The Locket Read online

  The Locket

  By

  Ginger Simpson

  Eternal Press

  A division of Damnation Books, LLC.

  P.O. Box 3931

  Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

  www.eternalpress.biz

  The Locket

  by Ginger Simpson

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-357-7

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-358-4

  Cover art by: Dawné Dominique

  Edited by: Stephanie Parent

  Copyedited by: Rose Vera Stepney

  Copyright 2011 Ginger Simpson

  Printed in the United States of America

  Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights

  1st North American and UK Print Rights

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To my sister, Gwenn, who convinced me to step outside my writing comfort zone and challenge myself.

  If I don’t acknowledge my nephew Adam, he’ll be upset. He wanted this to be about a watch, but my victims preferred a necklace.

  I love you Adam!

  The Locket

  Sheila Townsend

  Boston – October, 1940

  Sheila Townsend hauled open the heavy cathedral door and slipped inside. She scurried up the long aisle into the safety of the confessional and collapsed. Panting, she creaked open the little sliding door. The priest’s outline loomed on the other side.

  “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.” She swiped at her bangs, wet from the fog outside.

  “How long has it been since your last confession?” The priest’s voice filtered through the mesh between them.

  “Six months, Father.”

  “Tell me of your sins, my child.”

  “I-I’ve had evil thoughts and fear I’ve done something horrid.”

  “What have you done?”

  “I might have killed someone because of the curse.”

  “Curse?” The deep voice rose an octave.

  “The one that plagues this locket.” She dangled a necklace close to the screen. “I must leave it here with you and stop this madness.”

  Sheila rose, dropped the pendant onto the shelf separating parishioner from priest, and fled without another word. She paused at the door long enough to secure her scarf over her head and pull her coat collar higher. The stained-glass window, an image of the Holy Mother, looked far less impressive at night than when the sun shone through the tinted panes.

  Sheila pressed her weight against the door, allowing the breeze to flicker the candles at the altar. The gripping hatred that had consumed her for the last month melted away like snow in springtime. Her need to hurt someone had only intensified when she put a picture in the locket. Now she was free—free from everything but the guilt and memories of plunging the knife into her boyfriend’s back.

  Stepping back into the misty night, she headed toward the river. She hadn’t actually been honest with the priest. The police were sure to soon find the body in her living room, and she no longer had a will to live. She’d made peace with the Lord; now she needed to find peace with herself and what she’d done.

  * * * *

  Father Finnegan’s brow furrowed at the woman’s sudden departure. “A curse?”

  He stood and pushed through the curtain at the rear of the confessional, walked around and opened the door to the parishioner’s side. There on the shelf lay the necklace the woman had left. A heart-shaped gold locket hung from a long chain, and when opened, displayed a picture of a mustached gentleman wearing a black fedora. Father Finnegan pinched the locket closed. The pendant looked entirely harmless—nothing more than a delicate piece of jewelry.

  “What have you got there, Father?”

  He turned to find Sister Mary Catherine. “A locket…supposedly cursed.” He laughed. “Methinks ‘tis the soul of the person who left it who needs the blessing.”

  “The jewelry looks to be a fine piece for the fundraising bazaar, if you’ve no other plans for it.” The nun smiled and opened her hand.

  “You’re welcome to it.” He dropped the necklace into her waiting palm. “Although the strange behavior of my last visitor surely makes me wonder what it is about this lovely piece she found so frightening. Certainly not the picture of the handsome fellow inside.”

  Father Curtis arrived for his time in the confessional and Father Finnegan retired to his room via the kitchen, carrying a pot of hot tea. He sat at a small round table in his sparsely decorated chamber and poured himself a cup of orange pekoe. With a glance at the golden crucifix above his bed, he crossed himself.

  The morning newspaper lay unread next to the ceramic teapot. Prepared to unwind from the multitude of confessions heard earlier, he flicked open the publication and gasped at the picture adorning the front page beneath the words, “Found Murdered.”

  “Mary, Mother of God!” He stared at the face from the locket.

  The Flaherty’s

  Boston–April 1941

  Joseph Flaherty wriggled his nose at the musty odor of the old antique shop. The poor lighting caused him to squint. He sneezed when he opened a cookie jar and sent a cloud of dust spiraling upward. The lack of cleanliness repulsed him. He almost left, but behind the hazy glass of a display case, an antique necklace caught his eye. His gaze turned to the clerk across the room. “How much for this piece?” He pointed.

  The clerk turned from a meager attempt at cleaning and walked closer. His bulbous nose protruded from between beady eyes. Dandruff flakes speckled his shoulders and the part in his dark, greasy hair. “Oh, that pendant.” His bushy brows knitted into one beneath a crease. “There’s a history to that one.”

  Joseph straightened and pulled his wallet from his pocket. “Well, do tell. This would make a perfect gift for my wife.”

