Just Killing Time

by Julianne Holmes

  “They were all from the 1800s. Wall clocks, mantel clocks. A gingerbread clock. All American, made by the Seth Thomas Clock Company.”

  “Seth Thomases?” I asked, thinking about the clocks I’d looked at this morning.

  “Last month Caroline reported a burglary of five clocks from the shop, but Thom withdrew the report soon after,” Chief Paisley told me. “Said that he didn’t want to deal with the insurance claims, especially since there were so many new clocks in the shop. Even though they were all pretty valuable, close to a thousand dollars each—am I right?

  “Someone knew what they were doing,” he continued. “But those clocks, collectors specifically would be interested, right? Who would know about the value of those clocks? Aside from you and Thom? And Pat Reed.”

  “Anyone who knew clocks would know that they were valuable,” I said. “Or even people who had access to a computer.”

  “Well, Ms. Clagan, that’s true.” The chief leaned forward as he spoke. “But I went back to the original report that Caroline filed. It was carefully detailed, written with hope we could get those valuable pieces back. And I’ve been doing some research on them. These five clocks were really something special.”

  “I told you, Chief, I barely remember them. We have a significant number of clocks in the shop, as you know. You can’t expect me to remember every single clock,” Caroline said, clenching her glass tightly in her fist.

  “Caroline, the shop was broken into, twice. I think Pat Reed knows more than he’s telling.”

  “And I think you’re wrong, Jeff. Wrong.” Caroline looked as if she was about to start crying, and grabbed a napkin from the table.

  “Chief Paisley, do you have any more specific questions that we haven’t covered yet? Because I think Caroline has told you everything she knows,” I said. The last thing I expected to do was feel protective over Caroline, but here I was. And I didn’t like the way this conversation was going. Best to stop it now. Surely Pat Reed wasn’t a suspect, was he? That was impossible. I needed to process this. “And I certainly have. Now, do you have any more information about when you’re going to be releasing my grandfather’s body? Caroline and I need to talk about planning a service.”

  “I’m hoping the coroner will release the body by the end of the week. I’ll check again today.” Chief Paisley looked at us both and shrugged his shoulders. He picked up his glass and drained it. He stood up and took it over to the sink, then turned around.

  “Caroline, I don’t want to upset you,” he said. “But you have to know, I’m not going to rest until I figure out what happened to Thom. Or rather, who happened to him. I think the missing clocks from last month have something to do with his death. What, I’m not sure. But I’m going to find out. Thank you for the sweet tea. I’ll let myself out.”

  We sat for a moment after he left. I wasn’t sure what to say. Caroline got up quietly, got the quiche out of the oven, and brought it over to the table. Her hand shook as she served us each a slice. I served us each a bit of salad and took a bite of the quiche.

  “This is really delicious. Do the Clarks make the quiches themselves?”

  “No, they outsource locally to a couple of restaurants. I think this is a Nancy Reed quiche. Nancy uses the kitchens at the Sleeping Latte.”

  “She must work long hours. She always was a bundle of energy.”

  “She is indeed a bundle of energy, but I suspect that her extra work is more to do with helping pay the bills and less to do with a desire to fill her time,” she said, pushing a few leaves of lettuce around her plate.

  “Are they having troubles?” I asked, taking a bite of quiche. The Reeds had always been a hardworking family and I’d never thought of them as struggling, but I hadn’t been around for a while and times had been tough for everyone. I couldn’t help but think about Chief Paisley’s bringing up Pat’s name. He wasn’t wrong. Pat would know the value. The idea that he had something, anything, to do with the robbery? Crazy.

  “I really don’t know,” Caroline said, setting down her fork and leaning back in her chair. “Pat and I talk, of course, though not about much else besides the business.”

  “Pat speaks very highly of you and how well you took care of my grandfather,” I said.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about that these past few days, Ruth. I always felt terrible about your break with him. I know it was partly my fault. I wish it hadn’t happened, and I would give anything to make it right. It’s too late for that now, I know, but please believe me, I cared about your grandfather, deeply. He was the best man I’ve ever known. And likely ever will know. I’d give anything for him to be sitting here right now, and for me to be in his place.”

  “Please, please don’t go there. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking these past few days too. I could go back and regret what can never be, or move forward. Trust me when I say, living in the past is my norm.”

  “That’s where we’re different. I avoid thinking about the past.” She didn’t elaborate, so I went on.

  “This could derail me, easily. I could blame you for everything. But I’m sitting here, in this wonderful kitchen, where my grandmother, one of the most loving and stable people I’ve ever known, made my life so much better by living.”

  “Thom said that the two of you were very close,” she said.

  “She meant everything to me. My grandfather didn’t want me to get stuck in grief after she passed, and he pushed me out into the world. And now I understand that he wanted to be alone with his own grief. We processed her death differently, but I like to think we are so much alike in so many ways.”

  “I can see that,” she said.

  “I can’t believe I missed all these years with him. Maybe you can help me and tell me about him and what his life has been like lately.”

