“Is something wrong?” Mr. Cooper raised a brow.
She cleared her throat. “No, just a little warm in here today.” She continued filling the syringe, then swabbed a spot on his inner arm. “There,” she said as she emptied the insulin into his vein, “that should make everything better.”
After fluffing his pillow and straightening his blanket, she fled the room, leaving the empty bottle hidden beneath his covers. Despite what she’d just done, her chest warmed with a strange feeling of satisfaction. She grasped the locket, fighting the conflicted feelings that urged her to return to Cooper’s room and perform lifesaving measures against the deadly dose. As if pulled by unseen forces, she walked back to the nurses’ station and immersed herself reading the charts of the other patients, preparing for their daily meds. She made no note of Charles Cooper’s injection. No one need know. Had that surly laughter come from her own lips? She lowered her head into her palms. Something was not right.
Suddenly, the locket burned like an ember against her skin. In her haste for relief, she yanked the golden piece free from her neck, snapping the chain apart. Ever since she’d put the necklace on, she’d felt strange. Her mother’s disclosure that Aunt Ingrid hadn’t liked the piece made perfect sense.
Sally tossed the broken necklace into the trashcan, then covered her mouth to stifle her cry. Had she just killed a man?
* * * *
Luke Settle pushed the garbage cart down the hospital hallway. The dimmed nighttime lights made it hard to see, but he knew the position of each can to be emptied. After ten years, there wasn’t much he didn’t know about the place and people where he worked. He stopped at station three and picked up a full container. As he turned it upside down over the refuse cart, something sparkled and caught his eye. He fished among the papers, wrappers, and empty bottles and found a golden locket. Surely a broken chain wasn’t reason enough to throw away such a lovely piece. The area stood empty while the nurses made their evening rounds. Luke made a quick glance up and down the hallway before stuffing the necklace into his pocket and moving on.
* * * *
Sally poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table. She unfolded the morning paper and gasped at the headlines. Memorial Hospital Scrutinized over Patient’s Death. Found Faultless. Her heartbeat quickened. She hadn’t worked for the past two days, but she’d worried her entire weekend about what she’d done. She scanned the article for details:
At the request of the family, the identity of the deceased was not disclosed, but the police concluded that death came from an intentional overdose of insulin due to the patient’s depression over the recent surgical removal of his leg. An empty bottle was found near the body.
Consumed by guilt, Sally stood and walked to the bedroom. At her nightstand, she opened the drawer and withdrew a small caliber pistol she kept there for safety. Images of Charles Cooper’s trusting face burned in her mind. Do no harm—the first rule of nursing. She’d failed miserably.
The steel barrel felt cold against her temple. She scrunched her eyes closed, gritted her teeth and slowly squeezed the trigger.
* * * *
Clarence O’Day took a sip of cold coffee, then stood and stretched his legs. He’d been sitting in the hospital conference room for hours, talking to Sally Curshaw’s coworkers and trying to piece together what might have driven her to suicide. According to her mother, she’d seemed fine the last time they’d been together. No indications of depression, anxiety or anger.
His body cried for a nicotine fix. Smoking in medical facilities was strictly forbidden because of oxygen in use, and he hadn’t found time to take a break. One more person to speak with, then it was time for a cigarette.
A dark-haired woman clad in the traditional white nurse’s outfit stopped in the doorway. “Excuse me, I’m Cara Tompkins, and I was told you wanted to speak with me.”
“Please, come in and have a seat. I’m Inspector O’Day from the Boston PD, and I have a few questions about Ms. Sally Curshaw.” He pulled out a chair for her. “I understand you might have been the last person to see her alive.”
Cara sat and clasped her hands on the table. The muscles in her neck twitched. “I last saw Sally on the day her patient, Mr. Cooper, passed away. The next two days were her scheduled time off, and that’s when she…she—”
“That’s okay, ma’am. You don’t need to say anymore about that.” He tapped his pen on the tablet in front of him. “Did you notice anything different about Sally when you spoke to her the day before her death?”
