The Amulet

  The assembly line knew very little. Only Becca, Sarah, and Anna-Lee’s mother had heard anything at all, and Anna-Lee had not got everything exactly right. The news traveled no further than these women in the next two hours, for they were pinned to their places on the line, and deafened by the noise of the machinery. During the after­noon coffee break, however, the word was passed down the line.

  After lunch in the administration buildings, the more recent murder and death, so strangely paralleling those of the policeman and his wife, were noised about. Bosses perched on the corners of their secretary’s desk, telling the story, and invented grotesque details to make them squirm and certain other secretaries and female file clerks related the incident to their employers as a subtle object lesson in what may happen to a man if a woman is driven too far.

  Strangely enough, much of this was done in great fun. The employees at the factory had not yet heard enough circumstantial detail to be properly shocked and they waited for the end of the day when they could return home to the newspaper and radio reports which would no doubt tell them what had really happened. Until that “official” announcement by the media, people in the fac­tory enjoyed themselves with the unexpected, strangely ef­fected deaths.

  The rest of Pine Cone was not so isolated as the Pine Cone Munitions Factory. In stores and in homes and on the streets of the town, the deaths of Malcolm and Doro­thy Sims were known and discussed with considerably greater accuracy.

  Certain persons in Pine Cone could be counted on to know more about those incidents in the town than anyone else, and they were applied to by all who were curious. To begin with, the two friendly waitresses in the diner by the railroad tracks were inexhaustible funds of information and editorial comment on any act of violence in Pine Cone, for it usually happened that they were intimately acquainted with either the perpetrator or the victim. They would shriek discreetly and cover their eyes dramatically against the terrible things they related, but their sources were impeccable and their details reliable.

  Another source was the three bag boys at the Piggly Wiggly supermarket, who managed among them to speak to three quarters of Pine Cone’s female population over the course of any given weekday. With equal enthusiasm they received and offered the news of the moment, and acted as white-aproned clearinghouses for all the more malicious gossip of Pine Cone. These three boys were not particularly well thought of outside their two capacities as movers of packages and broadcasters of domestic infor­mation, but within those fields, they were trusted abso­lutely.

  Those who were finicky and wanted the most accurate information available usually called the radio station and talked to the manager. He might not know as much as the sheriff, but he was more willing to talk. And because the radio station in Pine Cone had been set up more as a service for the rural portions of the county than simply for the town’s convenience and the sheriff’s jurisdiction ended at the town limits, there were often things that were known to the manager of the station that were wholly un­familiar to Sheriff Garrett.

  Today the sheriff wasn’t answering any questions at all. Garrett had been very upset by the murder of his col­league the past week, and now the death of James Shirley’s brother-in-law depressed him further. There was something about the murders of the two men and the subsequent accidental deaths of their wives that confused the sheriff beyond his even beginning to understand it all. Why had the women done it? For the same reasons, per­haps? What were those reasons? Or had Dorothy Sims acted in imitation of her sister-in-law? But Sheriff Garrett knew that the two women had not got along together and Dorothy Sims was unlikely to follow the example of Thelma Shirley in anything at all. On the other hand, how could the two murders—being so close together, so similar, among members of the same family—be unre­lated? And the women dying afterwards, immediately afterward—had they only looked like accidents? Had Thelma Shirley sliced open her neck on purpose? Had Dorothy Sims deliberately jumped out in front of Jack Weaver’s truck?

  Sheriff Garrett knew one thing though: It was senseless to prosecute Jack Weaver—a good man—for something that was obviously not his fault. The only one who ought to have gone on trial was Dorothy Sims, and she was on the embalming table that very minute. Even if the case were brought before a jury, not a single man or woman in Pine Cone—much less twelve of them together—would think anything but that Jack Weaver had acted as an ad­ministrator of divine retribution. He would be let go with only a caution by the judge to turn his truck headlights on earlier in the evening. Dorothy Sims and Thelma Shirley, in getting themselves killed, had saved the county a lot of money in trial expenses and the state wouldn’t have to pay for their upkeep in prison, and their punishments had been commensurate with their crimes. But still, Sheriff Garrett considered, it was just real strange.

