“It’s your fault! You and your flippin’ flower shop!” They began to scuffle with each other and Betty held out her arms between them.
“Please, gentlemen! If anything, it’s Donny’s fault. He put you up to this terrible business!”
“Yeah! And now the brass is on their way and we’re gonna fry!” Earl’s lip trembled.
“Oh, I’m such a bleeding heart,” Betty sympathized, throwing a glance to where Rex Hatfield’s corpse lay hidden. “You both remind me so much of my dear brother, Harold, that’s all. God bless his soul.”
“Please, lady -” Earl begged.
“As far as I can see, there’s only one thing you can do.”
“What!?”
“You’ll have to leave before they get here. Get as far away from New York as you can and never come back! Catch the first train.”
“But you’ve seen us -”
Betty paused, biting her bottom lip. “That’s true. And I really should call the Sergeant right away, I mean it’s the law and you’re neck deep in trouble. Mr. Pinzolo has you right at the end of a noose and you didn’t even realize – but I feel so bad for you both -” Betty frowned, a picture of indecision. “I suppose I could say I never saw you -”
“Thanks, lady!” Earl made a run for the door.
“Wait!” Betty stepped in front of him. “You can’t take all of that money with you. It’s traceable! The police planted it on Rex to trip Donny up. They’re coming to collect it back as evidence. They’ll catch you the minute you spend it.”
“Jeez!” Carmine spat, emptying his pockets in fistfuls onto the floor. “Toss it, Earl!” His companion ripped out the cash as if it were burning holes in his trousers.
Betty turned to her Avon bag and retrieved her purse, handing them two crisp fifty-dollar bills. “You'll need money though. You’d better take these for the train tickets instead. I hear California is nice this time of year. And remember, never mention any of this to anyone or they’ll have you back here in the chair faster than you can say ‘blackmail’!”
“Not a soul!” Earl declared.
“We owe you one, lady!”
“Yes, I think you do,” Betty said, shifting her bag and ushering them out the door. “Get straight to the train remember, Donny’ll have your livers if he finds you first!”
Carmine and Earl ran off up the alley, knocking each other off kilter in their desperation to be gone. Betty chuckled as she turned back inside and shut the door.
She looked around the room. Apart from the littering of cash, the room was relatively tidy. She bent down and shuffled the scrunched money efficiently into a large pile. None of it was traceable, of course.
She replaced the missing one hundred dollars, an entire month of Avon sales, back into her purse for banking. She’d made her final delivery for the new catalog just yesterday morning to Ruth and had been delighted to find poor, wretched Anna there too, still pining for the greaser that had left her bruised. Betty had ultimately repaid him for his bad behavior, though of course, Anna didn't know it. The silly girl simply nursed a tendency for bad choices in men. Betty had left Anna with a perfume she promised was sure to attract a new, law-abiding beau. As she had counted her final takings last night, Betty wondered if she’d given away more products this month than sold. She had topped the earnings up with cash from her own purse and wrote out the deposit slip, ready to be banked Friday morning.
Rex Hatfield, on the other hand, seemed to have no shortage of cash. There was far too much piled on the floor for her bag to hold, so Betty rummaged about the office until she found a sizable box to fill instead, scouring the safe for extras while she was at it. I made rather a healthy windfall on that bet, she mused, tucking her freshly curled victory rolls behind her shoulder.
Betty tied the box closed with some twine and carried both box and bag outside to the alley.
Although her stomach twisted with anxiety at the thought of letting Carmine and Earl go free, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d done the right thing. They were far too stupid to pick up on her game and if need be, she could always kill them later if they showed up to cause trouble. Somehow, she didn’t think they would. Perhaps I’m becoming sentimental.
Betty walked up the alley, rounding the corner of the building with her baggage in her arms. Soon enough, she'd be on her bicycle again, heading home to the comfort of a delicious casserole and a hot cup of tea.
