Clocks and Robbers

by Dan Poblocki

  “Nothing yet,” said Woodrow. “Keep going, Viola.”

  “The A from images,” she said. “Represent. Triumphs. Citizens.…”

  “And the R in forward,” finished Sylvester.

  “That gives us A. R. M. E. R,” Viola said. She glanced at her friends.

  “I don’t get it,” said Sylvester. “Thef? Armer?”

  “Put it together, silly,” said Rosie.

  “Oh!” said Sylvester. “The farmer!” He crinkled his brow. “Wait … Who is the farmer?”

  Viola simply pointed up. It took the group a few seconds, but eventually they all caught on. The farmer was one of the “thirteen capsules,” the golden relief-sculpture on the wall just over their heads. He wore stiff overalls and a look of hopeful determination as he seemed to stare out from the wall toward the windows at the front of the library. He held his small scythe out away from his body as if pointing at another image — a calf. The calf stretched his head back from the scythe, gazing at the wide-winged eagle near the ceiling.

  “Okay,” said Sylvester. “What are we supposed to do now?” He turned toward the direction of the farmer’s gaze, facing the plaza and clock outside the library’s front door. “Maybe this farmer dude is trying to tell us where we need to go next. Outside?”

  “I think you’re onto something,” said Woodrow. “Except he doesn’t want us to go outside … or at least the artist, Pauline, didn’t. Check out the marker on the wall again. She says: May the capsules lead us forward to our future. If those are instructions, what is she telling us to do?”

  “Maybe the symbols on the wall are a map,” said Rosie.

  “Really?” said Sylvester, stepping back to get a better view of the whole picture.

  Rosie went on. “Pauline must want us to start at the farmer. But what comes after that?”

  “The farmer’s scythe is pointing at the calf,” said Viola. “And what’s the calf looking at?”

  “The eagle!” said Sylvester. “And the eagle’s gazing at the salmon in the kneeling woman’s hands.”

  “And the salmon came from the stream … and on and on,” said Woodrow, moving along the wall from left to right, as the images brought him closer to the opposite side of the room. “Symbol by symbol. And we come to ‘capsule’ number twelve.” He pointed up at a great golden sun that hovered near the left side of the wall. “What’s the sun shining on?”

  “The sundial,” said Rosie. “The thirteenth capsule. That’s where the trail stops.”

  “Ha,” Sylvester chuckled, “another clock.”

  “There must be a clue here,” said Viola, standing underneath the sundial symbol. “Look closely. Do you guys see anything that might help us?”

  “Yes!” said Woodrow. “Check it out.” Poking from the top of the sundial’s little spire was a familiar sight: a shiny acorn.”

  “Wow,” said Rosie. They all considered this new development in silence for a moment. “Knowing what we know about the acorn symbols we’ve found around town, what do you guys think this sundial is trying to tell us?”

  “This ‘clock’ has got to be an address,” said Sylvester. “The acorn represents Oakwood Avenue. Pauline Emmett is pointing us to another location.”

  “But Oakwood is a long street,” said Viola. “It runs down by the train tracks and then up into the hills. Where are we supposed to look?”

  “Remember, the numbers the clocks got stuck on turned out to be street numbers,” said Rosie.

  “So,” said Woodrow, “what time is this sundial stuck at?”

  “It looks like it’s pointing at four o’clock,” said Viola. “Number four … Oakwood Avenue?”

  After a quick map search on the Internet, the kids learned that 4 Oakwood Avenue was the Moon Hollow Museum, where Rosie’s father worked. Rosie shook her head. “Well, at least we know we’ll be able to get inside, even if the place is closed for the weather.”

  “But how are we going to know what to look for once we get there?” said Sylvester, bundling himself up before stepping outside into the cold.

  “Same way we always do,” said Viola. “By paying attention to the things other people ignore.”

  “I think we should also pay attention to anyone who might be following us,” said Woodrow. “Especially anyone driving a beat-up pickup truck.”

  The hike to the museum would usually have taken about twenty minutes, but the group was slowed down by the now melting snow and ice. No one appeared to be following them, but they couldn’t be sure. The day had clouded over and light seemed to be fading.

  The four found the front door of the museum locked. “Shoot,” said Sylvester. “What do we do now?”

