Clock and Dagger

by Julianne Holmes

  I put my earphones in and selected the latest episode in the podcast series I was listening to. The series was terrific, but I kept losing track of where I was in the story, so I’d end up listening to it two or three times. No worries though, the narrator was good company as I went in pursuit of some athletic ability. I walked out the back door and locked it behind me before I headed left to go over the bridge. Looking at the back side of Washington Street, and our shops, from across the river was always one of my favorite views. I picked up speed and then broke into a jog. The pace didn’t last long, and I went back into a walk. At some point I needed to really try and train for a 5K. For now, I just kept starting the Run a 5K in Six Weeks program, never getting much past week one.

  I kept up the pace, trying to jog a bit more each time. I never ran, but I was getting the jog down. Dare I say, I was starting to enjoy myself a bit? A beautiful winter day, cold but not too biting. No ice or snow to give me pause. The bare trees were desolate guardians of the heart of Orchard. Back in the day, this river ran much higher and was used as a mode of transport for logging companies, deliveries, and rum runners during Prohibition. After the last great flood wiped out most of Orchard for the sixth time, a dam was finally installed farther down the river, harnessing it for power, and protecting the inland community. While I was grateful for the safety, I sometimes wished I could go back in time to hear the fearsome rushing of the water, to see the boats floating by. Back then Orchard was on a major artery. Nowadays, the town was more of an afterthought, a throwback to a time gone by. Still, it was home now.

  I ran and walked a bit more, focusing on the podcast, trying to forget everything else that happened over the past few days. My breathing got a bit more labored, and I slowed down to a walk. I was almost at the place in the podcast that I had left off last time I’d taken a walk/run, and I decided to keep going for a bit longer. Instead of going over the next bridge, I’d go down one more. I passed the turnoff when my phone started to vibrate. I took it out of my pocket and checked to see who was interrupting the interrogation scene on the podcast.

  “Nadia?” I answered the phone.

  “Hey,” she said. Her intonation was never lively, but now she sounded completely flat, without the passion that was her usual undercurrent.

  “Nadia,” I said after she didn’t respond. “You called me. I’m out for a run, on my cell. Where are you? At the shop?”

  “I’m hanging around my apartment. I’m not going to make it in today. I know that isn’t cool, but I just can’t.”

  “Nadia, please, take care of yourself,” I said, stretching my legs against a tree. “Mark’s death was a real shock. I know you were good friends.”

  “We were. Friends, I mean. Not that Tuck ever believed that’s all we were. I hope he didn’t . . . The police are looking for him—did you know that?”

  “Looking for Tuck? I’m sure they have some questions.”

  “Yeah, well, it didn’t sound like it was just for questions.”

  “Tuck came by the office earlier. He was looking for you and he was looking for his camera.”

  “His camera?”

  “But the office is locked up, so he couldn’t get in. Chief Paisley said that he had it at his office.”

  “But he doesn’t have the memory card from earlier in the night. Tuck used two or three cards last night, and he handed them all back to me for safekeeping.”

  “And did you keep them safe?”

  “I kept them here, with me. I guess that’s safe. At least I hope so.”

  I hoped so too. “Nadia, why don’t you bring them over to the chief?”

  Nadia’s laugh didn’t sound jovial, nor did it sound like she thought much of my idea.

  “Okay. How about if you bring them to me, and I’ll bring them to the chief.”

  “Later, all right? First I’m going out to find Tuck. We have a lot to talk about. Then I’ll go by the station, I promise. But first, I have to find Tuck.”

  “He wants to talk to you too. Keep trying him. If he comes back here, I’ll text and let you know. Meanwhile, you e-mail, call, text me with updates. Whatever works, keep me in the loop. I’m worried about you.”

  “Thanks. I mean it.”

  “No worries. Talk to you later.”

  She paused for a second, keeping me on the line. “Ms. Clagan, Ruth, do you have any idea who killed Mark?”

  “I wish I did, but I don’t,” I said.

