Murder at Veronica's Diner

by J. D. Griffo

  “No, lovey,” Alberta said. “For us to tamper with the mail there needs to be a stamp on the box, and there’s only an address.”

  “And since it was given to me and possession is nine-tenths of the law, technically, the box is mine,” Helen said.

  Digging through her pocketbook, Helen pulled out her car keys and dragged the serrated edge across the top of the box until the lid popped up. She dropped her keys onto the table and proceeded to pull out the contents of the box, which were covered in bubble wrap.

  Slowly, as if handling an Egyptian artifact, Helen laid the item on the table and turned it over multiple times until the bubble wrap was gone and all that remained was the item itself. She placed it upright, but it was still shrouded in mystery.

  “Why in the world would Teri Jo give Inez an antique clock?” Helen asked.

  Standing in the center on the table was a pedestal clock, made of walnut, with intricate carvings on the top that weren’t quite gothic, but softer and more rounded in their overall appearance. At the apex was a large bird about to take flight. It was hard to tell exactly what type of bird it was, but since the wings were quite large it more than likely was a depiction of an eagle. The numbers on the face of the clock were roman numerals and were made of white ivory. The base of the clock was a flurry of more walnut carvings, leaves, flowers, and vines. It was a beautifully crafted piece of functional art. But it gave the women even more questions than they originally had.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Helen said. “Teri Jo was a waitress, why was she delivering an expensive clock to a stranger?”

  “You’re wrong, Helen,” Joyce corrected. “It makes perfect sense. The Tranqclockery is right next door to Veronica’s Diner.”

  “The Tranqclockery?” Alberta asked. “What’s that?”

  “It’s the clock store with the cute name,” Jinx said. “I’ve been meaning to go in there, but I kind of forget it’s still around.”

  “Most of us do,” Joyce confirmed. “The store is a relic from another time and it’s been here for decades. Nowadays, it’s only open for business a few hours a week, and Owen mainly does clock repairs.”

  “Who’s Owen?” Alberta asked.

  “Owen O’Hara, the owner,” Joyce replied.

  “An Irishman?” Alberta said. “Do we like him?”

  “He’s a bit of an eccentric and a loner, but a nice man,” Joyce said. “He is friends with Father Sal, and I believe he was with Sal at the diner the morning Teri Jo was killed.”

  “Yes, I think I saw him with Sal,” Alberta said.

  “I didn’t, but if he was having breakfast with Father Sal, how nice can he be?” Helen asked.

  As they passed the clock around the table so they could inspect it, Joyce filled in more details about Owen’s history. He was in his late fifties and had lived in Tranquility for a very long time, but wasn’t a townie, having moved there as an adult to open the store. Joyce didn’t really know how he was able to keep the store up and running because the novelty wore off quickly, and even though she popped into the store from time to time, she never noticed any new merchandise on his shelves. The stock he did carry, however, was top-notch and probably the most affordable antique clocks in the area.

  “Teri Jo must have been doing Owen a favor by delivering the clock to Inez,” Alberta surmised.

  “That has to be it,” Jinx agreed. “I mean, I understand there can be coincidences, but this is a no-brainer. The two places share the same alleyway, they have to be connected.”

  “I don’t know if that’s the whole picture,” Helen said.

  “Why not, Helen?” Joyce asked.

  “I don’t mean to generalize, and I absolutely don’t mean this in a prejudicial way, but the little boy and the woman who answered Inez’s door weren’t wealthy and their neighborhood is far from exclusive,” Helen explained. “Do you really think Inez ordered an antique clock from the Tranqclockery?”

  The women found it hard to disagree with Helen’s comment, but there was another explanation.

  “What if she was having a family clock fixed?” Alberta suggested. “Maybe the clock is an heirloom that was passed down from generation to generation and Inez wanted to get it fixed to restore it to its former glory. It could have been broken.”

  “That would be more realistic than if she was buying a new clock,” Joyce said, “but remember the clock Aunt Carmela gave to me and Anthony when we got married?”