  Rosie pursed her lips. “I might get in trouble for this …,” she said, then waved at the group to follow her around the side of the building. After passing a few windows, she stopped. In the window directly above them, a light glowed, casting a soft white box on the snow at their feet. “My dad’s office.” Rosie bent down and picked up some powder. She packed it loosely between her gloved fingers. Then, sighing nervously, she tossed the snowball at the glass. Seconds later, Mr. Smithers’s face appeared, peering out at them. Rosie waved. Her father looked confused, but quickly motioned for them to go back around to the front of the building.

  A few minutes later, they stood in the darkened museum lobby. “What are you kids doing here?” asked Rosie’s father. “I know you’re off from school, but we’ve closed early this afternoon.”

  Rosie glanced over her shoulder, thinking of that pickup truck she and her friends all hoped had left town. She wished she could tell her father everything that had happened that morning, but she didn’t want to betray her friends and the decision they’d made together. They had to find the treasure, if only to protect it from Phineas Galby, and they couldn’t risk their parents pulling them off the case.

  Maybe instead of telling him everything, she decided, she could tell him part of it. “We need your help.”

  “Here it is,” said Mr. Smithers. “Pauline Emmett.” He’d led them to a small painting in a secluded corner of the museum, a room dedicated to the works of local artists. Nestled in a wide, ornately carved wooden frame, Ms. Emmett’s artwork hung on the big white wall. Opposite, a large window overlooked the Hudson River. Outside, huge chunks of ice had broken up on the water and were floating downstream in alternating mosaic tiles of dark and light. The view itself was a work of art. “What was so important about this painting that you had to walk all the way out here today?” Mr. Smithers asked.

  “I told you,” said Rosie. “We’re working on a case. Top secret.” She glanced at the others. “We’ll let you know later. Promise.”

  Mr. Smithers squinted and shook his head. He considered the painting for a second before turning away. “If you insist, darling daughter. Just don’t touch anything!”

  They all approached the Emmett watercolor, a dreamy, almost foggy view of the same river that was directly behind them. “I’m confused,” said Sylvester. “Is she saying that the treasure is in the river?”

  “I doubt it,” said Viola. “All the clues have been very specific until now. Maybe there’s some sort of code in the image.”

  The group spent a few minutes thinking about the shapes of the mountains in the distance, the curve of the river itself. Maybe there were letters hidden in the composition, another secret message of sorts. But they noticed nothing except the purposefully atmospheric nature of the image.

  “Do you guys think that maybe this painting is the treasure?” said Rosie. “Could it be that simple?”

  “That’s possible,” said Sylvester. “But why would the Timekeepers go to all this trouble just to display their secret ‘treasure’ on the wall of a museum? It doesn’t add up.”

  “You’re right,” said Woodrow. “It doesn’t. But I think right now, we’re looking a little bit too closely to see the answer.”

  “What do you mean?” said Viola. Woodrow took a step backward, away from the wal
l, and motioned his friends to follow. “We’re staring right at the clue, and the painting is not it.”

  Sylvester bristled. “There’s nothing else on this wall. What else should we be looking at?”

  “There’s more here than just a painting.” Woodrow smiled. “Viola? Rosie? Do you guys see what I see?”

  “The frame!” Viola cried. “Look. There. In the top left and bottom right corners. Carvings of maple leaves.”

  “That’s it,” said Rosie. Several tree branches were carved into the frame. Three small leaves decorated the branch at the top. Four were at the bottom. “Our next clue. Maple Avenue!”

  “But again,” said Sylvester with a smirk, “I ask … where?”

  “Darn it,” Viola said. “There’s definitely no clock in this painting. So how are we supposed to figure out the address this time?”

  “The clue wasn’t in the painting,” said Woodrow. “It was in the frame.”

  “So the address must be in the frame too,” said Rosie. She stared intently at the wood.

  “Yup,” said Woodrow. “It’s right in front of us. Don’t you see it?”

  “Oh,” said Sylvester, “you’re right. Three maple leaves at the top. Four at the bottom. The address must be number thirty-four. So clever.”

  “We were just there!” said Viola.

  “Sort of,” Rosie replied. “The library’s at number fifty-five, remember. Thirty-four must be a little farther down the street.”

  “Near the bank where Bill works,” said Woodrow. He squinted as an idea came to him. “Huh … I think I have an idea of where we need to go next.”

  “Where?” said the rest of the group.

  Woodrow smiled. “You’ll see,” he teased.

  By the time the Question Marks made it back to Mr. Smithers’s office, he was packing up to leave for the day. “I can drive you back into town,” he said. “But you have to promise me you won’t be getting into trouble.”

