The Locket Read online

  O’Day stood, shook his left leg, and then tugged at the crotch of his pin-striped trousers.

  “Got an itch?” Captain Squire stood in the doorway.

  “God, can’t you ever announce your arrival?” O’Day’s cheeks warmed. “You’re always sneakin’ up on me.”

  Squire laughed. “It’s amazing what you learn if people don’t see you.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days, creeping around like that.”

  “I’ll try to make more noise in the future…but what’s up with the Flaherty case?”

  “I’m meeting with the widow at two o’clock today. Should be interesting. I know she did it, I just have to prove it.”

  * * * *

  Crystal Flaherty twisted her handkerchief and chewed her bottom lip. She never expected to be left alone in an interrogation room. The dingy space with its drab olive walls and poor lighting did nothing to lift her spirits. How many people had sat at this marred table in the stiff and unpadded folding chair and pondered their fate? Despite suspecting someone stood on the opposite side of the large mirror and peered through two-way glass, she struggled to slow her heartbeat and rapid breathing. The knotted fabric in her hands could well be O’Day’s scrawny neck.

  “Deep breaths, Crystal. You have nothing to fear.” Her whispered assurance did nothing to still her trembling fingers or abate her anger. The door creaked open and Clarence O’Day waltzed in.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Flaherty. Thank you for agreeing to come here.”

  His cheap pinstriped suit most likely looked better on a store mannequin. He reeked of cigarette smoke, and his yellowed teeth attested to the bad habit. Crystal tucked a wayward lock behind her ear and forced a smile. “I’m happy to comply with your request.”

  The man was a dolt.

  His chair squealed against the dark tiled floor, raising the hairs on her arms. He plopped a folder atop the table, then folded his arms and rested on them while making an assessment of her that added to her discomfort.

  Straightening in her chair, Crystal smoothed her linen skirt and returned his gaze. She crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap. The air inside the small room suffocated her, and she wanted to be anywhere but here. She fought the urge to jump across the table and claw out his eyes. “Can we please move this along?”

  “Of course.” O’Day uncrossed his arms and leaned back. He opened the folder, withdrew a document, and slid it across to her. “Here’s the result of your husband’s autopsy. You’ll notice the cause of death is poisoning. I wonder if you might have any idea as to who might have slipped him a Mickey.”

  Her eyes locked on the paper, and her breath hitched in her throat. “Poison? How could that be?” Her fingers grasped and held the locket around her neck. “Who would want to kill my husband?”

  If only O’Day could hear her heartbeat, he’d know. The lump in her throat grew bigger, threatening to strangle her.

  O’Day shook a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit it. A cloud of smoke drifted toward the ceiling. “I believe you said you and he celebrated your birthday together the night of his death. How did he seem to you? Did he appear to be ill, pale, having trouble breathing?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course not. Don’t you think I would have noticed something wrong?” Her gaze locked with his, and she tightened her jaw. “Are you insinuating that I killed Joseph?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You tell me. Did you?”

  Her hand went limp, and she released the pendant. Her shoulders sagged. God help her, she did murder her beloved, but she had no idea why. She adored him, but something had snapped inside her. Did it make any sense to try to lie about it? She didn’t have the energy or creativity to make up a believable alibi. Surely, when they’d delivered the search warrant earlier in the day, they’d had a reason for taking the cyanide from beneath the sink. Tears burned the back of her eyes and clouded her vision of O’Day.

  “All right. I admit it. I killed him.” She swallowed hard. “But you have to believe me when I tell you I have no idea why. I barely remember putting poison in his coffee. I was devastated when he died in my arms. I think I’m losing my mind.”

  O’Day displayed his doubt in the curl of his lips and the blank stare he shot her. Her blood boiled. If she had a gun, she’d kill him.

  “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” He ground out the glow of his cigarette butt in a nearby ashtray, pulled a pen from his breast pocket and poised it above a blank page in the folder. “So, when did these so-called feelings of insanity begin?”

