“G.T. had lived here his whole life. He knew everyone in Orchard.”
“G.T.?”
“Grandpa Thom. My nickname for him.” I cleared my throat.
“Thom did, indeed, know everyone. Which is why the theft was such a shock. Who would steal from Thom and Caroline? And then that they came back?”
“Is that what they think happened?” I asked.
“Well, it’s the current theory. The shop had never been robbed, then twice within a month?”
“Was anything taken the second time?”
“No. Not that anyone can tell. Thom hit the car alarm. It was making a real racket. I was getting dressed to go over and see what the commotion was about. Woke me out of a sound sleep, let me tell you. And it woke Ben up too—he lives next door. You don’t hear car alarms that often in Orchard, and never at two o’clock in the morning.”
“Why was G.T. here so late?”
“Caroline was out of town, so I guess he was catching up with work at the shop. There are a lot of clocks that need fixing if he was going to meet his goals for the shop and be ready for Thursday.”
“Goals? Deadlines?” I asked. Things really had changed around here.
“Look at me, keeping you standing here. You must be exhausted. As I said, you are perfectly safe. Here’s my card, call me if you need anything. What say I stop by in a couple of days, and we can get to know each other properly? I look forward to that, I really do.” With that he turned and walked back across the street, half turning to wave at me over his shoulder. I watched him go, wondering what was going to happen in six days, on Thursday.
chapter 5
The door was double keyed, so it took me a few minutes to figure it out. I finally opened it and stepped inside. I knew exactly where the lights were. And I knew exactly how it would look once I turned them on. But I paused for a minute, trying to brace myself. The last time I’d been in this shop was three weeks after my grandmother’s funeral. I was heading back to London to finish my internship at the World Horological Institute. The two-year program had been a huge expense for my grandparents, but I know G.T. had been as excited as I was about the opportunity. I’d hugged my grandfather tight and promised to write soon. I had no idea that was the last time I would see the shop. Or one of the last times I would see him.
I reached to the left and flipped the switch. Since there was little ambient light from outside seeping in, it was dark. But even in shadow, it was familiar. Shelves of clocks on both sides, starting from five feet up. Glass cases with watches and smaller clocks lining either wall. The wooden counter still cut the front part of the room off from the workshop itself. There were a few batteries out, and a couple of cases of watches on the counter. Halfhearted attempts to get last-minute sales.
I locked the door behind me and put down the bags. I walked over and lifted the counter up. Then I heard it—a noise behind me. I whipped around to see a gray cat nudging my bag with her head.
“Hey, you.” I leaned down and reached my hand out. “Bezel, I presume?”
When I’d left, Chime, a huge tabby, was the shop cat. My great-grandfather had started naming cats after clock parts, and my grandfather had continued the tradition. Bezel was a large gray beauty. She looked like she was part Russian Blue. She was eyeing me warily as she inspected my bag, though I could hear her purring from four feet away. She crept forward, stopped about a foot from my hand, and looked at me. I just waited.
“My name is Ruth. I am Thom’s granddaughter. Sorry we haven’t met before.” Bezel walked around my hand and gave my knees a head-butt. She made a hissing sound, but looked up at me with her big, round eyes. She walked in between the curtains that led to the back of the shop, looking over her shoulder as if to say, “Are you coming or not?”
“I’m coming.” I pulled open the heavy velvet curtains and walked into the back of the shop—the heart of the operation.
Under the best of circumstances, there was never enough room at the Cog & Sprocket. Clock repair required wall space for testing, shelf space for storage, and somewhere to put clock parts and packing cases. G.T. and Pat had always been good about using every possible space for storage, including shelves that ran a foot from the ceiling around the entire perimeter of the shop. Because we backed up to the river, the basement was always deemed too dank for storage. Too dank for much else either.
I’d seen a lot of inventory before, but never anything like this. Clocks were packed on every single shelf. The smaller clocks were double shelved. All three worktables were covered with clocks in varying states of repair. Boxes sat all over the room, some piled on top of one another, some opened, most closed. I peered into one of them, but restrained myself from taking anything out. Was there a method to this madness? Probably. I looked over at the old library card files where G.T. kept his clock filing cards, but wooden crates blocked them.
