Lady Vigilante (Episodes 16 – 18) (Lady Vigilante Crime Compilations) Read online

  Lady Vigilante

  Compilation

  Episodes 16 - 18

  Better the Devil You Know

  The Bowery Flophouse

  A Jar of Pickles

  Hayley Camille

  In the seedy underworld of 1940s New York, revenge tastes like cherry pie with a side of lipstick and perfume. The Avon Lady is in town …

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  Copyright © 2020 Hayley Camille

  All rights reserved.

  ASIN: B08DTT3DFF “Lady Vigilante Crime Compilations: Episodes 16 – 18”

  ASIN: B082QRXLHN “Better the Devil You Know” (Episode #16)

  ASIN: B084H63BNL “The Bowery Flophouse” (Episode #17)

  ASIN: B08DTL7RY5 “A Jar of Pickles” (Episode #18)

  Published by SpearPoint Press

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  Sunshine Plaza 4556

  Queensland Australia

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, organizations, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  AVON is a trademark of Avon NA IP LLC and AVON PRODUCTS, INC. This book is not affiliated with or endorsed by Avon NA IP LLC or Avon Products, Inc., New Avon LLC, Avon International Operations, Inc. or any of their associated subsidiaries.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior consent of the publishers.

  Table Of Contents

  Episode Sixteen ~ Better the Devil You Know

  Episode Seventeen ~ The Bowery Flophouse

  Episode Eighteen ~ A Jar of Pickles

  Bonus Extra Sneak Peek ~ Episode #19 “Fools Rush In”

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  Peek inside Betty’s Closet

  The Lady Vigilante Radio Show

  About the Author

  Also by Hayley Camille

  Episode Sixteen

  Better the Devil You Know

  “Spin, baby-doll!” George laughed as he grabbed Betty’s hand. He wrapped her up in his arms, then sent her twirling across the living room floor as jitterbug music beat the air in a fast-paced swing.

  “I think all that combat training has made you lighter on your feet,” Betty teased as she spun to a stop. Her silk nightgown flew up above her thighs as she kicked her legs back with jazz hands twinkling then danced back across the living room into his embrace. George spun his wife in close, dipped her, then flipped her back upright. They were breathless, their cheeks glowing and eyes bright. Their faces pressed in close, with clasped hands, then Betty and George pulled apart with waving arms and twinkling hands again, then crashed back together for another bout of jitterbug twists and kicking ankles, each movement hitting the jazz beat like cymbals. “I haven’t had this much fun in months!” Betty said, throwing back her head as George spun her once, twice and then a third time under his arm. “It’s been an age, darling! I can barely keep up with you!”

  “You’re the jitterbug, Jitterbug,” George laughed over the music. “You know what they say, if the dancing shoe fits –”

  “We’ll wake the children if we’re not careful,” Betty said. “You know Nancy’s been reading in bed later and later. The other night, I found her still up after nine.”

  “She’s growing up too fast, our little girl,” George said. He dipped her again. “I nearly didn’t recognize her at the Christmas Fair. All dolled up like a regular bobby-soxer. We’ll have the glad lads trying to step out with her soon, if we don’t watch out.”

  “I’m watching her as closely as I can,” Betty promised, with a twinge of worry. She was feeling Nancy’s rebellion more than ever after uncovering her daughter’s rendezvous with the barber’s son a few nights prior. George pulled Betty close as the jazz crescendo hit, then spun her off to finish the dance.

  “My, you’re a hep kitten,” George grinned. He slid her back into his arms. They swayed to a solitary trumpet that heralded a new song. This one was slower than the last. In the corner, the Zenith phonograph spun a gleaming record of Harry James’ Orchestra, recorded live with Frank Sinatra at The Southland Café. They had been dancing for an hour, and though it was getting late, neither of them was ready to surrender to sleep. Three tall yellow candles flickered in a silver candelabra on the telephone stand. The little room was cosy. Romantic.

  “That’s just the torpedo juice talking,” Betty laughed. She nodded her head toward the silver tray on the coffee table that had been pushed back against the far wall near the record player. Two martini glasses stood empty, with a half dozen bare toothpicks dropped beside them. A crystal shaker on the tray held only a dribble of the gin and vermouth it had started with. Beside the shaker, was a small silver tray crumbled with water crackers and a smudged cheese knife.

  “Nonsense,” George admonished, with a slight wobble that gave away the fact he’d had one too many. “You get prettier every day. Goodness only knows what I did to win you over.”

  “You were your charming self, darling,” Betty smiled into his night shirt.

  The mooning lyrics of Sinatra swam about them, filling the small room with all the lovesick warmth a brass band could offer.

  I’m living the craziest dream,

  Cupids torment my heart from above,

  You lay the world at my feet,

  But I can’t see it for falling in love.

  “But keeping you – well, that’s the hard part, isn’t it?” George continued. “I’ve got to put in the elbow grease, now, don’t I, to make sure some go-giver doesn’t move in on me while I’m off fighting the Jerries.”