  Until he could figure all of this out satisfactorily for himself, Garrett refused to say anything, except to the manager of the radio station and to the editor of the newspaper, whom he informed at length of the circum­stances of the new set of deaths. He didn’t want to be distracted by his friends—and the wives of his friends, and total strangers—calling up to get a firsthand account of this new horror. He left the gossiping to Deputy Barnes who enjoyed the sense of self-importance he received from the wholesale dissemination of this official informa­tion.

  By six-thirty that Monday evening, the news had spread all over town, and many of the pertinent facts had been got straight. Then, working from the same basis of information, the same questions that had plagued Sheriff Garrett now fell upon the general population of Pine Cone. Everyone was at pains to determine why on earth the two sisters-in-law had murdered their husbands, who both had been very good men. It was a great, great mis­hap, and on top of everything, what would come of little Mary Shirley? The poor girl now had no one in the world, except those people who had showed up for James and Thelma’s funeral, and who were they? Relatives who never show up except at a funeral may be looking for money, but they certainly aren’t wanting a little girl to take back with them.

  Some people said it was a suicide-murder pact between the two women. But nobody could guess when they had made up their quarrel. Even those who set forth this idea admitted that it didn’t make much sense, but what other explanation was there? Other opinions, such as that it had really been Malcolm Sims who had murdered both James and Thelma Shirley—and that Dorothy was avenging their deaths—were even more farfetched. In fact, the town was stumped and could make no sense out of it at all. In the course of that Monday evening, the only the­ory that was not put forth was that the deaths of the two married couples had anything to do with the seven-times-fatal fire at the Coppage house.

  Chapter 37

  Sarah Howell grew more upset with the hours that af­ternoon. Two more people were dead and they had died as mysteriously, as unaccountably as the others—and Sarah had seen Dorothy Sims only a few hours before she murdered her husband, had seen that she was wear­ing the amulet. The details that the woman in the parking lot had given her had been confused, but it seemed fairly certain that Malcolm Sims and his wife were dead.

  The afternoon break came and the news spread among the women on the assembly line, but no one had any new information. Sarah had hoped against hope that someone would be able to tell her of a simple reason for the deaths of Malcolm and Dorothy Sims, but instead, the women pressed her for details of what she had heard from Anna-Lee’s mother. In the last hours of the working day, the assembly line rattled on, lurching and grinding, and Sarah’s thoughts were fixed on the amulet. Where was it now? Who had it? Were there to be more deaths? More unhappiness? What seemed most likely, she had to admit, was that little Mary Shirley now had the amulet. It was necessary, if so, to get the thing away from the child be­fore anything happened to her. Sarah didn’t like the idea of going over to the Shirley place trying to find the little girl and take the amulet from her. Mary might not want to give it up, Sarah might look as if she were trying to steal it; she would look
crazy. But no matter how un­pleasant a task it might be, her duty was to get hold of the thing, and destroy it, or put it in a safety deposit box, or something.

  Therefore just after work, Sarah asked Becca to drive her over to the Shirley house. Sarah didn’t want to tell Becca why she wanted to go, because she didn’t want to be talked out of her feeble resolution. She had barely persuaded herself to take on this foolish project and she knew that just a couple of well-directed sarcastic remarks from Becca would be enough to send her scurrying home, leaving that poor child with the amulet in her possession. Therefore she refused to tell Becca anything beforehand, but promised that she would inform her in detail after­ward, whether or not she was successful with her un­named project. Becca was suspicious of all this—more suspicious than curious, in fact—and she said she was perfectly willing to wait in the car while Sarah went into the house. Sarah gratefully accepted this offer. She felt much better about going into the Shirley house knowing that Becca was out in the car waiting for her.

  “You sure do put up with me,” said Sarah to Becca affectionately.