  When had they started? Good question, even if he mocked her. She looked up at a ceiling discolored from smoke and replayed the past days in her mind. She flicked a fingernail against her bottom teeth, then widened her eyes and pointed a finger at O’Day. “My birthday. Everything was fine until then…until Joseph fastened this around my neck.” She grabbed the locket.

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I’m not sure I do either. Instead of feeling delighted to receive such a lovely token, anger consumed me—actual rage. For lack of an explanation, I downplayed the strange emotions, but you’ll have to humor me when I tell you it was like I was in a trance.” She fisted her hands. “Possessed, if you believe in such things.”

  O’Day laughed. “So you expect me to believe the locket made you kill your husband?”

  “I know it sounds far-fetched and incredibly fake, but you have to believe me. I loved Joseph with all my heart.

  Now that the deed is done, I feel as though I stood to the side and watched someone else go through the motions of slicing the cake, preparing the coffee, and sprinkling the cyanide into the cup.” She clasped her hands beneath her chin. “You have to believe me. Please.”

  Her mouth turned to cotton, and tears spilled down her cheeks. She’d just admitted killing the love of her life, but in her heart, she knew it wasn’t her fault. Strangely, her remorse wavered—first sorrow for a love lost, then a frightened hatred. Her shaking fingers worked to unfasten the chain’s latch, and she threw the locket on the table. “Take this. I don’t want it. There’s something evil about it.”

  “I’m afraid we’ll be taking all your jewelry, Mrs. Flaherty. They don’t allow personal belongings in jail.” He stood and pushed his chair under the table with the same hair-raising squeal. “Do you have a good attorney?”

  She gazed up at him and squared her shoulders. “Yes, and I’d like to call him.”

  “One more question.” O’Day folded his arms. “What were you doing with cyanide if you didn’t intend to murder him?”

  “Joseph used to collect butterflies, and he used potassium cyanide to kill them before he pinned them to his display board.”

  * * * *

  O’Day put Crystal Flaherty’s belongings in a manila envelope clearly marked with her name. Before sliding her golden locket inside, he held it up for examination. “Hmm, seems harmless enough.”

  The gray-haired woman managing the property desk looked up. “You say something?”

  He held the chain up in the air, allowing the pendant to dangle. “Does this look scary to you?”

  She flashed a puzzled look. “Of course not. Why would it?”

  “According to the owner, this necklace made her poison her husband. Now I think I’ve heard every excuse.” He hooked a fingernail in the heart’s crease and popped it open. “Look, she even put the poor schmuck’s picture inside.“ He laughed and dropped the piece of jewelry into the envelope, then handed it to the clerk.

  She shook her head. “I haven’t always liked my husband’s choices either, but if I kill him, it won’t be over something that beautiful.”

  O’Day nodded and leaned on the counter. “So tell me, Ruby. What’s the policy on allowing someone to get rid of their po
ssessions while they’re in jail?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mrs. Flaherty requests that we ‘deep six’ the necklace. She’s convinced she won’t get a fair trial as long as it’s connected to her in any way, and I guess that includes being with her property here.”

  “Is it evidence against her?” Ruby turned and added the envelope to a box with “Flaherty” written across the top right over an inmate number.

  “Nope. Just a possession. She poisoned him.”

  “Then we don’t have to keep it. She just needs to sign a permission slip, releasing us of liability. Any idea who she wants to have it?”

  He shrugged. “According to her, she could care less. She just said to get rid of it. Can I leave that up to you?”

  Ruby slid a form across to him. “Once you get this signed, I’ll be happy to dispense of the naughty bauble.”

  Sally Curshaw

  Boston, February 1943

  “My back needs a break.” Sally Curshaw unfolded her legs, stretching them across the braided rug on the living-room floor of her mother’s house. She leaned on her hands and eyed the cardboard boxes in front of her. “Aunt Ingrid had some lovely things, didn’t she? It feels strange to be going through the belongings of someone I barely knew.”