  “Don’t be silly, George,” Betty said, not bothering to look up. “You know that would never happen. I’ll write to you every day if you want me to.”

  “I can’t tell you how many lonely nights I’ve had since I left for training, wishing I could hold you in my arms like this.” George said. “I’ll hate to leave.”

  “Oh, George, darling, please don’t let’s talk about it. I’m not ready to let you go again.”

  I can’t help but turn them away,

  When all of the other boys call,

  ‘Cause the craziest dream is the one that I need,

  Holding you in my arms when I fall.

  “I’ve got another day or so. Then it’s back to spud duty in the mess hall. Have I told you about the prisoners at Pine Camp?” he mumbled. “Well, some other time perhaps. No point thinking about it now. Why ruin a perfect evening.” George began to hum along with the melody.

  Betty listened; her eyes closed. Neither of them wanted to acknowledge that thing that hung unspoken in the room.

  I’m so starry-eyed tonight,

  Just say my name and I’ll fall,

  I’ll go crazy waiting for you,

  But I promise to be true through it all.

  It was no use. No matter how Betty tried to lose herself again in the lovesick lyrics, she just couldn’t. George’s mention of war had brought reality crashing back down. So soon he’d be gone again, for who knew how long and to goodness knows where.

  Betty couldn’t bear the thought of ruining th
e perfect evening. But there was no saving her from it now. She had kept her dark secrets for their entire marriage. For nearly two years, she had been living a terrible double life. Despite George’s reluctant acceptance of her mind-reading skills after George Junior’s accidental overdose, Betty knew her husband preferred not to think about what happened that night. But his resurfacing memories of what happened in the orphanage basement were becoming too critical to ignore. Deep down, they both knew it.

  It was time for Betty to come clean. Once and for all.

  “We can’t put it off forever, George darling,” Betty said, quietly. She looked up at him. Her calm voice masked the sickening nerves she pushed down inside.

  George looked down at her, still swaying and looking a little punch-drunk.

  “Put what off?”

  “The conversation we need to have. Your letters. Your questions,” Betty said, gently, resting her head on his chest again as they moved. She didn’t want to see his face now. His disappointment. Her arms were slung up around his neck, and his were clasped behind the small of her back. “You’re leaving again the morning after tomorrow,” Betty said. “We only have one day left together. I can’t let you go to war with questions in your heart.”

  At this, George stopped dancing, and slipped her arms from his neck. He stepped back a little, the smile fading. He swayed slightly, blinked, and rebalanced.

  “It can’t be all that bad, Jitterbug,” he said. “Maybe I don’t need to know. It was all so difficult there in the training camp – a real struggle for me, until I got the hang of it – perhaps I’ve made too much of all that awful business.” Though his words were light, his eyes were pleading for reassurance that everything was as it had always been. Reassurance that the haunting memories of that orphanage basement were just a figment of his imagination. That his wife could never have committed the atrocities he suspected her of.

  Betty looked at her slippers. “I owe you the truth, George. I always have. I’m just worried that when you learn it, you’ll see me in such a different light that you couldn’t possibly love me the way you do now.”

  She turned and walked over to the couch. She sat down, squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again and let the music from the record player wash over her. Her mind was empty of voices, but for her own. The silence was almost overwhelming. It was this moment that brought Betty to her knees in a way no mercenary ever could.

  This truth. The one she’d avoided all her life.

  “I’m usually quite fearless, you know,” she said with a tremulous smile. “But to risk losing you, your love, well, that might just be my greatest fear, darling.” She looked around, suddenly feeling cold in only her nightgown and slippers. “I’m a little bit desperate, you see. Nancy, Georgie, you – you’re my Achilles heel.” Her face darkened a little. “Which Donny knows, of course.”

  She was trembling. Betty shot a look at the crystal shaker. Empty. Of all the times I might need a little Dutch courage…

  “I think I might need another drink for this,” George said instead, catching her glance at the glasses. He frowned and disappeared into the kitchen, returning with two clean tumblers and the remains of the gin bottle that had stocked their martinis. He poured them both doubles, then swallowed his own in one gulp. He placed the bottle of gin beside the candelabra and offered Betty the other glass. He sat in his armchair. Watched her quietly. Finally, he spoke.

  “Alright,” he said. “How much of what I remember was true?”

  Betty took a deep breath.

  “All of it.”

  “What do you mean, all of it?”

  “Tell me what you remember.” Taking a little more time, she downed her drink, then poured another. She downed that too.

  George sat back in his chair. A general feeling of disquiet had replaced the playfulness of only minutes before. He considered for a moment, watching his wife intently.

  “There must have been thirty men in that basement –”

  “Thirty-two,” Betty corrected him quietly.