  Laying his cloth aside, the clerk unlocked the display case and removed the gold neckpiece. “I bought this at a Catholic bazaar about a year ago. I frequent antique shows and happened upon the fundraiser. The nun in the booth told me a troubled woman left it in the confessional, claiming it held some sort of curse. According to the priest there that night, she muttered something about murder.”

  He handed the necklace over the counter. “There was a picture of a man inside who was purported to be the victim, but I discarded it. After all, one never knows the validity of such tales.” He chuckled.

  Flaherty laughed. “My wife threatens to kill me at least once a week—last time for tracking up her clean floor. I’m thinking this might soften her heart, since she often complains I do nothing for her anymore. How much?”

  “Seventy-five dollars.”

  “Make it seventy and you have yourself a deal.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Joseph withdrew a hundred-dollar bill and handed it across the counter.

  * * * *

  Crystal Flaherty gazed down at the pendant as her handsome husband fastened the clasp. She fingered the precious metal, cool against her skin, and then looked up into his chocolate-brown eyes. “Why, Joseph, it’s beautiful.”

  The gray tinges at his temples made him look
distinguished, as did the charcoal suit that fit his tall frame so perfectly. Her gaze shifted back to his gift. The candle burning in the center of the mahogany dining table reflected in the golden necklace, and although warmth permeated the room, a sudden chill shivered through her.

  Her husband leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “I’m glad you like it. I wanted to give you something special for your birthday. Oh, and I took the liberty of putting a picture of me inside. Hope you approve.”

  She pried open the heart-shaped pendant and looked at his photograph. Joseph had outdone himself with such an amazing gift. She gazed up at him. “It’s such a surprise. I expected your usual kitchen gadget of some sort.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I know, I know. I’m not very romantic, but I’m trying to be better. I do love you.”

  “And I you.” She caressed his cheek, but her words rang empty. “I shall wear a picture of you close to my heart to prove it.” She pinched the two locket pieces closed, wondering at the strange feeling of anger welling inside her. She forced a smile. “Would you like a piece of birthday cake now?”

  “Sure.” He straightened. “You know I have a sweet tooth.”

  She pushed back from the table and stood. “I bought your favorite today. Chocolate with raspberry filling.”

  He flashed an apologetic look. “Sorry you had to buy your own cake.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s just another birthday. I’ll be right back with dessert.”

  In the kitchen, festering anger turned to rage. Crystal leaned against the cabinet and took deep breaths. Buy her own cake, indeed. Her heart hammered in her chest, and her attempt to rein in the overpowering emotion with controlled breathing didn’t work. Her fingers locked around an empty glass. She struggled against the urge to throw it at the wall. What was wrong with her? Joseph had given her a beautiful gift…been a doting husband, so why did she feel such animosity toward him? She inhaled another deep breath.

  “Do you want coffee with your cake, darling?” She feigned sweetness she didn’t feel and called to him in the dining room.

  “Yes, please.”

  She filled the percolator with water, then spooned the required amount of grounds into the basket and set it in place. After adding the lid, she set the pot over the flickering blue flame on the stove. She withdrew a knife from the drawer, sliced two pieces of cake and placed them on floral saucers. With no desire for coffee, she set only one cup on the counter before carrying the cake back to the table.

  “Here you go. Coffee’s perking.” She set the cake before him and ruffled his hair—a little too hard.

  “Ouch!” He recoiled and stared up at her.

  “Oh, sorry, sweetheart. My ring must’ve gotten caught.” She thinned her lips to hide a smile and spun her diamond around her finger. “Be right back, love.” She hurried into the kitchen.

  Dark liquid bubbled up into the glass ball atop the percolator much like the anger festering inside her. What had possessed her to pull his hair? Something was amiss, but what? She nibbled her bottom lip and waited until the coffee ceased perking. After filling Joseph’s cup, she added milk and sugar to his liking. As though someone manipulated her thoughts and body, she withdrew a box from beneath the sink, stirred in two spoonfuls of white crystals, then carefully carried the tainted brew to her waiting husband.

  “Here, darling.” She set the steaming cup before him, then returned to her seat. After pouring herself a half glass of wine, she raised it in a toast. “Happy birthday to me.”

  Joseph lifted his coffee and smiled. “Here, here! ...and many more.” His left eyelid dropped into a sensuous wink as he took a long sip.

  * * * *

  “Any leads in the Flaherty murder?” Captain Angus Squire stood in Clarence O’Day’s office doorway and jingled the coins in his pants pocket.

  Clarence detested the man’s annoying habit. He tensed his jaw. “Not yet, but soon, I hope.”

  He opened a file and stared at a disturbing photograph of Joseph Flaherty. The prominent businessman’s body sprawled across his bedroom’s carpeted floor. No blood, no signs of struggle. His open eyes remained fixed in death’s vacant stare, his mouth forming a final question most likely never asked.

  The widow, Crystal Flaherty, had made the phone call to report finding her husband’s body. She claimed no knowledge of an intruder or any reason why someone would want her husband dead. Her story seemed as flat as her demeanor. The incredible ease with which she viewed the corpse and her lack of tears disturbed O’Day. He knew better than to dictate someone’s emotional response, but could swear he caught her stifling a grin.