  Sally’s mom, Faye, put her knitting aside and rose from her rocking chair. “How about a cup of tea, dear?”

  “I’d love one, as long as you agree to tell me what I’m looking for and what we’re going to do with all this stuff.” She followed her mother into the kitchen and watched as she put on the teakettle.

  With the water heating, the older woman placed tea leaves in a strainer. “We really aren’t looking for anything. I thought perhaps you might like a keepsake before I donate everything else. It’s a shame you didn’t get to spend more time with your aunt. You and she would have gotten along famously—both of you were so much like your father.” She turned and stared with loving eyes at his photograph over the living-room fireplace. “I hope he’s been reunited with his sister in a better place.”

  Sally clenched her teeth and made a face. “Why does everyone say that? I’m happy being in a place where I know I’m alive rather than trusting there is truly something beyond this life.”

  Her mother’s mouth gaped. “Sally! What has happened to your faith? Have you forgotten everything you learned in church?”

  “Not really,” she shrugged, “but since I’ve gotten older, I tend to want proof that places really exist.”

  “Honestly.” With a disapproving glare, her mother turned to the whistling kettle and prepared their tea.

  Sally carried her steaming pekoe back into the living room and perched on the edge of the sofa. “How did Aunt Ingrid die?”

  Her mother, balancing her own teacup, followed. She placed it on the table next to her chair and sat. The tinkling of a spoon against the delicate china sounded as she picked up her cup and stirred. “Her death certificate says natural causes, but it seemed very strange she would pass so suddenly when she had been in perfect health.” She placed the spoon alongside the cup and took a sip. “I’m glad you could be here for the funeral. When do you have to get back to work?”

  “Not for a few days.”

  “Good, then you have time to help me find a place to donate all this stuff.”

  Sally put her cup on the coffee table and slid back down on the floor. She opened another box and started sifting through the contents. She held up a shawl. “This is pretty, Mom. Why don’t you keep some of her things?”

  Faye shook her head. “Lordy, I barely wear my own things. Besides, we had very different taste in clothes, not to mention we weren’t the same size.”

  Seeing nothing but clothing in the box, Sally closed it and moved on to another. She removed a mahogany jewelry case, set it on the floor and opened it. The sunlight, filtering through the curtains, sparkled on the faux gems inside—rings, brooches, and earrings far too large for Sally’s taste. “Anything in here interest you?” she asked her mother.

  “You know I don’t wear jewelry, except for my wedding ring and an occasional strand of pearls. Never could get used to something hanging from my ears. Ingrid thought bigger was better.” Faye laughed.

  Sally lifted the top tier and revealed a small box. She removed the lid. “Now, this is beautiful.” She removed a gold heart-shaped locket on a chain and pressed it against her ivory sweater. “I really like this piece.”

  “Then take it, dear.” Faye pushed her glasses farther up on her nose and leaned forward. “Oh, I remember that piece. Ingrid said she bought it at a police auction or something of the sort. Never really liked it for some reason.”

  * * * *

  Sally rifled through her drawer looking for a matching white nylon. Her fingers touched something hard near the very back. She withdrew a plastic case and immediately recalled the contents—the locket she’d taken from Aunt Ingrid’s belongings months ago. Funny, Sally had put the necklace away and forgot about it.

  She placed the box on the top of her dresser, continued searching for her other stocking, and found it. Perching on the edge of the bed, she urged the soft fabric up her calves, past her knees, and then fastened the nylons into her garter belt. She smoothed her slip down and donned her starched white uniform. At least she didn’t have to plan a new outfit every day.

  After slipping into comfortable shoes, she crossed back to the dresser mirror and made sure her nurse’s hat sat at just the right angle. She adjusted her collar and smiled into the mirror. A vision in white.

  “Hmmm,” she murmured, dropping her gaze to the plastic case. “I wonder how the locket would look.”

