young girl to entertain, Betty mused. She really is growing up terribly fast, though.
George Junior’s sing-song voice rang in to her through the open window. Betty leaned forward, pushing aside the daisy-laced curtains. Beyond the white picket fence, her elderly neighbor, Mrs. Porter was shuffling around with a garden rake in hand. Closer to home, George Junior was playing with a ball in the driveway, his shirt hanging out under his knitted cardigan, one sock pulled up to his knee-length knickers and the other fallen down to his ankle. His little cheeks were ruddy with effort as he dashed around, singing.
“Ball, ball bouncy, Bingo’s in the bath,
Bunny’s eating lettuce seed, up the garden path!
Mouse is in the larder, Geegees rather lame,
Ball ball bouncy, let’s have a game!”
Betty’s heart swelled at the sight of her five-year-old son. He was a dream come true, from his freckles to his toes. Grass stained the palms of his hands and one bare knee. His nutmeg hair flecked with sunlight as he danced around without a care in the world. Anything, she said to herself, for what must have been the hundredth time in as many days. I’ll do anything to keep them safe.
A shrill ringing broke through her reverie. Betty let the curtain fall back and walked through to the sitting room, picking up the telephone receiver from the side table.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Jones?! Oh, thank goodness! Please, help me! I don’t know what to do!” The voice on the other end of the line was hysterical, spluttering and gasping in shallow bursts. “They took her – they took Anna!” the woman cried.
“Ruth?” Betty said, “Is that you?” Her heart skipped a beat. No, no, no. Not yet.
“Yes! It’s me,” the girl sobbed. “Please, you have to help! He broke into my house just now – said they’ve taken
her to some rail shed… that they’re going to kill her!”
“Who came, Ruth?” Betty pushed, her eyes darting around the room. Her mouth was dry and a cold wash of dread doused Betty from scalp to toes. “Who was it?” As if she needed to ask.
“I don’t know. He had a gun and … and –” The girl paused, and Betty heard a shuddering cry. “Please, no. Please,” she whimpered.
“What did they look like, Ruth? You must tell me.”
There was a quiet choking sound. “Scars,” Ruth whispered, and Betty knew.
Felix. Of course. He must have followed Betty on her sales rounds – he as good as admitted it himself when she had chased him from her house. And when Donny couldn’t get to her family, he hit the next best thing. Her Avon customers. Her work. Her dream. And she’d never seen it coming. What a fool I am.
“He knew Johnny,” Ruth was sobbing. “That dirty spiv Anna was so sweet on that got himself done in last month – he said Johnny got himself in trouble – that he stole something from them and they were going to take her as payment unless I – I ...”
“You what, Ruth?”
“– call you,” the young woman burst again into tears. “I don’t understand,” Ruth whispered. “Why am I calling you? You’re just an Avon lady –”
Desperately, Betty tried to reach out and grasp Ruth’s memories, to see what happened for herself. But it was no use. Betty had never been able to reach another person’s thoughts from so far away. Betty’s fingernails bit into her palms in frustration.
“Did you call the police, Ruth?” Betty pressed, desperately hoping she hadn’t. Betty’s meticulously laid plans were being unraveled by the moment and Donny wasn’t a prize she was willing to share.
“I can’t!” Ruth hiccupped. “He said if I call the brass, they’ll kill me.” Ruth’s voice lowered to a hiss. “I don’t know what to do.” Betty imagined the girl balled up in a corner, terrified and tear-stained with the cord of the telephone wound tight around her fingers.
“Do nothing,” Betty said, forcefully. “You rang me like they asked, you did the right thing. Go and make yourself a cup of tea, Ruth. I’ll take care of Anna.”
Avon Calling! Season One Page 29