  Was I telling the truth? I couldn’t help but think about Tuck and how squirrelly he had been acting, even for him. What wasn’t he telling me?

  chapter 24

  I sent Jeff another text, letting him know about my conversation with Nadia. I didn’t want to pressure her, but those cards could be important. I didn’t even wait for a text back. Later I’d need to go by the station to talk to him if I wanted a response.

  I turned back and went over the bridge closer to town. Who was I kidding? The next bridge was another mile down the river. Aspirations for another day. As I crossed the bridge, I looked around. This bridge spilled into a five-way stop, which could be a complicated traffic pattern in some areas. Not in Orchard, where there wasn’t room for a rotary, and no budget for a traffic light. Most folks actually obeyed the rule and took turns going through the intersection. That was not the Massachusetts norm, but neither was Orchard. Of course, I was a bit prejudiced. I loved my town.

  The library across the street was, as always, hopping. Like most libraries, Orchard’s had added banks of computers where people could work for free. That, in addition to story hours for kids, a variety of book clubs, and a few writing groups who met there regularly, made it a hub of activity. The only downside was the constant call for quiet by Harriet Wimsey. Moira Reed helped solve the problem by giving anyone with a library card a 5 percent discount to the Sleeping Latte. There weren’t volume concerns there.

  The hardware store, or what used to be the hardware store, loomed like a gray ghost up ahead. It had closed a few years back, and nothing else had opened in its place, until recently when Max decided to open it back up. There weren’t a lot of closed businesses in Orchard, but there were enough to remind folks that times had been tough, and they weren’t over yet. Becket Green buying the old bank had been a vote of confidence for the town. Too bad he didn’t seem focused on the greater good of Orchard or on being a good citizen.

  I turned to my right, behind the hardware store. That’s where the access road that ran along the riverbank ended. The lowered riverbed made this access road possible. Though the Cog & Sprocket didn’t need regular deliveries, I know that it was a great help to the Sleeping Latte, and now the hardware store. It was barely visible from Washington Street, and any additional lighting came from the stores themselves. This time of day, the road looked welcoming, all sun dappled with the river rushing quietly along beside it. At night, it disappeared. I couldn’t help but wonder if that is how Mark’s killer got to the barbershop that night. I shuddered, but kept walking down the access road. I’d talk to Pat later and get my motion detector moved up on the Pat Project List.

  I walked past the Sleeping Latte. The back door was open, and I was tempted to poke my head in, but then I looked at my phone. It was one o’clock. Lunch hour, their busiest time. I’d stop by later.

  I called Caroline. “Hi, I’m heading back to the Cog. Where are you? Call me.” I hadn’t heard from her since yesterday. Not time to worry. Yet.

  I was getting cold, and picked up my pace a bit. I was heading toward Parker’s Emporium, the old name for the building that now housed Ben’s Barbershop on one side and, on the other, his aunt Flo’s new drugstore, which she planned on opening soon. She was still working on the official name, but I kept pushing for her to bring back the Emporium. A grand name, sure, but if anyone could pull it off, Flo Parker could.

  As I came closer, I noticed that her car was parked on her side of the building, and her back door was open. I walked over and saw piles of boxes inside. I looked up in
time to see Flo coming down the back stairs, holding on to the railing. More like leaning on it. She was dressed in full Flo regalia: a leopard-print down vest straining against her ample midsection over a black turtleneck, her artificially red hair swept up into a beehive with a zebra-print scarf holding it in place, large gold earrings that almost touched her shoulders, and black leggings tucked into short white boots that were covered with long white fake fur. Flo was as short as Caroline was, and a bit wider, though they were about the same age. But where Caroline was closed off, Flo’s emotions were always close to the surface.

  “Ruthie, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” she said, leaning against the hood of the car heavily.

  “What are you up to, Flo?” I said.

