The Locket

by Ginger Simpson

  “What the hell…” Ritchie’s panicked voice muttered the last three words she’d ever hear as the car plummeted off the cliff. Glued to the seatback by gravity, she watched with wide eyes as the ground grew closer, closer, and closer.

  * * * *

  Martha Settle sat on the edge of her daughter’s bed. Her gaze wandered the room where her daughter had spent most of her time—the room Deborah would never see again. No matter how much she wished it was all a bad dream, she couldn’t erase the image of the uniformed officer who woke her and her husband three nights ago and told them there had been a horrible accident. She still couldn’t believe Deborah was gone.

  With a deep breath, she cast a bleary gaze at the police inspector who stood in the doorway. “I don’t know what else I can tell you. Deborah went to a party…a-and I never saw her again.” She collapsed into tears.

  “I don’t mean to upset you, Mrs. Settle.” Clarence O’Day transferred his pen to his other hand and flexed his fingers. His prominent Adam’s apple wobbled with a swallow. “As a matter of record, I have to investigate all cases that result in death, so anything you can tell me about your daughter the night she left with her boyfriend will help me rule this as the accident it appears to be.”

  Everything was just as Deborah had left it the night she died. A half-empty soda still sat on the nightstand, and pieces of clothing littered the floor. The bag filled with her belongings sat atop her dresser. The same uniformed policeman had delivered it yesterday.

  The cheerful floral comforter and curtains did nothing to cheer Martha. Her daughter rested in a coffin at the local funeral home awaiting tomorrow’s services, and Martha didn’t have the energy or inclination to answer any more ridiculous questions. “What do you want from me?” She held up both hands, her brow furrowed.

  “Just run through your conversation with her one more time. Was there anything different about her behavior the night she died?”

  Martha bit her knuckle and stared into space. “She got dressed, came downstairs, and when I heard her, I went into the living room and asked if she was going to have dinner with us. As I recall, she didn’t quite seem herself. In fact she was quite nasty and said hurtful things about the house and her father. She remarked that the only thing of value she owned was the necklace I gave her.” Martha turned her gaze to O’Day. “I was shocked. Deborah never showed such blatant disrespect for us before.”

  “Did you know her boyfriend well?”

  Martha nodded. “We always insist on meeting the boys our daughter dates. The first time they went out, Deborah introduced us, and we liked Ritchie. His family is well-respected in town, and he always was very polite and thoughtful.”

  “Did your daughter drink?”

  “If she did, I wasn’t aware of it. Of course, kids will be kids when they’re away from their parents.” Her face puckered in pain. “Oh, Deborah, why you, my darling?” Martha covered her face, her shoulders heaving, her sobs wracking her entire body.

  A hand rested on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Settle. I won’t bother you with any more questions. I’m sure this is exactly what it appeared to be. An accident caused by a young man who had too much to drink. My condolences to you and your husband. I’ll show myself out.”

  Outside, Clarence put his notebook and pen in the inside pocket of his trench coat and pulled out his cigarettes and lighter. The end of the Camel glowed bright red as he took a deep draw of smoke into his lungs. God, he hated seeing women cry. It knotted his insides. He’d worked far more than his share of tragic cases, and retirement was beginning to look good.

  He ambled down the sidewalk, headed for his unmarked squad car. Something about Mrs. Settle’s statement bothered him. The part where she’d mentioned the necklace she’d given her daughter. What could a piece of jewelry have to do with anything? Remembering a case he’d worked years before, he shook his head. “Nah, just a coincidence.” Still, three cases within ten years—what were the odds a necklace would be connected in some way? Wracked by coughing, he mashed out his cigarette with the toe of his shoe. If he planned to quit smoking, he’d have to find another line of work.

  * * * *

  Martha eyed the empty boxes lining the wall and sighed. She’d eventually have to go through Deborah’s things, so why not now? Her heart couldn’t ache any more than it already did. She turned her attention to the closet and dresser drawers, filling several cartons with clothing. Every item had a memory attached to it.

  She put Deborah’s shoes in a separate box, but paused for a moment and clutched her daughter’s favorite tennis shoes to her chest. The soles were thin and the toes scuffed from all the times Deborah had worn them. Her eyes misty, Martha squared her shoulders and tossed them in atop the other shoes.

  Her gaze rested on the police property bag, and her breath hitched. She snagged it and perched on the bed. With trembling fingers, she opened the heavy plastic and pulled out the contents, one by one: Deborah’s sweater, clutch purse, her wallet, a key to the front door, and her locket. The blood-soaked clothes her daughter had worn that night had been thrown away at Martha’s request.

  Holding Deborah’s sweater to her face, Martha dipped her chin and sobbed. The cashmere still smelled of the jasmine perfume her daughter loved. Overwhelmed, Martha tossed the pink knitted garment aside. Tears she’d thought already spent fell onto her blue blouse, turning it polka dotted. She took a breath and continued her odious task, weeding through and removing anything not suitable for donation. Used lipstick, in the trash—key in her pocket, sweater in the carton. She draped the locket’s gold chain across the back of her hand and remembered the night she’d given it to Deborah. Martha had no desire to keep it. It would only serve as a reminder of a time she’d never see again…a daughter she should never have outlived.