  “Dio mio!” Alberta cried. “The one Mama brought back for Carmela when she visited her sister in Sicily. Carmela wanted you to have something from the homeland. It was so beautiful.”

  “Beautiful, but expensive,” Joyce said. “I had Owen fix it a few years ago and it cost me four hundred dollars. I have to agree with Helen that I just don’t see Inez or that woman who answered the door being able to afford that much money to repair a clock.”

  “Hold on a minute, this clock is broken,” Jinx said.

  It was Jinx’s turn to dig into her purse, and when she pulled out the Swiss-girl figurine still in its Ziploc bag, they understood that Jinx was connecting one clue to another. She explained to Helen and Joyce that Alberta found the figurine when they were snooping behind the diner. She couldn’t prove it, but she was rather certain the figurine came from the Tranqclockery.

  “This little Swiss Miss fits perfectly on this little horizontal edge that’s protruding out from the carving on the base of the clock,” Jinx said.

  “I hate to burst your bubble, Jinxie,” Helen said, “But why would Teri Jo want to deliver a clock to Inez that hadn’t yet been fixed?”

  Deflated, Jinx replied, “Must you always be the voice of reason, Aunt Helen?”

  “We all have crosses to bear,” she replied.

  “I guess it’s possible that the figurine fell off when the clock was being transported from the Tranqclockery to the diner,” Alberta said.

  “That’s a longshot, Berta,” Joyce added.

  “Then we’re back to square one with no idea what this clock means,” Jinx said.

  “It’s like Grandma used to say, Il tempo può essere sia un amico che un nemico,” Alberta said, then translated when she saw Jinx’s confused expression. “Time can be both a friend and an enemy.”

  Immediately Jinx’s expression changed from one of confusion to clarity.

  “An enemy that would throw a sundial through your kitchen window!” Jinx squealed. “A sundial is a type of clock, isn’t it? Maybe whoever threw it into the house was trying to point us toward the Tranqclockery.”

  “He couldn’t have left a note on my front door?” Alberta asked. “He had to break my window?”

  “People, like God, work in mysterious ways,” Helen said.

  Clutching the clock in her hands, Alberta replied, “It looks like this mystery is leading us right to Owen’s front door.”

  CHAPTER 7

  In bocca chiusa non entrò mai mosca.

  The front door of the Tranqclockery was, unfortunately, a dead end.

  “Dannazione!” Alberta cried. “It’s closed.”

  “I thought it might be,” Joyce said. “I told you Owen keeps crazy hours, but you insisted that we try.”

  “I thought we would make good use of our alone time since Jinx had a date with Freddy, and Helen had a date with one of those reality TV shows,” Alberta said.

  “Your sister is obsessed with those things, and for the life of me I don’t understand it,” Joyce confirmed, then added, “Also too, tonight is the finale.”

  Standing in front of the Tranqclockery, a store that Alberta had driven past countless times since she moved to Tranquility, she was amazed that she never knew it existed before. She’d been to the diner many times, she even snuck behind it, and still was unaware that there was a clock store close by. But in her defense, the store could easily be missed.

  Located on a side street and not on the main drag or one of the other avenues that cut through the entire town, the Tranqclockery
was a small one-story terracotta building that was smaller than Alberta’s own Cape Cod. A huge oak tree and several overgrown bushes dotted the storefront, obscuring almost the whole left-side window from the view of pedestrians and drivers. The lettering that spelled out the name Tranqclockery in an old-fashioned gothic style was brown. Set against the terracotta, the letters and the store itself were practically invisible at night.

  There was also a very important intangible reason for why Alberta and many other residents forgot about the Tranqclockery’s existence—the simple theory of supply and demand. If you weren’t in need of a clock store, the fact that there was one in your town wouldn’t register in your brain. The other theory of Murphy’s Law also came into effect: The moment the clock store was important to Alberta and she wanted to pay it a visit, it was closed.

  “I guess we’ll have to try again tomorrow,” Alberta said.