  “Jeff Paisley told me that the state police were done processing my shop. Isn’t that a terrible phrase? Processing my shop, like it did something wrong. Anyway, I told him I needed to keep setting up if I hoped to get it open next week, and so he let me come by and drop off some of the supplies. The rest will be delivered on Friday. Can’t believe that’s tomorrow already. I just hope all this is over by then. That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? You know what I mean. Bad enough that poor Mark died next door. From what I understand, no one has been arrested yet. I sure hope Jeff Paisley is on it, and not letting those out-of-towners take over. If they don’t solve it in the first forty-eight hours, it’s hopeless.”

  Whoa. Flo was on a roll. “Who told you that?”

  “I watch a lot of true crime television, and read a lot of books. I know about these things,” she said, inspecting her flawless hot pink manicured talons.

  I had learned long ago that arguing with Flo was useless. A much better approach was to persuade her to think differently. Not that I worried about her blaming Jeff for lack of progress. I was more worried about her trying to beat the clock on her own. Over the past few weeks she’d asked me dozens of questions about what happened at the Winter estate in October. I got the distinct impression that she wished she had been in Orchard last summer, when it all got started. She had implied more than once that things would have ended up differently. Maybe she was right. Flo was a force. The idea of different outcomes was something I dreamed of in my darker nights.

  “Are those boxes heavy?” I asked.

  “No, not terribly. But there sure are a lot of them.” She smiled.

  “Let me help you,” I said. “Where’s Ben? I’m surprised he’s letting you do this on your own.”

  “He’s back at my house, sleeping. He’s got insomnia, poor dear. Hasn’t got a moment’s sleep the past two nights. Of course, they keep hauling him in for questions.”

  “He isn’t a suspect?”

  “No, he was here with me all night. But it is his shop. He’s taking it personally. Besides, this time of year is always a little rough for him.”

  “This time of year? You mean the holidays?” I took out one of the boxes. Flo was right—it wasn’t too heavy. But it was awkward. I tried to find a larger flat box, and started to assemble a few more boxes, like a puzzle. I picked them up and started over to the back steps.

  “Yes, the holidays. Has he ever told you about his family situation?” Flo followed me up the stairs, huffing and puffing a bit.

  “Should I put them down here?” Flo nodded. “No, he hasn’t mentioned his family. Why?”

  “It’s his story to tell,” Flo said, showing unnatural restraint. “Suffice it to say, the New Year is always welcome to him. Though he did seem happier this year, up until Tuesday night.”

  “Tuesday night was a terrible night for all of us,” I said. I didn’t push Flo about Ben’s story. Not that I wasn’t interested. Everything about Ben interested me, perhaps more than it should. I’d found that I never needed to pry a story out of someone. They usually told me in their own good time, in their own way. I’d hate to get the reputation of a busybody here in Orchard. There were enough of them around already.

  “It was indeed,” she said, shifting the conversation.

  “Any idea when he will get his shop back?”

  “Jeff is trying to move it along, but he says it will be a few more days. Then we’ll need to do some work in the shop,” Flo said.

  “Caroline told me a little about that part. Nothing too drastic, I hope.”

  “A fresh coat of paint, some new towels. A refresh. A new start for the New Year. Ben deserves it, and he’ll need it, after this week.”

  “Are you going to start cutting hair again?” I asked.

  “I’ll help out when I can. Maybe we’ll trade shifts once in a while.” Flo leaned on the counter and fanned her face. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the help. These tired old bones are having trouble getting up and down those stairs.”

  “These tired young bones have a few more trips in them. Let me get the rest of the boxes, and you stay here and keep setting up. No buts about it, Flo. You can pay me back with a haircut for the New Year. Deal?”

  “Deal. You know I’ve been wanting to get my hands on those gorgeous curls for weeks. You’ve given me something to look forward to.”

  The gleam in her eyes told me that she’d already decided what she would do. Why did I think a flat iron was in my future? I just hoped I didn’t wind up looking like a poodle.

  chapter 25

  I left Flo fussing over the boxes in her shop. I was tempted to offer to stay and help, but the gears in my brain were starting to shift, and I needed some time to process. I walked the few steps to my own back door and called out when I walked in. Silence met me.