An unmarked car, half hidden at the end of the alley, hummed to life and rolled out slowly from behind a row of dumpsters. It pulled up by the back door of Rex’s shop. With a glance up the street to make sure the coast was clear, a man got out of the car and tried the shop door. It was open. Stepping inside, he found himself in an almost empty room. A pile of boxes sat midway to the far wall and a small table and chairs were set up near the middle, spilled with papers. He flicked through them. Tipping notes and ledgers. A walking stick sat propped against a chair. It had no handle. Odd. The man made his way through the room to an inner door, his hand gingerly framing the Colt Official Police revolver strapped under his jacket.
“Hello?” He elbowed the door open and stepped inside.
The office was a mess, paperwork strewn everywhere and a safe hanging open in the wall. Not a person in sight. Given he’d just seen three leave under highly suspicious circumstances, he wasn’t entirely surprised. A flutter of black and white caught his eye. He stepped over to where the boxes were stacked and bent down. It was a slightly scrunched one-hundred-dollar bill. Frowning, the man turned it over in his fingers, then looked to the floor again, in case there was another.
Was that? It couldn’t be – but it looks just like -
On his hands and knees, the man dragged a large coiled rug from behind the boxes and set it sailing across the floor. It rolled away, unraveling before him until –thump. The man stepped forward, his heart racing. He was right. He slipped the gun from his holster and readied it, just to be sure. With the toe of his shoe, he gave a nudge to the shiny patent leather of the shoe he’d seen a flash of inside the end of the roll. Dead. An older man, fat and purple in the face lay on the floor, his head lolling from the momentum of being spun. He nudged the man’s cheek with the muzzle of his gun. Broken neck. A silver knife was still clutched in the man’s fist, pressed down the length of his body. It was clean.
Officer Malcolm Parker stood up and holstered his gun, a grim look on his usually cheery face. Every night for the past week, he’d sat dutifully in his car, undercover, watching the manicured house in the flawless street with the picture-perfect family that lived inside. Protect them, Sergeant Lawrence had demanded. But don’t tell anyone. Even the department.
But protect them from what? What crime could possibly be committed on such a faultless home? And the longer Parker watched, the more impossible that perfection had seemed. There were no cracks in the mortar. Not a raised voice or frown to be seen. It seemed a little odd.
So, he decided to do some investigating of his own. First, the husband.
Then the wife.
After all, no one is perfect.
He scowled at the purple face of the corpse in the rug. Someone’s been lying.
The dinner table was already laid out with a chicken pot pie and roast potatoes. A trifle was setting in the refrigerator for dessert and the children were under strict instructions to be on their best behavior for their elderly neighbor.
“Now are you sure you’ll be alright, Mrs. Porter?” Betty called from the kitchen.
“Fly a kite? It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it, dear?” Mrs. Porter called back, turning away from the children to shuffle into the kitchen. “But I suppose if the children want to -” Nancy rolled her eyes at the old lady’s back. Betty shot her daughter a warning look.
“No kites, just dinner and bed, please. Now, here’s the phone number for City Hall,” Betty said, passing Mrs. Porter a piece of paper. It might be a late night for you, so do sleep if you need to. George will walk you home whe
n we return.”
“My, don’t you look a picture!” Mrs. Porter said, admiring Betty’s satin evening gown as she pulled off her apron. “Such a pretty dress.” She lifted the hem of her own wool day dress and gave a little shuffle. “You know, I used to turn heads too. At the spring dance, back in Bellefontaine I was crowned Belle of the Ball.”
“I don’t doubt it, Mrs. Porter, you rascal,” George said, sweeping into the room and taking the old lady’s hand in a gentle spin. “I bet you had them scrapping over your dance card!”
Mrs. Porter giggled. “I did, you know. And I got up to mischief, I can tell you.”
“I’m sure you’re a terrible influence on the children.” He shot a wink to Nancy, who screwed up her face, entirely unimpressed.
“Time to skidoo, jitterbug,” he said, turning to Betty and pulling on his driving gloves.
“Yes, I know, I just feel I’ve forgotten something -” Betty replied, looking around the room, distractedly.
