The Locket Read online

  “Oh, this?” Sunshine grasped the locket and smiled. “I found it at work today. I should have left it in the house, but...” She tugged at the neck of her T-shirt and tucked the necklace inside. “Back to work.”

  With basket in hand she walked back to the end of the row and started anew. Despite the position of the sun sinking slowly westward, the longer she toiled, the hotter the pendant felt against her skin. She stopped and flapped the hem of her shirt in the breeze, seeking relief. Where was Striker? The lazy no-good bum. He should be out here working alongside her. She was tired of being the only one to pull their load.

  “Sunshine, where are youuuu?” As if he read her mind, she heard his singsong voice.

  She grabbed the corn with strength she wished she could exert around his neck. Grab, slash and drop—that had become her rhythm for harvesting, and she was determined to fill the basket before she went in for the night.

  “Oh, there you are. Why didn’t you answer when I called?”

  He carried no tools for helping, nor did he bring a basket to fill. She narrowed her eyes. “I’m busy.”

  “Are you going to come in soon? I’m starving, and there isn’t going to be a community dinner tonight.”

  She stopped and glared at him. The sound of his voice, akin to fingernails on a blackboard, the stupid look on his face, and that slumped posture he used when he wanted his way bugged her. Anger twitched her every muscle. She raised her arm to slice away an ear of corn, but instead turned on him.

  Her screams rent the silence. She covered her mouth, gaping at Striker’s body on the ground. Blood spurted from his neck, until it slowed and trickled in a red river on the grooved dirt. His eyes stared blankly at the sky.

  Sunshine crumpled next to him, trying to stem the bleeding, but succeeding only in covering her hands in scarlet. “Striker! Oh my God, what have I done?”

  The locket around her neck pulsed with the pounding of her heart. She’d killed him, yet she couldn’t stop the smile curling her lips.

  Thundering footfalls moved the ground beneath her. Sierra, Chuck and several other commune members ran down the row, their eyes wide and mouths gaping as they skidded to a halt at the scene.

  Sierra knelt and put her arm around Sunshine. “What happened?” Is he…dead?”

  Sunshine gazed at the grotesque expression on Striker’s face. “He didn’t answer or move when I called his name.” She held up her palms and studied the blood. “I don’t know how it happened. I was….” Her voice failed. She pointed to the half-filled basket of corn.

  Chuck placed two fingers against Striker’s neck, then shook his head. “No pulse. We need to call the police, or someone.”

  “Come, let’s get you cleaned up.” Sierra helped Sunshine to her feet. “Chuck, would you please find the nearest payphone and make that call?”

  Sunshine, numb to everything except the pulsing locket against her skin, allowed herself to be guided back to the communal house. Once inside, she sat on the dilapidated sofa while her friend bathed her hands and arms. The water in the basin turned red with every dip of the washcloth.

  “What happened out there?” Sierra’s brow furrowed as she continued sponging blood splatter from Sunshine’s face.

  Sunshine stared into space, trying to put the pieces together. “I don’t know. I felt so angry when I went out to the cornfield.” Her hand fisted the fabric of her T-shirt around the locket. “Then he came out there, whining about wanting to eat, and I…” She buried her face in her hands. “I don’t remember anything until I saw him on the ground.”

  “I know how much you loved him.” Sierra rubbed her friend’s shoulder.

  Sunshine took a deep breath and composed herself. Did she really love him? Why was she more fearful of what would happen to her than what she’d done? She shook her head. “I can’t begin to explain how I’ve felt ever since we came home. I didn’t like anything or anyone, especially Striker. Even you noticed, didn’t you?”

  “You definitely weren’t acting yourself, that’s for sure. I think we all noticed.”

  Sunshine couldn’t stand the heat against her skin anymore. She yanked at the chain around her neck, breaking it and freeing herself from the locket. “You can have this if you want it. It’s brought me nothing but bad luck.”