Bezel stopped about halfway into the workshop and blocked my path back. I walked up to her and looked to my right. More boxes. “You’re right—I can look through that later. Should I look upstairs?”
Bezel hissed and then smiled again. Was hissing her way of letting me know who was boss? She certainly owned the place. She walked to the back of the shop, where the curtain to the upstairs was pulled open. Before I went back, she stopped and flicked her head to the left.
So far, I’d avoided looking at the back door, for fear of seeing outside to where it had happened. But Bezel wasn’t pointing me there, but rather to the left of the door, behind a wall of boxes. I walked back and gasped. Eight grandfather clocks, beautiful examples of longcases. All different sizes and styles, but all impressive. I took out my cell phone and used the light from the screen for a closer look. There was a card table set up in the corner, and I saw three pendulums laid out. There were weights laid out in front of each clock. Most of the doors were partially open. Were these what G.T. had been working on?
Bezel nudged the back of my knees, waking me from my reverie. She walked over to the staircase and took one step up. She meowed at me, a deep husky meow that wasn’t friendly—more “Obey me now.” She took one step up, and then looked back at me.
I did as Bezel told me, following her upstairs, ducking as I walked up the first step. Funny, I hadn’t walked up or down those stairs in years, but I still remembered that the staircase was only easy to clear if you were five foot six or shorter. I’d outgrown the door when I was fourteen, topping out at five foot ten finally. I reached the top of the stairs, felt around to the right to find the light switch, finding it and flipping it on by rote.
If the shop hadn’t changed that much, the same could not be said of the rooms upstairs. Rather than the rabbit warren of four small rooms where my grandparents had started their marriage that I remembered from my childhood, the space was open. I could see the fading light through the window on the back, though the details loomed in darkness. On the right was the galley kitchen, such as it was. A refrigerator, microwave, and deep slop sink. Old metal cabinets that had been there for as long as I remembered, and looked much the worse for the wear. Behind the kitchen was the only room with doors left in the space. I turned on the light and peeked my head in the bathroom. Clean, but still as cramped, with a toilet, tiny sink, and the claw-foot tub. Walking down the hall I reached around the back of the bathroom and found the light switch. And I stood there, gobsmacked.
My grandmother’s bedroom set was all there. The sleigh bed, the highboy dresser, the bureau, the wardrobe. More than the bedroom set was in the back of the space. A couple of chairs, both of which I remembered from my grandparents’ living room. A dry sink. Books, so many, many books, piled on the furniture. And more clocks. Everywhere I turned there were clocks. Were I not Thom Clagan’s granddaughter, I would be overwhelmed. Cuckoo clocks stuck open. Gears exposed on a beautiful but tattered grandfather. Clock guts everywhere. A smell that combined lemon oil, dust, mothballs and motor grease.
As I was, indeed, Thom Clagan’s granddaughter, I felt comforted and inspired.
I turned and looked on the bed, noticing the box set on it. A piece of yellow legal paper was folded in half and taped to the side. Ruth was written in big red letters. I pulled it off and read the note.
Dearest Ruth,
I’m sorry to not be there in person to welcome you back to the Cog & Sprocket, in case you decided to stay here. I’ve added new locks, and the place is locked up as tight as a drum. I cleared some space for you and hope that you can find some rest. Here are a few things for the night. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.
All my best,
Pat
I looked in the box and found sheets, towels, a bar of soap, a tin of cookies, and a bottle of wine. I looked over at Bezel, who perched on top of the headboard.
“I’m just going downstairs to get my bags. Do you want to come?” I asked Bezel, hoping the answer would be yes. Instead she climbed up onto the bed and curled herself into a ball.