  George raised a wary eyebrow. “And none of them were on our side. Your friend Jacob Lawrence didn’t arrive until the end, he can’t have taken down more than three or four. So –” George looked his wife squarely in the eye. He seemed to have sobered up rather quickly. “Am I wrong in imagining you fought the others all on your own?”

  A beat.

  Another.

  Betty didn’t want to speak.

  “You’re not wrong.” The admission was so quiet Betty could barely hear her own voice.

  “But you were unarmed –” George protested. “And they had guns, all of them!”

  “I wasn’t entirely unarmed,” Betty said. “I had knives on me. I usually do. Kitchen knives. They’re rather useful and I had – have,” she corrected herself, “a small collection of them that I use when the need might arise.”

  “A collection of kitchen knives?” George began indignantly. “Surely not the ones –”

  “Gracious, no! I would never use those knives to cook our dinner, dear.”

  “Oh.” George turned a little pink. “Right. Of course you wouldn’t.”

  “I have other knives I use. As weapons.”

  “I see.”

  Betty wondered if he really did see.

  George sat for a minute trying to process this new information. Soon enough, she had her answer.

  “But I just don’t see how it’s possible, Betty!” He finally blurted. “You against all of those trained killers? They were ruthless! Complete scoundrels! Even if you had learned to fight at some point like one of those, those Viking women – I mean, it’s ridiculous! It is! Isn’t it?” he finished, feebly. George closed his eyes for a moment, and Betty knew instinctively he saw blood and bullets flying beneath the closed lids. He remembered it all now. And it made no sense to him. His perfectly mannered wife fighting to the death with kitchen knives. It was ridiculous. Trying to explain it made it seem even more so.

  Betty sighed. There was nothing for it. She would have to show him.

  She looked around, from where she was still seated on the couch. Across the room, near the record player, was the coffee table that had been pushed back to make room to dance. The remnants of their supper and martini glasses were still there.

  “George, darling,” Betty said, quietly. As soon as he looked up at her, she moved.

  Fast.

  Before George had time to blink, Betty stood and took the few steps to cross the room in such smooth motion she was almost a blur. Her fingers ghosted the discarded cheese knife on the silver tray, clasped it and then flicked it horizontally across the room. It whizzed past George’s armchair, only inches from his face, directly toward the candelabra on the telephone table beside him.

  Thunk.

  The knife stabbed the wall and stuck there, its sharp end a solid inch into the wooden paneling behind the candles. George sat, frozen, his wide eyes on the knife.

  For a moment it seemed as if Betty had missed. Then, as if they’d only just realized what had happened, each of the candles tipped in turn.

  They fell, sliced clean through the beeswax just above each little silver cup.

  Bop.

  Bop.

  Bop.

  They dropped to the floor.

  Silence.

  George exhaled, all at once.

  He blinked. Then his head turned slowly to his wife.

  “Good gravy!” he breathed.

  He got to his feet, a little unsteady. But it wasn’t alcohol that affected him now.

  Betty watched as he stepped carefully around his chair and over to the fallen candles. They were still burning. He bent down and snuffed them out on the hardwood floor.

  “Sliced clean through,” he muttered, holding the stumps up at her. “But I – I – barely saw you move.”

  “I’m fast,” Betty said. “Faster than you could imagine.”

  “Show me again,” he
said. His face was ashen.

  Betty looked around.

  Deep breath.

  She leant out and picked up the used martini glasses off the tray. She held them up.

  “Don’t move, darling.”

  Betty threw them at him. One glass, thrown at full force. Then the other. She saw George take a breath in, as she stepped forward. Before he had finished it, Betty was right in front of him, facing the direction she had been only a split second before. She caught the first glass in her hand as it came hurtling toward George. Then the second glass.

  This time, the silence rang cold.

  Betty turned around slowly to face her husband.

  He stared.

  “I –” he began, but then stopped, as if the words had been stolen from him. He watched her, his mouth hard. His shoulders tense.

  “Is that all?” he asked. As if it wasn’t enough.

  “Not quite.”

  “What else?”

  Betty stepped backward, stretching the space between them. She walked over and stood the empty glasses on the telephone table next to the bereft candelabra.

  “I’m a bit like the strong man at the circus,” she said, with a faint laugh. George didn’t look amused. With another deep breath, Betty took a step along the length of the heavy old couch, then met his eyes again. Without looking away, she bent down and lifted it clean off the floor. The three-seater waved loftily in her arms as if its solid timber frame were made of paper.

  “It does help with the hoovering.”

  George’s mouth gaped.

  “Better I’m this than the bearded lady though, surely?” Again, her joke fell flat. Betty gently dropped the couch back in its place.

  George stood up and walked forward. He looked at her, then looked down at the couch. Then he looked back at his wife. Then again, at the couch, as if he couldn’t help what he was about to do. He bent over, attempting to lift it in the same manner his wife had just done. With an effort, he got two feet off the floor. He looked up at her, strained and dropped it again. His face was now bright red, but not from exertion.