  Like an icicle melting beneath the summer sun, her anger dissipated, remorse filled her heart, and the realization she’d killed the man she loved overpowered her. “Oh my God, I murdered Striker.”

  * * * *

  Clarence O’Day sat in his son’s office at the twenty-fifth precinct of the New York Police Department. His son had stepped out to confer with a fellow detective, leaving his father to admire all the framed awards and certificates that decorated the walls. O’Day’s body craved a cigarette despite not having lit one in over three months. His doctor warned if he wanted to live long enough to enjoy his retirement, he needed to snuff out the nasty habit.

  The stick of gum he retrieved from his pocket would have to do. He disposed of the foil in his son’s trashcan, stood, and meandered through the room. His chest expanded with pride that his only child had followed in his footsteps and seemed to be an exceptional policeman.

  “Dad.” Cameron O’Day came back, his brow furrowed. “A call just came in about a suspected homicide in Bethel. The caller was pretty sketchy with details. Wanna ride along on this one?”

  “Of course. You don’t think I drove all the way here just to sit around and twiddle my thumbs, do you?” He pulled on his trench coat, the sleeves tattered by time and age. He’d actually been asked to deliver some evidence taken from a suspect arrested in Boston, but who’d also been connected with a burglary in the twenty-fifth’s territory. Today must be a lucky day. He’d never had the opportunity to observe his son in action.

  * * * *

  Clarence stood off from the group and observed his son going through motions he himself had been through many times. No one ever offered helpful information, so asking the right questions was critical to solving and closing a case. So far Cameron had demonstrated excellent technique.

  “So, let’s go through the events that led to your boyfriend’s death one more time.” Cameron poised a pen over his small tablet and flashed a toothy smile at the female suspect. “You don’t actually remember slicing…what was his name…” The younger O’Day consulted his notes. “Striker…you don’t recall slicing his carotid?”

  The pretty blonde shook her head. “Like I already told you, I didn’t even realize I’d struck out at him until I saw him on the ground, blood spewing everywhere.” Tears glossed her wide eyes. “I loved him. I would never have killed him if I was in my right mind. I must be crazy.”

  Cameron eyed her blood-splattered clothing. “Did you remove anything you had on at the time of the…mur—crime?”

  The dark-haired girl thrust her hand toward Cameron’s face. “Only this.” She held a gold locket.

  Tears spilled down the blonde’s cheeks. She recoiled. “Get that thing away from me. It’s been nothing but bad luck since I brought it home.”

  Cameron took the necklace and fixed his gaze back on the suspect. “And when would that be?”

  “Today. I found it in a shipment we received today.”

  “What type of shipment?”

  “I work in a second-hand stockroom. I found the locket in a box sent to us by another New York store.”

  “Well, I won’t need your jewelry.” He tried handing it back to the blonde, and she slapped his hand away.

  “I don’t want it. There’s something evil about that piece. I was fine until I put the necklace on. Ask Sierra and Chuck.” She turned pleading eyes to her friends, who stood behind the couch.

  “She’s telling the truth.” The girl with brown hair nodded. “We even commented on how nasty her mood turned.”

>   “Well, someone take it.” Cameron dangled the broken chain and pendant.

  Sierra shook her head and backed away. “Not me. You keep it. Get rid of it.”

  Cameron sighed and shoved the locket into his pocket.

  Clarence rubbed the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t believe what he’d heard. Another case involving a necklace as the impetus behind the crime. He flashed back to one of his first cases in Boston. That Flaherty dame—the one who demanded he get rid of the necklace her husband gave her for her birthday. The night she poisoned him. Hadn’t it been a heart pendant, too? A movie reel of memories played in his head. The nurse who killed herself, the young girl and her boyfriend who drove off a cliff—a necklace surfaced in his investigation each time. The stupidity of it all gave him a headache.

  O’Day scrunched his eyes closed and massaged the bridge of his nose. He didn’t believe in voodoo or curses. Given all the cases he’d worked in his career, there were bound to be some similarities. How many broads wore jewelry?