  “Maybe a little at a time? I am still getting used to the idea that he isn’t here. I hate it.” Caroline looked down at the napkin she was shredding. “Let’s start with this. You were his pride and joy. He marveled that you had followed in his footsteps, and was thrilled to hear from you.” Caroline cleared her throat and dabbed her eyes with what was left of the napkin.

  “I never felt as safe and content as I have these past few years with Thom. I owe him a great deal, more than I could ever pay back. So, let me say this up front. I’m happy to support you in any decisions you make about the shop. Can I come in and show you the accounts and explain a few things about the inventory and record keeping?”

  “That would be wonderful. I already missed the appointment with the real estate agent. Apparently she’d changed the time earlier in the week. What was the meeting for?”

  “I’m not exactly sure.”

  “Do you think he planned on selling the shop?”

  “I honestly don’t know anymore,” she said, sighing. “There’s a lot going on in Orchard. There were some outside folks who were bidding on some of the businesses on Washington Street. I’d heard about a strip mall, also heard that Harris University was trying to buy up the town to create a second campus. Thom and Grover had a plan to stop the buying and building spree, but it stalled when Grover Winter passed on.”

  “I thought he’d retired.”

  “He’d rejoined the Board of Selectmen and was making Kim Gray’s life very difficult. Oh my, listen to me. I sound like Thom. Grover’s death really upset him. And, in a way, gave him a new purpose.”

  “Wow. I’ve got to say that doesn’t sound like my grandfather. He was always so private.”

  “He was still a private man and kept his cards close to his vest. But he was curious about a few things and had started asking questions.”

  “And taking notes,” I said.

  “Of course. He took notes on everything.” She smiled.

  “I know. I do the same thing. You haven’t found his most recent notebook, have you?”

  “No,
I haven’t, and I’ve been looking. No luck at the shop?”

  “Not so far. Do you have any idea what some of the recent notes might have been?”

  “I have some idea. He wanted to invite Jeff, Chief Paisley, over for dinner to talk, but we needed to postpone when I had to leave town to take care of my son. He said he wanted me there when they met.”

  “What did he want to talk to the chief about?”

  “He thought that Grover Winter had been murdered. But by whom, and how? He took his theories on that with him.”

  chapter 24

  Well, that was some lunch. G.T. thought Grover Winter was murdered? I couldn’t help but wonder where his notes were on that as I helped Caroline carry the dishes over to the sink. In the missing notebook? Because, of course there were notes. “Take notes on everything. Every idea, every thought, every account, every possible business lead; write everything down,” was what he always said. My grandfather had taught me well. For a while I’d taken to making my notes on my computer and keeping them in the cloud, but lately I’d taken to writing things down again. My grandfather was old school and I needed to find his notebook.

  Much to my own surprise, Caroline Adler wasn’t a bad egg. She was genuinely mourning my grandfather. It made me feel better somehow, to think my grandfather was cared for these past few years.

  I also liked that she was nothing like my grandmother, though I found I wanted to know Caroline Adler better. Where my own grandmother was warm and open, it seemed that each time I brought up something personal or asked about her past, Caroline steered the conversation back to clocks or pies or anything else. Of course, I didn’t offer any details on my life either.

  Before I left, Caroline and I’d agreed to both look around, she at the house and me in the store, to see if we could find his missing notebook or anything else that might help fill in some of the gaps of knowledge that were developing for me, especially when it came to the business of Orchard.

  “I have no idea where to even begin. Jeff, Chief Paisley, is incredibly capable, but I wonder if he has all the facts? He seems stuck on the theft and Thom’s death being related, but I’m just not so sure,” she said, as she walked me out to my car. “I keep thinking about the business dealings in Orchard.”

  “There is some sort of hearing on Thursday. Do you know anything about it?”

  “This Thursday?” she said, shocked. “I’d assumed they’d postponed it, given everything. I’ll make some calls this afternoon.”

  “I wonder what else G.T. was working on while you were away,” I said. “If we can figure out what he was thinking about these past few weeks, we owe it to him to move forward. At the very least, we can pass on anything we find to the chief.”

  “Maybe that would get Chief Paisley off of Pat Reed’s case. Do you think?” she asked, looking hopeful.

  I didn’t answer because I didn’t know how to. Chief Paisley didn’t strike me as someone who would jump to conclusions. He worked with facts. But what happened if he had the wrong facts?

  As I drove back to Orchard, I checked my cell phone. Dead. Of course. I pulled over and plugged it into the car jack. It took a moment for it to get enough power to turn back on, so I sat and waited. Orchard was still a lovely little town, but it was a lot more complicated than I remembered. Town politics gone awry. Stolen clocks.

  When I was finally able to turn the phone on, there was a message from Jonah Winter.

  “Ruth, Jonah here. Listen, there was a little more drama around the clocks than I expected. I wonder if you could bring the two boxes back I dropped by this morning? It would go a great distance to keeping the peace if I could give them back to my sister, soon. Sorry about the confusion. Thanks.”