  She opened the box and held the chain up to her neck. The gold sparkled in the light cascading through the open bedroom curtains. Inside, a picture of her aunt smiled up at her. Sad that the woman had never married or had children. Sally removed the small photo. She hadn’t known Aunt Ingrid well enough to wear her snapshot. Eventually, Sally would find a replacement.

  She fumbled with the latch until she secured the necklace in place, then patted the piece and smiled. “Looks great.”

  After a final application of red lipstick, she grabbed her sweater and purse and hurried off to the hospital.

  * * * *

  “Nice locket,” Cara Tompkins, a coworker, commented when Sally approached the nurses’ station.

  Rather than appreciate Cara’s admiration, Sally tensed her jaw. Undeniable anger surged through her veins and heated her blood. She swallowed hard, fighting the strange reaction to a nice compliment. “Thanks.” Her forced reaction came through thinned lips.

  “Where did you get it?” Cara attempted to touch the necklace.

  Sally slapped her hand away. “It’s not important.” Tension weighted the air.

  Cara dipped her chin and cleared her throat. “Sorry, but...”

  “No need to apologize. I’m cranky this morning. Fill me in on the patients’ status, would you?”

  “Gladly. I’m thankful to see you. It’s been a long night, and I’m ready for this shift to be over.” Cara pushed a lock of dark hair off her brow, then covered a growing yawn.

  Sally opened the chart atop a neat stack. “Any directions to relay that haven’t been recorded?”

  “No. I just finished noting the records. All night meds were administered on time, and the patients are ready for breakfast.”

  “Great. You look beat. Why don’t you head home and get some rest.”

  “Good idea. See you later.” Cara bent to retrieve her purse from beneath the counter, then sauntered down the hallway.

  With one hand grasping the locket, Sally watched Cara until she disappeared into the elevator at the end of the long tiled hall. Pain forced her to release the necklace she held in a death grip. She stared at the indentions l
eft in her palms by her fingernails, her mind whirring at another sudden insurgence of ire. She expelled a loud breath and turned her attention to the patient files.

  “Is it hot in here?” she queried a passing hospital aide.

  “No. Actually, I’m a bit chilly.” The young woman kept walking, her arms filled with magazines.

  Sally swiped her hand across her heated brow and focused on the name on the chart before her—Charles Cooper. “Hmm, think I’ll check in and see how Mr. Cooper is faring.”

  Before leaving the area, she pulled her keys from her pocket and opened the controlled medicine cabinet. Sorting through the bottles, she found the insulin she sought. If his blood sugar was too high, she’d be prepared. She took a syringe from a drawer.

  As she walked down the hallway, she glanced into open doors and smiled at the patients. Strange, she had to force her lips upward…and why was her heart beating faster than normal? She shook her head and discounted the strange feelings. The locket, nestled securely in her cleavage, felt cool against her skin. In comparison to other necklaces, it weighed heavily around her neck.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cooper.” She stepped inside his room. “How are you feeling today?”

  A handsome gentleman in his mid-forties, Charles Cooper had ignored his diabetes and paid the consequences. His left leg had been amputated just below the knee. Pain etched his face. “Not so swell. Why do I still feel a gnawing ache when I know my leg is gone?”

  Sally stepped closer. “It’s called phantom pain. The sensation will gradually subside.”

  She stood at his bedside and checked his pulse against her wristwatch. “Did you eat this morning?”

  “Yes, a little.”

  “Then I’m going to give you a little insulin just to keep things in check.” She pulled the bottle from her pocket, along with a syringe. She injected the needle into the rubber top and pulled back on the plunger, watching the liquid rise to the normal injection level.

  Give him more. What good is he to himself or anyone else with just one leg?

  Sally shook her head to clear the voice. She lowered the bottle and massaged the bridge of her nose. Consumed by anger again, she sensed her heart thudding like a drum and her face heating.