  Sobs drew his attention back to his son and the suspect. Cameron had her cuffed and argued with her friends, who insisted it wasn’t right to arrest her.

  “She killed her boyfriend.” Cameron held fast to the cuffs behind the blonde’s back. “In New York and everywhere else that’s considered a capital crime.”

  “But she loved him,” Sierra whined. “Maybe she suffered heatstroke or something.”

  The blonde kept her head down, sobs wracking her shapely body.

  “C’mon, Ms. Smith,” Cameron said, leading her toward the door. “Are you ready, Dad?”

  “Sure, son.” Clarence O’Day turned to the suspect’s friends. “If I were you, I’d make sure Ms. Smith gets a good attorney. The penalty for murder is death at the moment, but with a good lawyer, she might get off with a life sentence.”

  Clarence O’Day

  Boston–September 1966

  In his Boston office, Clarence O’Day leaned back in his desk chair and stared at the gold locket he’d convinced his son to hand over. Common sense told O’Day the bauble had no connection to his cases, and the doubting look his son had flashed when hearing why his father wanted the necklace supported his feelings.

  Still, something niggled at him. He was only a few months from retirement or death from emphysema, whichever came first, and he didn’t want to walk away with any doubts that this pendant was owned by the women involved in past cases. He had to find out for sure. Besides, the department had given him a light caseload out of respect for his years of service. Folders littered his desk—cases from the past that held information he needed and had jotted down in his notebook.

  O’Day tugged on his trench coat and stuffed the necklace in his pocket. He withdrew a piece of gum from the other, removed the foil, and popped it into his mouth. The craving for nicotine never let up. He was a walking dead man anyhow, so why not just smoke instead of pretending constant chewing did anything to help? Still, he wanted to live and cursed the day he’d picked up his first cigarette.

  Headed outside and walking the same corridor of District Three of the Boston Police that he had for thirty-plus years, his gaze wandered the dingy walls. In all the time he’d been with the department, he couldn’t recall them ever being repainted or touched up. The same crappy brown tiles still covered the floor, even though some were chipped and discolored. He envied his son’s fresh and bright office. Different state with different budgetary priorities. In Massachusetts, the police always seemed to get the short end when it came to expenditures.

  He unlocked his car and slid behind the wheel. If he was doing investigatory work for himself, it only seemed fair to use his own gasoline. Besides, he’d grown fond of his old beat-up 1954 Chevy.

  Leaving the lot, he drove west toward Worcester. His first stop: Crystal Flaherty, an inmate at the Framingham State Prison for female inmates. He patted his pocket to make sure he had enough gum. The drive would take about an hour, and he didn’t plan on stopping.

  * * * *

  Inside the prison, O’Day sat in a windowless room and thrummed his fingers on the table while he waited for the guard to fetch Crystal Flaherty. His chest felt heavy with the need to cough, and he fidgeted against the uncomfortable metal bars on the back of his chair. He cleared his throat several times, the sound bouncing off the block walls.

  The door opened. A uniformed man ushered in the inmate, then sealed the two inside when he left. Devoid of facial expression, Crystal Flaherty stood and cast a blank stare at O’Day.

  Twenty-six years had changed the woman he’d lusted over. She’d lost weight. Any curves she had left were hidden beneath her drab olive-green jumpsuit. Her shoulders slumped and gray streaked her auburn hair. Time had stolen her smile.

  “Remember me?” he asked.

  She studied him for a moment, then shook her head.

  “Come, have a seat.” O’Day stood and pointed to the chair opposite him. “I’m Clarence O’Day, the inspector who responded the night of your husband’s death.”

  She slid into the chair as if she feared it was electrified and stared into her lap. “That was a long time ago. What could you possibly want from me after all this time?”

  He sat. “True, it’s not a social visit, but it’s not exactly business either. Let’s just say I need to ask you a question.”