  Martha noticed a small black box on the dresser—the one Deborah kept the necklace in. Placing the golden piece on the bed of cotton inside and securing the lid with a rubber band, Martha packed the necklace away with all the rest of her daughter’s things. In the morning she’d call the thrift store run by the church and have them come and pick up the cartons. The only memories Martha needed of her daughter, she’d hold in her heart.

  Sunshine Smith

  New York, September 1966

  Sunshine Smith sorted through the boxes sent from the thrift store in Buffalo to the Bethel shop. Donations in the small community of upstate New York fell short compared to the continuing influx of freethinking people others dubbed hippies. It wasn’t uncommon for stores to share their overflow, and this latest shipment contained over twenty boxes—a boon for those in Bethel with limited or no income.

  After inserting a hanger into the sleeves of a fleece-lined coat, she hung it on a nearby rack and stopped for a breather. She flipped her hair over her shoulders and stared down at her tie-dyed tee and ankle-length skirt. Her bare toes peeked out from beneath the hem. Hippie or not, she loved her lifestyle. She’d come here with her boyfriend, Striker, in his attempt to avoid the draft. The Vietnam War was against everything she and her friends believed in, and he wasn’t going voluntarily. Next, they’d probably have to flee to Canada, but in the meantime, odd jobs kept them fed.

  Sunshine arched her back. “Hey, Sierra. Find anything interesting?” Her friend unpacked on the other side of the room.

  Sierra kept unpacking but shook her head. “Lots of clothes, but nothing I like. I suppose someone will, though.” She chuckled.

  “I know what you mean, but then we aren’t customers…just the people who get paid to unpack and hang all this stuff.” She massaged her lower spine. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth the crummy wage we’re paid.”

  A glance at her wristwatch showed two more hours left to work. She grimaced and resumed sorting through her nearly empty box. Beneath the flannel nightgown in the bottom, and wedged in the corner of the carton, sh
e spied a small black box. A rubber band had been wrapped around the outside, securing the cover. She removed the top and gasped. Who would donate such a gorgeous thing? The gold locket appeared in perfect condition. “Oh, my, this is beautiful.” She draped the chain over her fingers and inspected the etching on the heart.

  One of the perks of her job was first-come first-served, and her treasure wouldn’t see the light of day on a sales table. “Sierra,” she called. “Come see what I found.”

  Sierra hurried over, her brown ponytail swinging. Sunshine dangled the necklace in front of her face.

  “I want it.” Sierra swiped at the swinging piece.

  Sunshine snagged it away. “Too bad, I saw it first. It’s mine. I found it at the very bottom of that box.” She pointed. “I wonder how long it’s been there.”

  “Can I just admire it for a minute?”

  “Sure, why not?” Sunshine handed her the locket.

  “How come I never find anything like this?” She handed the piece back.

  “You act like I find valuables every day.” Sunshine giggled and pinched open the heart. “Hmm, wonder who this is?” She turned the locket so her friend could see the photo inside.

  “Probably the love of someone’s life. He’s quite handsome, but a tad on the young side for my liking.”

  “Mine too, although I’m not so sure maturity always comes with age.” Sunshine removed the picture and tossed it into the empty box. She held the necklace to her chest. “I do love the locket.”

  “Well, it’s just not fair that it was in one of your boxes and not mine.” She pulled her lips into an exaggerated pout.

  “Tell you what. You can borrow it whenever you like.”

  “Deal.” She smiled. “Let’s get finished so we can go home. I’m starving.”

  * * * *

  “Striker, are you home?” Sunshine swung her macramé purse over the tattered couch. Her shoulders sagged as she surveyed her new abode. The bungalow, formerly one big room, had been transformed into general living space for several couples. More suited for aligning prison cots, the main room held mismatched furniture pieces for relaxing and a long, scratched-up mahogany dining table and folding chairs for eating. An unfinished wall stood as separation from the sleeping area and bathroom.

  “Hey, baby.” Striker entered the living area, still damp from a shower and wearing only a towel. His ebony hair hung well past his shoulders, and although slim, his well-defined arms showcased his tattoos well. “I thought you’d be home sooner.”

  She sighed and sank onto the sofa. “We got a pretty large shipment in today and had lots to unpack. I’m beat.”

  Her gaze locked on the furry line of damp ringlets that ran along his stomach and disappeared beneath the white terry cloth—like an invitation to follow the trail to a treasure. If her back didn’t ache, she might be tempted to snatch away the threadbare material and savor what lay beneath. Instead, she drew one knee up and hugged it, hoping the pain would soon ease. Their sex life had virtually died since moving in with the others.

  She tipped her chin upward. “Did you look for a job today?”

  “You know I can’t look for work.” He frowned.

  “Oh, right. The social security connection.” She scratched her brow. “Do you really think anyone is looking for you right now? You never even received a letter from the draft board.”

  “I didn’t respond to them when I was supposed to register. They have my name and I’m sure I’m on a list somewhere.” He plodded back into the bedroom, his damp feet leaving prints on the dark tile floor.