  The inspector looked up at his lurking boss. “Soon as I have the autopsy report, I’ll let you know. I like the wife for this one, but don’t ask me why.”

  Captain Squire waggled a finger at him. “Take it easy on her. The last thing we need is a story in the daily news about the police harassing the grieving widow.”

  “Don’t worry, Cap’n. I’ll handle her with kid gloves.” As if he didn’t know how to treat witnesses and suspects. God, he’d worked for the department since he was twenty-one. He wasn’t still wet behind the ears.

  Squire meandered down the hallway, leaving O’Day to ponder the case. His attention turned back to the notes he’d jotted: no forced entry, no sign of struggle. Actually, the décor spoke to the couple’s social status rather than a crime scene.

  Only a thin line of drool on the deceased’s chin provided any hint of foul play.

  “Inspector?” A voice jarred him from his thoughts. “Delivery from the Medical Officer. I believe you’re waiting for this.”

  O’Day glanced up and reached for the manila envelope a freckle-faced lad offered. “Thanks, kid.”

  The boy flashed a toothy grin and departed. O’Day ripped into the packet and yanked out the report. “Death by poison.” He nodded as he read the words aloud. Clearly someone had disliked Joseph Flaherty, but who? O’Day was no closer to a motive, but at least he had legal grounds for questioning the attractive widow. His breath halted at the thought of her curvaceous body, long auburn hair, and alluring green eyes.

  He smacked himself on the forehead. “Stop it, O’Day. She’s not one of the streetwalkers you pick up when you’re horny.” Of course, who wouldn’t dream of sex when you hadn’t had any for five years? His wife had passed from diabetes, leaving him to raise a young son alone. Thank God for relatives and babysitters. Cameron was a good boy.

  Clarence leaned back in his chair and splayed his fingers through a mass of unwashed curls. Then, with hands laced behind his neck, he studied the ceiling and wondered if an insurance policy was what motivated Crystal Flaherty to knock off her husband.

  * * * *

  The widow sat with the deceased man’s parents in front of a crowd of drearily attired mourners at the cemetery. The sun belied the day’s sadness, as did the colorful flowers peppering the landscape and marking the neighboring graves.

  Crystal wore a long-sleeved black dress and a stylish hat with a full-faced veil, and played the part of the grieving widow to a tee. She reached beneath the ebony netting and daubed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief while sniffling. Her white-haired mother-in-law wiped her own tears with one hand and patted Crystal’s forearm in consolation. The senior Mr. Flaherty, bald and gaunt, sat stoically, with his eyes fixed on his son’s casket. The priest’s words drowned out the twittering of birds in an adjacent tree. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Rest in peace, my son.”

  The people dispersed, and most moved forward to form a line to offer condolences. O’Day joined in, awaiting his turn. His gaze drifted to Ms. Flaherty’s shapely legs. Crossed at the knees, the nylon-encased calves drifted down to thin ankles and platform heels. Sexy shoes, in his opinion, very sexy. He sighed and chastised himself again for lusting after someone he’d probably soon arrest. T
oo much testosterone pumping through his loins, he imagined. Pushed forward by the onslaught, he found himself standing in front of the widow.

  “Inspector O’Day.” Crystal Flaherty raised a gloved hand. “How nice of you to come.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.” When he took her hand, he could swear warmth crept up his arm and spread across his chest. His trench coat trapped the heat. Sweat beaded his brow.

  “Thank you, Inspector. Joseph was far too young to die. I miss him so.” She blotted an invisible tear.

  “Ah… I-I…” He dug in his pocket for his handkerchief, then dabbed at his forehead.

  The woman behind him cast an impatient glare. “Humph.”

  Deciding this wasn’t the time to approach the widow with questions, he moved on to Flaherty’s parents, offering his sympathy, then stepped between two adjacent headstones and lit a cigarette. She was a piece of work, all right. Cool, calm, and guilty as they came. Tomorrow was soon enough to call and arrange a meeting with her. She wasn’t going anywhere. The sexy socialite had no idea she was O’Day’s number-one suspect.

  * * * *

  “Mrs. Flaherty?” O’Day spoke into the phone.

  “Yes.” Her voice held a tremble.

  “This is Inspector O’Day at the police department. We’ve received the results of your husband’s autopsy, and I need to ask you a few questions. I’d like you to come down to headquarters as soon as you can.”

  “I-I suppose I’m up to it. What time?”

  “Is two o’clock okay?” He snuffed out a cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. Nasty habit, and one he meant to quit sometime soon.

  “I haven’t even felt up to dressing today, but I’ll get ready and be there. I suppose you’re in the building next to the courthouse?”

  He closed his eyes and pictured her wearing a negligee. His cock hardened. “Y-yes. The deputy at the desk can point the way to my office. I’ll see you a little later.”