  I wasn’t used to that. Even though I technically lived alone, I had actually spent very few waking hours alone since I moved back to Orchard. There was always something to do at the Cog & Sprocket or out at the workshop at Caroline’s house. A clock to repair, a shelf to clean, a box to unpack. My days were full, as was my heart. I had found my place, and now someone had unsettled it by killing Mark.

  I walked up the stairs to my apartment, checking the door on the stairs to the attic. Still locked. I was tempted to go in, but thought better of it, for now. I needed a shower and something to eat. I also needed to start a new notebook.

  The notebook habit was part of the Clagan DNA. Large hard-covered sketchbooks, mostly black. Upstairs in the office we had built in shelves around the perimeter of the room, two rows of them, that served as a tabletop for clocks and files. But the shelves themselves were becoming the Clagan family archives. Pat had built them, and he’d added sliding doors on them all. There were locks on the doors—after the events of last fall, we’d both agreed that there were likely a few undiscovered treasures, and perhaps some assorted skeletons, that needed to be protected from prying eyes.

  I had gathered all the notebooks I could find here in the shop, and I’d scoured the attic and workshop out at the cottage, with Caroline’s blessing. There were over one hundred of them, dating back to when my great-great-grandfather had bought the shop over a hundred years ago. Fortunately, most of the notebooks had a start and end date on the inside cover, so they could be sorted chronologically.

  Unfortunately, they didn’t have a table of contents. I was still working on a process for chronicling what was in them. I needed to hire someone to help, and I was hoping that Nadia would be that person. She’d been doing a great job on the website. Despite her “whatever” attitude, she was also fascinated by the history of the shop, and loved learning about clocks. There was something holding me back, though. Something I didn’t trust. But was it Nadia I didn’t trust, or Tuck? I needed to sort that through.

  When I took over the shop, I started a new notebook and kept up with the plans for the shop, on the work I was doing, and on the ideas for the future. I noted who was doing what when, but I was careful to keep the gossip off those pages. Or, more accurately, I annotated the gossip. As had my grandparents, and my great-grandfather. Will stopped by. Business closing. A simple note made in 1931 by my great-grandfather about the closing of the bank across the street, a move
that had started a spiral in Orchard that continued for decades. I found a letter he’d written to his brother that detailed the entire transaction, including the shady dealings that had gotten Will arrested, eventually.

  Last summer my grandfather had noted the passing of his friend, Grover Winter, and he’d written a note that said It came on fast, no one knows the real reason. I learned later that my grandfather’s observations were leading him to a startling conclusion, one that rocked Orchard forever.

  So I was trying to adopt the family motto of being cryptic, but today it wasn’t working. After I took a shower and made myself some lunch, I sat down at the kitchen table and unwrapped a new notebook. This one was smaller, and turquoise, but still unlined paper. Out of habit I dated the inside cover. I left a few of the front pages blank, hoping to create a new habit of a table of contents moving forward. For now, I rolled my pencil in my hand a few times, and then I started to write. Or rather, to draw.

  I took a bite of sandwich. Yum. Curried turkey with walnuts, apples, and raisins. I opened a big bag of chips and put a few on my plate, and then wiped my hands on my napkin. I wrote Mark’s name down and a few bullet points about him underneath. Then I wrote Tuck’s name. And Nadia’s. And every other name I could think of from the past few days. I circled each name, and put a number in the circle.

  It wasn’t any good. I couldn’t concentrate. There was nothing new to add, just a bunch of loose ends. I took my plate over to the sink and rinsed it before putting it into the dishwasher. “I’m heading down to the shop,” I called to Bezel. She stretched with her whole body, spreading her tiny pink toes, before snuggling her face even deeper into the sofa cushion, wrapping a front paw around her forehead. Sometimes she was so adorable that it hurt.