  “I sure do!” her friend cried. “I don’t know why I do it. And I’m blasted to hell and back if I know why you want to come to this place. James and Thelma Shirley are dead! You wanted to come over and speak to Dorothy and Malcolm Sims yesterday, but they’re dead too! There’s nobody left!”

  “There’s little Mary Shirley,” replied Sarah cautiously.

  Becca’s brow darkened. “Why you want to see that little girl? That little girl’s had a peck of trouble since last week, and you ought not go in there upsetting her. You ought—” Becca suddenly broke off in the middle of her low-voiced cautions, and cried loudly, “I don’t know why I’m talking to you like this! This is absolutely crazy, Sarah Howell. You following up these dead people like you are. It’s worse than chasing fires! What do you think you’re doing? You didn’t hardly know these people when they were alive, so why are you hanging around ’em after they’re dead?” She shook her head slowly and Sarah made no immediate reply, but allowed Becca’s accusa­tions to stand, for the moment.

  Then, slowly, she said, “Becca, listen, you’ve just got to put up with me on this. I don’t like it, you know I don’t. I don’t want to go in there and talk to little Mary Shirley, I didn’t want to call up Dorothy Sims on the phone yes­terday, but I did it. You don’t think I would be doing any of this, do you, if I didn’t absolutely have to do it? I don’t like going around asking questions about dead peo­ple.”

  Becca said nothing for she knew that Sarah was in great earnest. “Why do you do it then?” she asked grudg­ingly.

  “I was scared to death yesterday afternoon to call up Dorothy Sims and when I finally did get the gumption to call, she and Malcolm had already gone. If I had got to them first, if I hadn’t been such a fraidycat, Dorothy and Malcolm Sims would be alive today. Or even if they had died anyway, I wouldn’t be feeling now like I was re­sponsible for it.”

  “You’re not!” cried Becca. “What were you going to say to them? Tell Malcolm his wife was going to bash his head in later on in the afternoon in the middle of Burnt Corn Creek? Or what were you gone say to her? If she wanted to kill the man, you or anything you said to her wasn’t going to stop the woman.”

  “It was the amulet I think, that did it. Or it might have been. It don’t matter right now if it did or didn’t just so long as I find the thing.”

  “The amulet! You still harping on that thing? How can a hunk of jewelry cause Dorothy Sims to beat her hus­band over the head with a automobile fender?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know how it could. But I do know how to count and I count eleven people dead in this town since last Wednesday evening when Jo Howell gave that thing to Larry Coppage. I saw him with it, and I saw Dorothy Sims with it. They’re both dead. Maybe it’s just bad luck, but that’s still enough reason to try to get hold of it again. People ought to be warned against bad luck.” Here Sarah looked sharply at her friend, knowing how superstitious she was.

  Becca had to agree. “Maybe you’re right. I’m willing to believe that it’s bad luck. They’re some people that have bad luck, and there’s certain pieces of furniture that’s bad luck, and there’s probably pieces of jewelry that’s bad luck.”

  “And I was thinking,” said Sarah, “that maybe it was little Mary Shirley that’s got it now.” She paused and al­lowed Becca to think of this for a moment; Becca nodded slowly. “And little Mary Shirley,” said Sarah, “is a very little girl, and she ought not have to put up with bad luck. It didn’t do Dorothy Sims a bit of good, and I sure don’t want anything to happen to little Mary.”

  “I guess you’re right,” said Becca. “You go on in there and talk to the girl. I guess you might as well find out what she knows. If we can get the thing back, we might as well try, ’cause this town has had bad luck this past week, and it don’t need no more.”

  “You want to come in with me?”

  Becca shook her head. “I don’t want none of what hap­pened in that house to rub off on me.”

  Sarah started to open the car door; they had been parked for some few minutes in front of the Shirley house. Becca said, “But you know, Sarah, I don’t believe a word of it. Not a word.”

  Sarah laughed silently, a mournful little laugh, and got out of the car.

  “You get that thing,” whispered Becca, “and you bring it back out here with a pair of ice tongs, ’cause I don’t want you to touch it, you hear me?”