“Forgotten something?” George teased. “Surely you’re the most organized hostess in New York City, jitterbug. Down to the very last hors d’oeuvre. Those orphaned children will practically have it made after tonight’s do with all the high-hats you’ve invited. But not,” he ushered Betty toward the front door, “unless their gracious hostess turns up to empty those silk pockets. So, let’s hit the road.”
“Honestly, George, when you say it like that, I sound like a criminal!”
“Nothing could be further from the truth, my darling,” George winked. “You’re the picture of morality and grace.”
“Of course I am.” She slung a glittery purse over her wrist. It was heavier than it should be. Inside was her favorite ruby lipstick, a powder puff, silver comb and two freshly sharpened boning knives, neatly wrapped in a large handkerchief. Just in case.
“Let’s skip then,” George said, holding open the front door for her. Betty looked up and down the street outside. Apart from the usual familiar cars, there was no one to be seen.
Parker should be here by now, she thought, glancing back inside at the clock on the sitting room wall. She bit her lip with worry. It was just on six o’clock. Maybe he’s running a little late.
“Perhaps we should wait a few minutes,” Betty said, hoping for a sign of the undercover police car she was already used to seeing parked under the red maple.
“Whatever for!?” George exclaimed. “Mrs. Porter is all set and the car’s warmed up. The traffic is always wacky this time of evening - you can’t be late to your own party!”
“But a few minutes won’t hurt -”
George looked at her, with a wry smile. “I think you’ve got a case of the jitters, jitterbug. It’s a big night for you, very understandable. But it’s just a party, after all. No need to get yourself worked up over it.”
Just a party, she thought with chagrin. If only he knew.
“Yes, I suppose,” Betty relented. “Mind your manners, dears.” Betty kissed George Junior goodnight, then turned to hug her daughter.
“Please don’t leave us with her,” Nancy said in a stage whisper. “She can’t hear a thing and it’s so dull playing Rummy after dinner.”
“Just stand in front of her when you speak and don’t mumble,” Betty whispered, kissing her daughter. “I’m sure you’ll manage for one night. I’m counting on you to keep Georgie occupied while I’m out. And remember to feed Figaro before bed.”
Nancy sighed melodramatically. “Yes, mommy.”
Every time Betty looked at her daughter, the girl seemed to be inching closer to womanhood. The implications of it were too urgent to deny. It’s time, Betty thought. As soon as this business with Donny is over, I need to tell her.
Betty leaned forward and tucked her daughter’s hair behind her ear. “I know you’re frustrated, dear, but I need you to help me by putting up with it for just a bit longer. Next week, I promise to take you out - just the two of us. We can have a little chat about – well, all sorts of things. Important things. I can see you’re old enough now to manage the responsibility.”
Nancy beamed. “Really?”
“I promise.” Betty kissed Nancy’s forehead again and slid into the single leather seat beside her husband. “Good night, Mrs. Porter,” Betty called as George reversed his gleaming Chevrolet out of the driveway. “Don’t forget the trifle!”
“Why do I need a rifle?” the old lady called back.
Betty sighed as they drove away. There was still no sign of Parker. Perhaps a rifle in the refrigerator would have been more help.
*
As their car purred its way toward Lower Manhattan, Betty’s chest tightened, recounting plans in her head. She was meticulously prepared. There’s no point in fussing over it now, she told herself firmly. Besides, if anything untoward should happen, you think best on your feet. Betty took a deep breath and painted a cheery smile on her face, determined to enjoy every moment of the evening. George was singing along to a jolly melody on the radio, oblivious to her worries.
“Somewhere out there, music is playing, how sweet the tune,” he sang in a rich baritone over the gay notes of Helen Forrest. Betty grinned at him, joining in with a honey-sweet voice.
“Somewhere above us, heaven is glowing, how bright the moon,
When my love is dancing close to me, I can’t help but swoon -”
They finished the last notes together, and Betty laughed.
“That’s the spirit, jitterbug!” George said. “It’s awfully swell to see a smile on your face, you know. You’ve been a pail of frowns over the last few days.”
“I’m sorry, darling, just nerves. I want this Gala Ball to really go off with a bang.”