“Thanks for the support,” I said. I took my phone out as I went back down the stairs, ready to dial for help if I needed it. The enormity of today hit me, and I moved around the shop triple-checking the locks. The back door had a crate in front of it. I walked to the front of the shop, and moved a box in front of the door, grabbing an alarm clock from one of the shelves and resting it on top. I realized it was a silly security system, but it made me feel better. I turned off all the lights, my Yankee frugality kicking in. Then I went back and turned one of them back on, common sense taking over. I grabbed my bags and headed upstairs.
chapter 6
I went into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on my face. I stared at my reflection for a while. Any relaxation I’d felt after leaving the retreat, which I will allow was limited, was gone. I pulled out the ponytail holder and ran my wet fingers through my auburn Medusa-like curls. The swollen red marks that rimmed my blue eyes looked permanent. The bags under my eyes had been features these last few months, but at one point last week I thought maybe they’d go away. Not anytime soon, that’s for sure. Turning thirty had been quite a journey so far.
I knew a shower would make me feel better, so I turned on the taps. From cold to tepid. Verging on warm. I got undressed and stepped in, fighting the circle of shower curtains that stuck to my wet skin. The clawfoot tub had a shower attachment, but it was too short. I decided to opt out of washing my hair until I had more energy. I pulled on my sleeping T-shirt and a sweatshirt and walked back to the box Pat had left.
I pulled out the bottle of wine. A screw top. Pat always thought of everything. Wine and cookies. Not the healthiest of dinners, but I would have to make do. Bezel peered up at me from the center of the bed, blinking a few times.
“Bezel, I need to make the bed. How about if I give you some dinner? You can come back when I’m done.”
I went into the kitchen and poured some fresh dry food from the cabinet into a dish. I rinsed out a clean coffee mug and took it and a small plate back to the bed. I went back to the box and unscrewed the wine.
“I’ll let it breathe,” I said aloud. I pulled out the sheets that Pat had left, and started to make up the bed. I stopped every few seconds to run my hand along the footboard. I’d heard the story of this bedroom set so many times I knew it by heart, and heard my grandmother’s voice telling it to me.
Her grandmother had come from money. But then she fell in love with the farmhand her father had hired. Their love was forbidden, but they wanted to marry anyway. She defied her father and ran away with the love of her life. Her father never spoke to her again, but a year later, after the birth of her first child, this bedroom set was delivered. It was a gift from her mother, who began to visit once a week in order to know her grandchildren. No matter how hard things got, my grandmother held on to this bedroom set. And it had been passed on from generation to generation, through the women in the family. “And someday,” I could hear her say, “it will be yours.”
I guess someday was now. I blinked a few times, and grabbed a cookie. Yum. I remembered them from my childhood. Nancy Reed’s Kitchen Sink Specials. My grandmother always named recipes after the person who gave them to her. They were basic oatmeal cookies with anything and everything tossed in. I tasted coconut, chocolate chips, walnuts, and either cherries or cranberries. I took another bite. Cherries. Delicious.
I remembered the armoire that was next to the bed. It used to be in the hall at the cottage, a coat closet of sorts. I tried to pull open the door, but it was locked. I reached around and ran my hand along the back, feeling a small hook. I followed the path of the hook and felt a ribbon hanging down. I picked it up and, sure enough, there was a key hanging on it. Clagan family security at its best. Lock your cabinets, but hide the keys where the tall people in our family could find it easily.
The armoire was packed with stuff. I pulled out a box with notebooks spilling over the top. I put it down next to the bed and then sat on the edge of the bed. Bezel harrumphed her unhappiness at my intrusion, gathering her paws beneath her, but didn’t move. I picked up one of G.T.’s notebooks, running my hand along the cover. I checked the inside, and noted the dates. July 1995–June 1996. I started flipping through the pages. Like my own notebooks, this was as much a journal of his life as the notes of a horologist. The visual musings of a brilliant clockmaker. Notes on materials and orders. Some numbers in the margins that I vaguely remembered as part of his archiving system. I looked through the book, recognizing a couple of pieces that he’d made, but there were dozens of others that had stayed drawings. These were his daydreams. I walked back to the kitchen to get my own notebook. I dragged my entire bag back with me and put it on the side of the bed next to the wall. Bezel hissed and moved away. She gave me quite the look before turning her back and going back to sleep.