  As she and Joyce were about to cross into the diner’s parking lot adjacent to the front of the Tranqclockery, they heard a door slam. Since the diner was still closed due to the police investigation, that could mean only thing: The Tranqclockery was open for business.

  They ran back up the steps to the front door and waited for the lights to turn on, but after about a minute they realized they must’ve heard wrong.

  “Foiled again,” Joyce said.

  They trekked back to the parking lot, but something in the side window of the clock shop caught Alberta’s eye and she made a right turn down the alleyway. When Joyce saw what Alberta was doing, she followed her, careful to walk gingerly to make as little noise as possible. In their brief career as amateur detectives, they had learned it was best to act stealthily and whenever possible hide in the shadows and observe. Which is exactly what they did.

  Their view was partially obstructed, but through the window they could see what appeared to be two men having a conversation.

  “Is that Owen?” Alberta asked.

  “No, but that sounds like him,” Joyce replied.

  Owen was standing just out of view and was shrouded in darkness, while the other man was standing with his back to the window, so they couldn’t see his face. All they could tell was that he had slicked back, jet-black hair, was dressed in a dark business suit, and when he went to shake Owen’s hand he turned slightly to reveal a long scar down the side of his left cheek.

  “He looks dangerous,” Alberta whispered.

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Joyce whispered back.

  When Alberta saw the man with the scar move forward, presumably to the back door to leave, she turned and dashed to the front door.

  “Why are we going in the opposite direction?” Joyce asked, running after Alberta.

  “If we catch them at the back door it’ll look too obvious, like we were casing the joint,” Alberta said. “We’ll look more like real customers if we’re at the front door.”

  Alberta pressed the doorbell and could hear the sound echo throughout the store.

  “You realize that you, me, and your sister are growing more alike every day, don’t you?” Joyce asked.

  “What are you talking about?” Alberta replied.

  “We must be the only three women on the planet who still use the word joint,” Joyce declared. “At least to describe an establishment.”

  Oblivious to the word’s other meanings, Alberta replied, “How else would you use the word?”

  Impatient, Alberta pressed the doorbell again, this time letting her finger linger longer on the bell. She then added her own voice to the sound of the chime.

  “Owen!” Alberta cried. “We need to speak with you!”

  When the door finally opened, Owen didn’t have to say a word to make it known that he was not happy to have customers. His glare spoke volumes.

  Even though Alberta had seen Owen at Veronica’s Diner the day of Teri Jo’s murder and was reminded by Joyce that they had crossed paths a few times during the past year, she felt as if she was looking at him for the first time. Maybe he was like his store and she hadn’t noticed him before because she didn’t need him. Now that she did, she made sure she observed him much more closely.

  Standing about five ten, Owen was thin, no more than 170 pounds, and completely bald. At one point his hair had been black because his eyebrows were very dark, in contrast to his shimmering green eyes. Appropriate for an Irishman, Alberta thought. What wasn’t appropriate were his manners.

  “I’d rather not shake your hand,” he announced. “There are more germs on the human hand than there are in a dog’s mouth.”

  Alberta dropped her right hand awkwardly and remembered an old Italian phrase—In bocca chiusa non entrò mai mosca—which translated to It is wise not to speak when it is not necessary. In other words, even though she knew Owen was lying since she’d just seen him shake Scarface’s hand, she thought it best to keep quiet about that fact. If she made Owen defensive, she might never get any information out of him.

  “I think you know my sister-in-law, Joyce Ferrara,” Alberta said.

  “Of course,” Owen replied. “Joyce and I go way back. How have you been? Still painting?”

  “I’m doing very well, Owen, and still painting every chance I get,” Joyce replied. “I don’t think you’ve been formally introduced to Alberta, but you’ve probably seen her face in The Herald once or twice.”

  Unconvinced, Owen glared at Alberta once again until he finally recognized her face. “Why, yes, I most certainly have. You’re Tranquility’s very own Charlie Chan. Except female. And Italian. But just like Charlie, solving unsolvable crimes.”

  Blushing, Alberta waved a hand in front of her face. “Hardly, I’ve just helped the police solve a few cases.”