“And it will!” George assured her. “If anyone can pull it off, Mrs. Betty Jones is the one for the job!”
Betty grinned as they sailed toward City Hall. He was right of course, Mrs. Betty Jones could do anything.
Soon enough, George was handing his keys to the valet as Betty stepped out onto the street in front of New York City Hall. The front gardens were filled with elegant guests making their way inside, swathed in long dresses and dinner suits, hats and gloves. A grand facade of white Massachusetts marble rose in the splendor of a Renaissance revival three stories high with an elegant clock-tower cupola spire rising from the center, alight with a statue of Lady Justice. The ornate balustrade over the front entrance and roof had been decked out with glittering lights. Eight marble columns adorned the front steps, which tonight were dressed in red velvet carpet.
Betty and George handed their coats to the concierge as they passed through the great front doors. Just beyond the arcade, a soaring rotunda greeted them, towering above a grand, floating double staircase, that spiraled each side of the dome’s curve to greet the second floor united. Twinkling fairy lights, long-stemmed ivory candles and giant bouquets of summer blooms adorned every surface. Betty allowed herself a small moment of pride. Her church social committee ladies had outdone themselves. The rotunda, already so impressive, was simply breathtaking.
Betty smiled and greeted guests as she made her way up the staircase to the Council Chambers, where the official reception was to be held. On the second floor, elaborate chandeliers hung in the spaces between ten Corinthian marble columns that majestically circled the landing. The columns held the dome itself high above, gilded inside with graduated sculpted roses surrounding the oculus at the very top, where the dark night sky presided over all like a great eye.
Like all other eyes in the room, it found Betty, a vision of elegance in a strapless evening gown that fell to her ankles in a wash of black satin and diamantes, matched with black heels and long, fishnet gloves. Her bright blue eyes were framed by dark, smoky eyeshadow. Tonight, Betty looked every bit as beguiling as she intended.
With a gracious smile to anyone she recognized, Betty took George’s arm and they entered the ballroom. The furniture of the Council Chambers had been moved out for the occasion and replaced with dozens of elegantly set dinner t
ables, all dressed in lace and silver. Hundreds of guests were already inside, laughing and chatting with champagne and cocktails in hand. At the front of the room, was an ornately carved wooden dais that usually seated the most senior council members during session. Tonight, it stood empty, with the exception of a cacophony of decorative flowers, a microphone at the center podium and a single long white and gold banner that hung from the baldachin above. The banner read, ‘St. Augustine’s Home for Unwanted Boys – Charity Gala Ball’ with an underline note in cursive script, ‘Sponsored by the generous contributions of Mr. Donald Pinzolo’. Betty chuckled as she read it. It was perfect.
Beside the dais, a fifteen-piece military band was playing on a stage. At the forefront stood Glen Miller himself in a United States Army uniform, sporting a gleaming trombone. At his nod, the musicians launched into a new jazz song. ‘Doin’ the Jive’ filled the room with lively cheer, tempting dozens to flood the dance floor.
“What do you say, jitterbug?” George called over the loud music, offering his hand.
“Why not?” Betty beamed, and they joined the throng of merry-makers. The room was filling fast and the revelry was palpable. New York Times photographers flashed their cameras every which way and high-profile reporters chatted to guests, taking notes. The glitterati were out in force, smiling and posing for the media. Politicians and celebrities competed for attention over Manhattans and Martini’s, and at every dinner table, business men were grandstanding while society women flaunted their diamonds for all to see. Betty’s heart sang as she spun in George’s arms. The party was just as she’d imagined it would be.
Betty found a number of her committee ladies on the dance floor, and they chatted as they swung to and fro between their partners, kicking up their heels in triple step.
“Didn’t I tell you you’re a ducky shincracker, Fannie-Mae!”
“I’m almost ready to hang it up,” the petite blonde puffed, “but I’m having such a gas, I can’t stop! Can you believe it? I think I just saw Cary Grant by that portrait of George Washington. I nearly died!”
Avon Calling! Season One Page 25