  By the time I got back to the shop, I had one bar of power on the phone. First things first: I needed to get Jonah’s boxes. I went upstairs and took out the two liquor boxes full of clocks. I unwrapped the one I’d spent some time mooning over earlier, and sighed. Getting to know this little gem wasn’t to be. I always fell a little in love with the clocks I worked on, so I decided I needed to move these out of the shop. I carried both boxes down the stairs and put them in the back of my car, covering them with a blanket. I called Jonah’s phone. No answer. I tried once more, but still no answer. No sense in making the trip if no one was home. I considered bringing them back into the shop, but leaving them in the car made more sense. I’d drive them out as soon as he called back. In the meantime, I’d turn on the car alarm. Probably the only person in Orchard who even bothered.

  Since there was still daylight, I decided to explore the rest of the Cog & Sprocket. I went to the attic first. The attic scared me when I was a kid, full of monsters covered by sheets and the sound of the wind whistling through the attic vents. Courage, Ruth. Time to explore. I picked up the hook, which looked like a fireplace poker, from where it was resting by the door, and used it to pull down the hatch. Bezel, who had been casually observing from the doorway, yowled and shot off into the bedroom as the ladder smoothly came down and unfolded.

  “Wimp,” I said. Even though I really wanted to join her.

  I walked up and pulled the cord dangling from above. The bulb illuminated just a small part of the attic, but the windows on each end also brought in some light. Once I stepped off the ladder I was able to stand easily. The peak of the roof made the sides shorter, but there was still a great deal of space.

  I might have even been able to walk around, were it not for the impossibly haphazard piles of stuff that lined the edges. Not junk, but stuff. I walked over to look at a grandfather clock that was probably five feet high. When I looked more closely, I realized that the case was fairly new. I looked for a marking of the manufacturer. There was a metal plate on the bottom. I used my cell phone as a flashlight and read it more closely. T. CLAGAN, COG & SPROCKET was all it said. I sat back and looked around me. I opened one of the crates farther back from the attic stairs. A crate covered with a thin layer of dust. Inside, a lovely shelf clock, complete with the T. CLAGAN plate on the bottom.

  I sat down in the middle of the crates and looked around. Dozens of Thom Clagan clocks, none of which had been sold. This didn’t make any sense. I knew he sold some of his own work for a very good price. But what about these pieces? Were they rejects? Or were they waiting for someone to ask for them? More questions with no answers.

  There was furniture covered in sheets and more boxes of books. I looked at a few of them, but no more notebooks. It was getting dark. I decided to continue my exploration later when there was more light. I went back down the stairs and closed the hatch on the attic. I rested the hook on a pile of boxes and watched the hatch close. I loved the way the stairs disappeared into the ceiling.

  The musty smell hit my nose the minute I opened the basement door. The basement was dank, but not damp thanks to the dehumidifier. During the great flood the basement had been flooded, but the river hadn’t come up that high since, and thanks to some new dams, it wasn’t likely to. G.T. had moved some plastic crates down here. I sat down on a stool and opened up one of them. I looked at old files, some of which dated back a hundred years. A history of the work the Clagan family had done. I needed to move these files upstairs, where they’d be safer. Holding on to the family history felt very important these days. The words started to swim in front of my eyes and I decided to call it a day. One more look around. No notebooks.

  I went back upstairs to feed Bezel, who was nowhere to be found since the incident with the ladder. Then I went back downstairs to explore the bins in the workroom. Maybe the notebook was there.

  chapter 25

  The bin system had been in place forever. When you walked back into the workroom, there was a wall of bins along the left-hand wall. When a clock came in for repair, it was put in a bin along with all its pieces. Each bin had a sheet, detailing all the work. Back in the old days, once a job was done, the notes were all transcribed onto
an index card and the card was filed in the shop. The infamous clock cards. Now it looked like they were moving to a computer database, but I wondered if they still filled out the clock cards. The filing system of these cards was always a little convoluted. Clock type, manufacturer, owner. In paper files? I’d spent a lot of time in the basement looking for misfiled clock cards back when I was a kid.

  Sure enough, I found two clocks in bins. All of the parts needed to fix them were also included. A pang tore through me when I saw my grandfather’s handwriting, estimating the cost of the job. I thought he undervalued his work, but that was his way. Hook them with a battery change or a new electric cord and then let them look at the rest of the inventory while they waited. Two out of every five customers would make a bigger purchase in the future. He believed clocks were contagious, and I agreed. There was something about trying to manage the everyday drudgery of time with an object of beauty. Man’s folly, and the family business.

  Still no notebooks. I decided to do what I always did when stressed. Look at a clock. The repairs were simple enough. It would take me five minutes, tops. Plenty of time before dinner at the Reeds’. I almost went upstairs for my own tool kit, but instead I put on my grandfather’s vision visor and adjusted it to fit my own head. I took out his beautiful screwdriver set, which he’d inherited from his own father, and set to work. The walnut handles felt warm in my hands. I let the tools rest in their worn spots. They fit my hands perfectly. Both clocks had already been polished and cleaned and were just waiting for the new electrics to be installed. I did the jobs, putting the old electrics in the box that the new parts came in. Both would be returned to the customer, as was the Cog & Sprocket way. I made notes on the sheets and entered them in the account book, marking them with a Post-it so Caroline could check my work. Then I put them back in the bins and brought them out front and put them in a cubby for pickup. So satisfying to get a job done, though I ached to work on one of the grandfather clocks.