“Not really.”
“You didn’t notice any change in her personality?”
Cara stared into her lap and bit her knuckle. She lifted her chin. “Well, come to think of it, she did snap at me, which was highly unusual. Sally was always in such a chipper mood. Everyone loved her, and…” Cara pulled a tissue from her pocket and blotted her eyes.
“Can you describe what happened that might have caused her to ‘snap’ at you, as you say?”
She shrugged. “Sally was wearing a beautiful locket that I’d never seen. I commented on it, and it was so lovely, I wanted to look a little closer at the intricacies. When I tried to touch it, she batted my arm away like I was going to steal it.”
“Anything else?”
“No, but that was just so unlike Sally. I-I…” The woman started sobbing.
O’day rose and walked around the table. “There, there, it’ll be all right.” He patted her shoulder. “You’ve been very helpful, and I thank you. That’ll be all.”
Sniffling, Cora Tompkins stood. Her tears had left tracks in her makeup and smudges of black beneath her eyes. “I still can’t believe Sally killed herself.” Shoulders sagging, the nurse lumbered from the room.
O’day sat and wrote the word “suicide.” He underlined it three times and shook his head. Leaning on the table, he chewed on a ragged nail and flashed back to another case that involved a locket. Coincidence, of course, but strange nonetheless. With all the cases he worked, there had to be similarities.
He closed his notebook, stuffed it in his breast pocket, and with a cigarette and lighter already in hand, headed for the door. His report was conclusive. Sally Curshaw killed herself for reasons unknown. It happened sometimes, and evidence from her autopsy proved the gunshot had been self-inflicted. One more case closed. He stepped outside and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply to satisfy his craving. The cloud of smoke he exhaled brought with it a cough that grew deeper with each passing day.
Deborah Settle
New York–May, 1950
Deborah Settle spun around in front of her full-length mirror, admiring her pink chiffon dress and dyed-to-match shoes. Her upswept hairdo made her appear more mature, and wearing a pastel color brought out the golden highlights in her blonde tresses. The hue even added color to her cheeks.
She smiled at the image entering the door behind her. “How do I look?” She turned toward her mother.
“Beautiful.” Martha Settle fixed an appraising look on her seventeen-year-old daughter as she circled her. “You’ll be the prettiest girl at the Job’s Daughter Dance.” She focused on Deborah’s décolletage. “I love the color, but something’s missing.” Martha snapped her fingers and spun out the door. “I’ll be right back,” she called.
Within moments, she reappeared holding a golden locket. “Your father gave this to me years ago when we still lived in Boston, and I’ve never had the occasion to wear it. I’ve kept it in my jewelry box all this time, waiting for the right moment, and I think I’ve found it. This necklace is just the finishing touch you need.”
She stood behind Deborah and secured the clasp, then stood back and beamed. “There. Now you are truly beautiful.”
Deborah fingered the heart dangling from the petite chain. “Where did Daddy get it? Did he give it to you for a special o
ccasion?”
Her mother shook her head. “Of all places, he found it in a trashcan at work, probably discarded because the chain was broken. He repaired the links and thought I might enjoy wearing something so tasteful. The necklace is very beautiful, but a little too fancy for my wardrobe.” She laughed.
“I’m glad you remembered you had it. Is there a picture inside?”
“You know, I never opened it.”
Deborah fumbled with the locket until the pieces parted. She looked up and frowned. “It’s empty.”
Her mother patted her hand. “Well, it’s yours now, so you can add a photo of whomever you’d like.”
She closed the locket and smiled. “I’ll make sure to get a great snapshot of Ritchie tonight. We’ve been dating for six months, so I guess I can consider him my steady beau.”
“Just don’t get too serious. You’re far too young.” Her mother waggled a finger at her and grinned.