  Sarah nodded and moved up the sidewalk. Gussie an­swered Sarah’s knock, and with a slightly puzzled expres­sion, invited Sarah into the living room. Little Mary sat on a couch in the living room eating a sandwich and watching cartoons on television.

  “Who’s she staying with now?” Sarah asked Gussie.

  “I’m staying here with her right now,” said Gussie. “And the sheriff, he’s trying to get hold of some relatives Miz Thelma had in Ohio. She didn’t like ’em and they didn’t like her, so far as I know, so I don’t know what’s gone ’come of this child. People are bringing by food, but Mary’s just in the second grade.” By this, Gussie meant that Mary was being helped by the community right now, directly after her multiple bereavements, but that she had many many years of dependency left.

  “Well,” said Sarah, “she seems to be all right for now, and that’s a blessing.”

  “Tore up,” said Gussie shortly, “she’s just tore up!”

  Little Mary Shirley looked up during the commercial, and stared inquisitively at Sarah Howell.

  “Mary . . .” said Sarah.

  “Ma’am?” said the little girl.

  “Mary, can I talk with you a few minutes?”

  “You come sit by me. You gone talk about Mama and Daddy, or you gone talk about Aunt Dot and Malcolm?” The child was wary, and had had enough of consolation for the time being.

  Sarah moved into the room followed by Gussie, who turned off the television set.

  “I want to ask you a few questions, Mary.”

  “What do I get if I get the answers right? I sure could use a new box of colors. My green broke to pieces, and my black’s all used up.”

  “Yes,” said Sarah, “I’ll give Gussie the money, and she can buy you some new colors.”

  “How many questions do I have to answer?” the child demanded.

  “Just a few,” said Sarah. “Now Mary, I don’t want to upset you, but I want to know what your Aunt Dot was wearing when you had that accident on the way to Mont­gomery.”

  “Wearing a dress. Mama always said Aunt Dot’s hips was too big to wear pants decent.”

  “No,” said Sarah, “did she have on a necklace, that’s what I want to know.”

  Mary shrugged.

  “You don’t remember?”

  Mary shook her head. “Do I still get the colors?”

  Sarah nodded. “You don’t have a necklace, do you Mary, that’s a gold chain with a thing on the end of it that’s round an
d black and gold?”

  Again Mary shook her head. The child shrugged dramatically, and looked very sad indeed, afraid that she would not get the crayons, being unable to answer Sarah’s questions satisfactorily.

  But Gussie spoke then. “That’s Miz Thelma’s necklace you talking about.”

  Sarah looked up in surprise.

  “I found that thing right under the bed on Saturday morning, when I was cleaning up. I didn’t never see it be­fore. You know where it come from?”

  Sarah did not reply to that question, but only asked, “You haven’t seen it since then, have you?”

  Gussie shook her head.

  Sarah then told a little lie. “That thing belonged to my husband’s mama, and she had lent it to Thelma. So if you do come across it, you be sure and call me, will you, Gussie? It’s real important, you understand me?”

  Gussie nodded, and after leaving a dollar with which Gussie was to buy Mary’s box of crayons, Sarah left the Shirley house.

  Becca quizzed Sarah immediately on what she had found out. “So,” said Becca, at the end of Sarah’s relation, “it’s not there. It got broken off or something when Doro­thy got run down in the road. Or it’s still on her, and is gone get buried with her.” She was trying to reassure Sarah.

  But Sarah was not so easily consoled. “All we know is that little Mary doesn’t have it, and that’s something, I suppose.”

  “Why do you look so unhappy, then?” said Becca.

  “Because,” said Sarah, “of what Gussie said. She said that she found the amulet under Thelma Shirley’s bed when she was cleaning up . . .” Sarah and Becca both shuddered at the thought of the two corpses and the great pools of blood. “That means that Thelma Shirley had it in the house. And that means I was right. Larry Coppage didn’t give it to Dorothy Sims direct. He gave it to Thelma and then Thelma killed her husband and died herself. Then Dorothy Sims found it, put it on—we saw her with it on—and then went and killed her husband and got killed herself.”