  “I understand your reasoning,” she called after him, “but we can’t live on the measly salary I make forever. I need gas to get back and forth to work, and that old Chevy pickup of yours is about to wheeze its last breath.” She curled her legs around her bottom. “We’re lucky that Sierra and Chuck knew about this bungalow colony and got us in.” Her gaze roamed the room. “I’m sure my parents would die if they knew I was living in a commune.”

  Buttoning his shirt, Striker came back into the living room. “Living in a group is harder than I thought. I’m surprised the living room is empty right now.”

  Sunshine glanced to the window over the long dinner table. “Most of them are working in the garden…where I suppose we should be.” She flicked her gaze to Striker. “Did you put in your time today?”

  “I planned to, but I didn’t feel well. I slept most of the day.”

  Her jaw tensed. “Part of the deal is we do our share of the work to grow the food and keep this place running. Did you even straighten up our sleeping area?”

  “I will, I will. You’ve become such a nag.” He tucked his shirt into his jeans and buttoned them.

  “Let’s not fight.” She flashed a smile. “Besides, I found something totally awesome today.”

  “What?” He sank onto the sofa next to her, his eyes wide.

  She fished through her handbag, found and opened the box, then held up the necklace for him to see. “This.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Big deal. I thought you found money or something good.”

  “Don’t you think it’s beautiful?” She held the locket against her chest. “I’ve always wanted something like this.” She pinched open the pieces and smiled. “I can put pictures of you inside to keep you close to my heart.”

  “Better yet, why don’t we pawn it?” He flashed a crooked grin.

  She leaned away from him, clutching the jewelry. “No way. This is mine and I’m keeping it.” Sunshine fastened the chain around her neck and glanced down at the golden heart hanging perfectly between two tie-dyed stains. “Besides, it’s the only pretty piece I have now. We’ve hocked everything else.”

  “But, baby, you know we needed the money.” He dipped his chin and gave her a pouting smile.

  “I know, but I’m keeping this, so don’t ask again.” She turned when the door opened.

  Sierra, her hand clasped in Chuck’s, entered. “Ah, I see you’re wearing your lucky discovery.” She chuckled.

  Sunshine jumped to her feet and struck a pose. “Isn’t it me?” She gave Striker a whack on his arm. “He wanted me to sell it.”

  “You can’t. You promised I can wear it sometime.” Sierra turned her gaze to Chuck. “Don’t you think it would look better on me?” She winked at Sunshine.

  He pressed his palms toward his wife. “Oh, no you don’t. I’m not getting involved. I’m starving. What’s for dinner?”

  The knees of his jeans were nothing but holes, and his white T-shirt was dingy from too many washings without bleach. His straw-colored hair appeared windblown.

  While the other three conversed, Sunshine ducked into the sleeping area and fished through her belongings for a snapshot of Striker. Using a pair of fingernail scissors, she snipped the picture down to size and pressed it inside the necklace. Pleased, she sauntered back into the room.

  “Now I have to keep my necklace,” she announced. “I’ve put your picture inside, Striker, although I’m not so sure you deserve the privilege of dangling between my breasts.” She laughed, but her attempt at gaiety felt forced. “Chuck’s not the only one who’s hungry.” Striker’s whining set her teeth on edge.

  Sunshine fisted her hands. “Then you’d better get your sweet ass in the kitchen and make something. I worked all day while you slept.”

  Even she recognized her snippy tone.

  All eyes turned to her. Sierra raised a brow. “Are you on the rag?”

  Shaking her head, Sunshine struggled to understand the mood that clamped down on her. “Just finished my monthly. I guess I’m just tired.”

  “Or horny.” Striker walked closer and put his arm around her shoulders. He laughed.

  “Why do you think I didn’t come home after work?” Sierra sidled up to Chuck and flashed him
an adoring look. “We took a ride out to the lake for a little privacy.” Her giggle left no doubt to her meaning.

  Sunshine shrugged Striker’s arm off her shoulder and sidestepped away from him. “Yeah, well, Chuck works at the filling station and you can afford to take a ride. My guy would rather sleep all day.” She covered her mouth, wishing she could stuff the words back inside. The truth kept bubbling out, she supposed from months of repression.

  “I’m going outside to join the others in the field. We’re supposed to do our share, remember?” She grabbed a straw hat and dashed out the door.

  What was wrong with her? Despite Striker having the same traits he always possessed, today he wore on her last nerve. Maybe some physical exertion in the community garden would help ease the stress that tightened the cords in her neck.

  She passed the fruit and vegetable stand on the way and waved at the two women selling fresh produce to the locals. Money made from the sale helped support the household, buying milk, rice, and things that the group couldn’t grow and needed.

  The cornfield had been only half harvested, so she picked up one of the archaic reaping tools used for the task and marched down a row of the towering stalks. As she grabbed an ear of corn with one hand, she whisked the sharp-edged tool across the bottom to free it from the plant. The slicing motion brought a feeling of strange pleasure, until she realized she’d forgotten a basket. “Damn.”

  She returned to the vegetable stand and selected a round straw basket from the stack behind the rickety counter. One of the women workers turned. “What’s that dangling around your neck? Sort of fancy for working in the field, isn’t it?”