I stopped and looked very closely at one of his more elaborate designs. The physical measurements of the clock indicated it was supposed to be a mantel clock, medium sized. But the detail he wanted to create and the movement he envisioned needed a much bigger case. I looked at a couple more sketches and saw the same theme throughout many years. My grandfather was meant to work on a much larger scale. He needed to design a huge clock, the size of a building. He knew it, and I knew it. And we dreamed about it together for years. But looking at these sketches, I realized how much the world had lost because he hadn’t done it. His genius was something I aspired to.
I got up and opened the armoire again. I noticed the paper model on the top shelf and pulled it out carefully. I smiled, remembering the summer I helped G.T. build this paper model of the clock tower. I took it out and put it on top of the armoire, stepping back to take it in.
He’d tried to get permission to fix the clock tower at the old Town Hall for years, but something had always stopped it. The designs weren’t approved. The funding was cut. Or G.T. and a selectman or a member of the zoning committee or a member of the chamber of commerce had a falling-out and a wrench was thrown in the plans. G.T. had a knack for upsetting folks who could get in the way of getting the clock tower project from paper to reality. But that didn’t stop him from planning, dreaming, and designing. I closed the notebook and shuffled through the rest of them, looking on the back-inside covers for the green sticker. Where was the clock tower notebook?
I’d put a shamrock sticker on it one summer day when I was ten or so. I asked G.T. about the figures he’d drawn, and how did the clock tower mechanism work? And what were the drawings of the moving figures? How did they work? And why did this lady look like Grandma? And so he gave me my first lesson in horology, and let me in on his vision. My world changed forever. I started my love affair with the family business. And I also found a way to get to know my busy grandfather. My grandmother had always defined love for me, but he had always scared me a bit. But not after that day.
Here it was. I looked through the notebook, pleased to realize that when I
made a comment or did my own drawing, he dutifully included them in the notebook. This particular notebook was a chronology of my long summer visits with my grandparents, the beginning of my life, actually. I flipped through to the end, but I couldn’t read a word. The tears came back, flooding my eyes and dripping on the notebook pages. I wept like I hadn’t for years. At first I tried to stop. But why? I’d stopped myself from crying so many times in my life, and where had that gotten me?
Funny thing about that. Permission to cry dried my tears. And stiffened my resolve. I pulled my notebook out of my bag and opened it up. When I’d sent that postcard, I’d begun to imagine talking to him about my work and asking him for advice on some of my own designs. I’d wanted to impress him. Too late for that now, but maybe I could honor him in another way. I opened up a new page in my notebook and named it “Clagan Clock Tower.” I stood up and took some pictures of the model with my phone. I’d import them into my computer later.
“Game on, G.T.,” I said aloud. Bezel woke with a start and hissed irritably. “Sorry, Bezel. Just making a promise. We’re going to make this happen.”
chapter 7
I woke up to a feeling of pressure on my chest. I opened my eyes and saw a gray ball of fur coming toward me. I stopped the head-butt with a kiss, which Bezel seemed to like. She stepped off my chest and let me sit up. I looked down at the closed notebook on the floor, barely remembering putting it down there. I heard a crash coming from downstairs. I threw on my yoga pants and grabbed my fleece. I picked up my phone again, dialing a nine and a one, with my finger hovering over the other one.
I crept down the stairs, crouching down as I reached the bottom. I pulled back the curtain at the foot just enough to peek through. A woman was bent over the alarm clock toward the front of the shop and the toppled box I’d left in front of the door. Bezel bounded down the stairs beside me, gathering speed as she hurled herself across the shop. She used a box as a springboard and jumped up on the countertop. She made a terrible sound that was the cross of a yowl, a meow, and a hiss. She jumped down from the counter and slunk over to the woman.
Just Killing Time Page 3