  She lifted her chin and looked at him. The green eyes he remembered no longer sparkled. She tilted her head. “So ask.”

  Fishing in his pocket, O’Day produced the locket and placed it on the table. “Does this look familiar?”

  Her eyes widened and her throat wobbled with a hard swallow. Her chair squealed on the tile floor as she pushed back from the table and stood. “Get that thing away from me.” She hunched her shoulders and pressed her fist to her mouth.

  “So, this is the locket your husband gave you. Are you positive?”

  She turned and started beating on the door. “Guard, get me out of here. Now!”

  O’Day snatched the locket up and put it back in his pocket. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I think you’ve answered my question, and that’s all I needed.”

  When the guard responded, O’Day took his leave. He still couldn’t believe the effect the locket had on Crystal Flaherty after all this time. “One down, two to go,” he murmured, setting his sights on the hospital where the Curshaw broad had worked before she killed herself. With nursing as a career, with any luck, the coworker he’d questioned still worked there.

  * * * *

  The walk from the elevator to the hospital administrator’s office left O’Day breathless. He paused, leaned against the wall and waited until his labored respirations slowed before knocking on the closed door.

  “Come in,” a voice on the other side called out.

  He turned the knob and walked into a bright, airy space. A distinguished-looking woman he guessed to be in her mid-forties looked up from her desk. The dark blue dress she wore made the single strand of pearls around her neck stand out and highlighted her azure eyes. He might have lost his youth, but he’d always appreciate a beautiful woman.

  He smiled. “I’m Inspector Clarence O’Day from the Boston PD, and I wondered if I might be able to speak with Cara Tomkins.”

  The woman behind the nameplate, Mariette Morris, cast an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Cara doesn’t work here anymore. She left about two years ago.”

  O’Day clicked his tongue against his teeth. So much for luck. “Darn! Would you happen to know where she is?”

  “No, I’m sorry. She married and moved…out-of-state, I believe. Is there anything I can do?”

  He shook his head. “No, but thank you for your time.”

  Clarence left and closed the door on his way out. In the hallway, he pulled another stick of gum from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. He’d heard ye
ars back that Faye Curshaw had died, so that left him with the mother of the teenager who’d died in a car accident. He hadn’t planned on driving to New York, but if he wanted to satisfy this nagging feeling about the necklace, he had no choice. First, he’d stop and let the precinct know where he was. As if anyone cared. Tomorrow was Saturday anyhow, and his day off.

  * * * *

  O’Day turned down the tree-lined street where the Settles’ had lived years ago. With any luck, they hadn’t moved. This was his last chance to verify the necklace was one and the same in all three of his previous cases.

  Years had matured the skinny saplings, and the gutters and yards sported an array of fall colors. His memory hazy, he pulled his Chevy over and consulted his notes for the address. He was close. Creeping along the curb, he stopped the car three houses down. A wooden sign hanging from the porch eaves displayed the name “Settle” in faded etchings. His smile broadened.

  The flavor had long ago left his gum. He spit the wad into a piece of paper, rolled it up and tossed it into the plastic trash bag hanging from the radio knob. He unwrapped a new piece, then exited the car. Leaves littering the sidewalk crackled beneath his feet as he made his way to the front door. He rapped his knuckles lightly against the weathered wood.

  The door inched open. A spectacled pair of eyes peeked out. “Yes, can I help you?”

  “Are you Martha Settle?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  He fished for his badge and flashed it. “I’m Inspector O’Day from the Boston PD. We spoke years ago about your daughter’s death.”

  She opened the door wider. “Won’t you come in?”

  Had he aged as much as she had? He tried to hide his surprise.

  The inside of the house smelled like mothballs and cinnamon. The living room had remained frozen in time. He remembered it just as it looked now.

  “Please, have a seat.” She motioned to the worn sofa.

  He sat on the edge, his arms resting on his knees. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a very important question, and I need your help.”