* * * *
Deborah sat on the floor of her bedroom, her back resting against the foot of the bed, her new necklace draped across one leg. Carefully, she maneuvered the scissors around Ritchie’s image in a photograph taken at the dance, then patted the trimmed photo into the locket’s indention. Next to the hole where Ritchie’s face had been was an image of her wearing the same forced smile she’d worn all evening. Instead of enjoying herself, she recalled being consumed by unexplainable anger. Picking fights with her date over nothing at all had almost ruined their evening. Strange, how her mood changed upon arriving home and shedding her clothing in preparation for sleep. She awoke the next morning still pondering her behavior. She’d always heard that moodiness was a woman’s prerogative. She chalked it up to that.
Ritchie hadn’t called in a week, and she struggled against reaching out. Maybe they needed the time apart. Now, looking at the developed photos she’d picked up at the drugstore, she missed him—his muscular arms, dreamy eyes, sweet lips.
The phone rang. She crawled to the nightstand to answer it.
“Hey, Deb, it’s Ritchie. Are you in a better mood?”
“About that… I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry I spoiled our evening.” She sat back on her heels.
“Don’t fret. We still managed to have a little fun, didn’t we? I know I was definitely with the prettiest girl there.”
Her heart warmed. “Oh, you say the sweetest things. What did I do to deserve a boyfriend like you?”
“Just lucky, I guess. Freddie is having a party this Saturday. Wanna go?”
“Sure.”
“Great. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“I’ll be ready. And Ritchie… I love you.”
“Love you, too, baby. I have to get back to work.”
* * * *
Deborah peered into the bathroom mirror and pulled a brush through her long, straight locks. Ritchie liked her hair down instead of in a ponytail. Tonight was about making up for her snippy behavior on their last date, so pleasing him was a priority. She added a smidge of rouge to her cheeks and applied a light red lipstick. Her brown sweater complemented her skin, but begged for adornment. She recalled the locket. Just the touch she needed. Besides, she hadn’t shown Ritchie the picture she’d placed inside.
She fastened the clasp behind her neck, ran the brush through her hair one more time and hurried downstairs to wait for her date. Tension tightened her shoulders and her good mood faded. She stopped at the bottom of the staircase and stared into the living room.
The appearance of the furniture…everything in there niggled at her. The out-of-date lamps, the worn carpeting—why couldn’t her parents do better?
Her mother came from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. The aroma of fresh bread followed her. “Aren’t you going to have dinner before you go, dear?”
“No!” Deborah snapped, “and when in the hell are we going to be able to afford some nicer things for the house? This place is so damn depressing.”
Her mother stared at her with wide eyes. “Deborah! This isn’t like you at all. I’m glad your father isn’t home to hear you. He works very hard and does the best he can.”
“Maybe he needs to find a better-paying job. Do you know how embarrassing it is to say my father’s a stupid janitor?” Deborah pierced her mother with a stony gaze.
The elder woman’s shoulders sagged. “This is a side of you I’ve not seen before. What happened to my sweet and appreciative daughter?” She reached out to touch her, but Deborah recoiled.
“I finally faced facts and realize I deserve better.” She grasped the locket. “This is the only thing of value I own.”
A horn sounded outside.
“Ritchie’s here. I’m leaving.” She started for the door.
“Don’t be out too late.”
Deborah narrowed her eyes in defiance. “I’ll be home when I’m good and ready.”
Her mother stared at her with her mouth agape.
Ignoring the obvious hurt in her mother’s eyes, Deborah slammed the door behind her, skipped across the lawn and opened the door of Ritchie’s maroon Ford.
He whistled as she slid into the seat and inched over next to him. “You look good enough to eat.”
Deborah lowered her gaze and grinned. “If you’re a good boy, perhaps—”
The acceleration as he pulled away from the curb snapped her head backwards. Her thoughts jumbled in the excitement of the speed Ritchie liked to exhibit. He patted her knee. “I got a fake I.D. today. I’m gonna try it out at the liquor store before we hit the party.”
Normally his touch stirred passion in her, but at the moment felt like a thousand pinpricks against her skin. She flinched and brushed his hand aside.