  “Is that what you’re doing now?” Owen questioned. “Does this have anything to do with the brutal and unimaginable horror that took place next door?”

  After all the years she’d known her sister, Alberta should have been used to blunt statements, but she was startled by the straightforward tone of Owen’s voice. Instantly she chastised herself and remembered that everyone dealt with tragedy in their own way. If someone stated a fact matter-of-factly it didn’t mean that someone was unfeeling.

  “No, not at all,” Alberta said. “I have a question about a clock, and Joyce says you’re Tranquility’s clock expert, so here we are.”

  “We won’t interrupt your company, Owen,” Joyce added. “We have a quick question and then we’ll leave.”

  Smiling, Owen opened the door and waved his arm for the women to enter the shop. “I’m all alone here, as you can see. Come right in.”

  Once again the phrase—In bocca chiusa non entrò mai mosca—flashed through Alberta’s mind as she entered the shop with Joyce close behind her. Alberta felt Joyce press a finger into the small of her back as a way for Joyce to convey that she also knew Owen was lying. But why? Could they have already stumbled upon Teri Jo’s murderer? Or was lying one of Owen’s eccentricities? She almost laughed out loud when she realized she’d been in the man’s presence a few short minutes and was already talking to herself. Who was the eccentric?

  When she stepped into the store, however, any chance that she might laugh or crack a smile was quickly extinguished because she felt as if she had walked onto an old horror-movie set. The store wasn’t filled with knives or evil-looking dolls; it was worse. Everywhere she looked there were clocks.

  Grandfather clocks in cherrywood, mahogany, and pine stood all over the shop like guards. The entire right wall was filled with clocks of every shape and size in different types of metal or carved out of wood. Some had weights, pendulums, and winding chimes dangling from their bases, others had elaborate crowns in a variety of shapes.

  On either side of the main aisle that led toward the cash register, which itself was a relic from another century, were two glass-enclosed cases that housed everything from stopwatches, to pendant watches, to alarm clocks. Everywhere Alberta looked she saw a clock, and each one was different. She had no idea there could be
so many variations on a simple household necessity.

  On top of the visual onslaught, there was the overbearing sound. It was like being attacked by an army of crickets. Almost each clock had its own variation on tick-tock, tick-tock that collectively felt like a cacophony of bombs about to explode. Or a judgmental, spinster aunt tsk-tsking repeatedly while stroking the barrel of a shotgun. The result gave the shop an eerie, creepy aura like nothing Alberta had ever experienced.

  “What an . . . adorable shop you have, Owen,” Alberta said.

  “Thank you, Alberta,” he replied, seemingly unaware that she was lying. “I’m quite proud of it. You said you had a question for me. What is it? Time is fleeting, you know.”

  It might have been the environment, but Owen’s chuckle reminded Alberta of one of Vincent Price’s many sinister roles, and she felt a tingle shuffle down her spine. She tried to dismiss the foolish thought in order to focus on her mission, but wasn’t entirely successful. Owen was one odd bird.

  “My sister’s birthday is coming up, and I’m looking for a clock that we used to have in our bedroom growing up,” Alberta said, repeating the fabricated story she and Joyce came up with as their reason to meet with Owen.

  Gesturing with his right hand, Owen said, “As you can see, I have many styles that represent the famous clock trends over the past two centuries. If you look closely, I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

  “It might be faster if I show you what I’m looking for,” Alberta replied.

  She held out her phone with a photo of the clock that was in the box Teri Jo had given them and watched Owen’s reaction closely. Once more she felt Joyce’s finger press into her lower back as Owen’s eyes widened slightly. He could’ve simply been impressed with the clock or he could have recognized it.

  “This specimen is from your childhood?” he asked.

  “No, but we had the same kind,” Alberta lied. “I found this at an antique store in Lambertville, but it was very expensive so I took a photo of it, hoping that I could find it cheaper somewhere else.”

  “Unlike you, Owen, some antique dealers have been known to inflate their prices dramatically to make a profit,” Joyce purred. “Which is why you’ve been in business forever.”