“What’s wrong?” He flashed a raised brow at her, then looked back to the road.
She shrugged. “I don’t know.” She really didn’t know, but irritation bubbled inside her like a shaken soda bottle. “Do you have to drive like a bat out of hell?”
Again he jerked his gaze around and back to the road. “Who are you anyhow? You usually like it when I touch you, and aren’t you the one always begging me to go faster?”
Deborah stared into her lap and pondered her strange mood swings. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I promise I’ll be better when we get to the party.” She clasped her fingers around her necklace and looked up. “Oh, I almost forgot. I put your picture inside the locket. Remind me to show it to you when we get there.”
* * * *
“Ritchie’s making a total ass of himself,” Deborah complained to her girlfriend, Lana. The two stood in the corner and watched the boys guzzling beer in a drinking contest.
“He’s not doing anything the others aren’t doing.” Lana raised a brow. “Why are you so cranky tonight?”
Deborah rubbed the nape of her neck and frowned. “I don’t know. Ritchie and I just made up from the last fight I caused by being a bitch.”
“Well,” Lana grabbed Deborah’s elbow. “This is a party, so if you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em.”
Agitation crawled from Deborah’s feet up to the top of her head, but she feigned a smile. “Why not? A drink might help me loosen up a bit.”
Worry niggled at her. Should she ask her mother to take her to the doctor? Maybe a brain tumor caused her erratic behavior. She took the bottle of beer Lana offered and lifted it in toast. All Deborah had to do was get through the night without making Ritchie decide he needed a new girlfriend. Although, at the moment, if he grabbed and kissed the blonde closest to him, Deborah didn’t think she’d even care.
* * * *
“Are you okay to drive?” Deborah peered through the open car window as Ritchie closed the door behind her. She flung her sweater in the backseat and fanned herself against a flash of heat that seared through her.
“Sure I am. Do you want me to walk a straight line to prove it?” He placed toe to heel and took a few faltering steps. “Well, maybe not a real straight one, but I can drive.”
She pressed her back against the seat and knotted her fingers together in her lap. Her jaw tensed. He was such an ass when he drank. Such an ass, period. What did she even see in him? She’d spent the whole night wishing she’d stayed home. Probably making him wish she had, too. Lana had finally grown tired of hearing her complain and sidled off with another friend. For the past hour, Deborah had sat on the couch and let her anger fester. Anger at what, though? She had no idea. Even her monthly period didn’t make her this irritable.
Ritchie slid in beside her and started the car. It whirred to life with a roar of chrome pipes, and he pulled into a shadowed avenue lit only by scattered streetlights. Deborah purposely left space between them and stared straight ahead. The desire to sit close to him as usual had deserted her. Instead, rage burned in her belly and she wanted to hit him, claw at him— say something mean and angry. She lowered her head into her hands and clenched her eyes shut against the images her mind conjured.
“Have a headache?” Ritchie asked.
She raised her head. “No, I just don’t feel right.”
“I know what will help.”
“What?” She couldn’t imagine.
“Let’s take a drive along the lake shore—roll down the windows and smell the fresh air. You always like that.” He leaned forward and peered up through the windshield. “Besides, look at that big ol’ moon up there. I’ll bet the reflection on the water will look so cool. Maybe we could stop for a while and be alone.”
A walk might help, and she always loved the lake. She nodded. “Fine. I’m not in the mood to go home yet anyhow.”
They rode in awkward silence. Feeling as if the weight of her necklace had tripled, Deborah adjusted the locket’s chain. She cocked her head from left to right and took a deep breath. Tension skimmed along her nerves like electricity on a dangling power wire. Every muscle in her body tightened. A commanding voice in her head barked orders, and the urge to scream obscenities at Ritchie grew overpowering. She pressed her palms to her temples to still the roar. As the Ford rounded a curve with a sheer drop on the passenger’s side, her right hand acted of its own accord and gave the steering wheel a quick tug.
The Locket Page 3