  “Dad!” Rosie cried, trying to answer him as vaguely as possible. She didn’t want to lie to her father. Besides, she also hoped they wouldn’t be getting into trouble.

  A block before they reached the Moon Hollow Library, Rosie asked her father to let them out. He pulled up to the curb. “Don’t be too much longer,” he said. “I don’t want you kids out walking on these roads in this weather.” He waved good-bye, then drove off with a short honk.

  They stood before One Cent Savings and Trust. Lights were on in the bank. “Is Bill working today?” asked Sylvester.

  Woodrow rolled his eyes. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  “But aren’t we going inside?” said Rosie. “Maybe he can help us.”

  “The frame told us to go to number thirty-four Maple Avenue.” Woodrow nodded at the number above the bank’s front door. Thirty-six. “Wrong address.”

  Viola stepped away from the building to get a better view of the street. “Then we need to go next door to—”

  “The abandoned storefront,” said Woodrow. “I think this used to be … huh.” He chuckled, reading the faded gold paint that was chipping from the store’s window. “Clintock’s watch repair store.”

  “How did we not notice this before?” said Viola, trying to contain her excitement.

  “Even if we had,” said Sylvester, “it wouldn’t have meant what it does now.” He went up to the front door. Inside, the store was pitch-dark. Dust coated the glass. Litter and snow had blown through a rusted accordion gate into the main vestibule. Behind the gate, the door was shut, a faded curtain drawn closed.

  Rosie began, “How are we supposed to —” when Sylvester reached for the gate and tried to tug it open. To everyone’s surprise, it gave way and slid open. “That’s weird.” Next, Sylvester tried the doorknob. It turned in his hand.

  “Wait,” said Viola. “We promised Mr. Smithers we’d be careful. Is it the smartest thing to go in by ourselves?”

  Before anyone had the chance to answer, a gust of wind came up the street, snatching the knob out of Sylvester’s grip. The door squeaked open, a stale scent wafted out, and the full darkness of the old store revealed itself to them. The group gave a collective sigh, knowing what they had to do. Pausing before the accordion gate, Viola glanced over her shoulder, making sure no one was watching them. She paid special attention to any cars that might be nearby—looking closely for Mr. Galby’s ugly truck. But the street was clear. And with the sun beginning to disappear, the town had turned an eerie shade of blue, as if someone had spread watercolor paint all over Moon Hollow’s snow white canvas. Holding her breath, she followed her friends inside.

  A few moments later, their eyes began to adjust to the lack of light. The store was crowded with empty glass cases that were, they imagined, once filled with timepieces for sale.

  “What was that?” said Sylvester, backing up against the nearest case. “I heard a noise.” He nodded to the far wall, where another doorway opened upon a dark hallway. “It sounded like footsteps.”

  “Is someone here?” Rosie whispered, edging close to Viola.

  “That would explain why the front door was open,” said Viola.

  “What do we do?” Sylvester asked. No one wanted to move. They all listened for a few more seconds.

  “Maybe it’s an animal,” said Rosie. “A mouse or a squirrel.”

  “Or a rabid raccoon?” said Sylvester. “I don’t know about this.”

  “We probably scared it off, whatever it was,” Woodrow said.

  “Or whoever?” Viola said, blowing into her hands to warm them. “We’ve come this far. We can’t stop now.” She stepped forward. “Hello?” she called to the darkness.

  “What are you doing?” Sylvester whispered harshly.

  “Trying to figure out what’s going on here,” Viola answered. “I checked outside for Mr. Galby’s truck. If someone is here, it’s not him.”

  “That’s pretty shoddy reasoning,” said Sylvester. “I don’t want to end up locked in here. Or worse!”

  Viola was fed up with chasing clues. She wanted answers—now. She stepped toward the dark hallway. “I wish I’d brought my flashlight.”

  “Me too,” said Sylvester, following close behind.

  They crept slowly forward, feeling their way along the tight corridor. Shortly, they found themselves in a large, empty room. It didn’t seem like anyone was hiding in here, which made them instantly feel better. In the darkness, they made out a couple curtained windows in the far wall. Viola went over and pulled the curtains open; the shades fluttered noisily at the tops of the window frames. Dim light now filtered through the dirty glass, and the group could see the room in which they stood. A long metal desk against one wall indicated that once upon a time, this place must have been a work area. A small toolbox sat on one end of the table.

  Maybe it was that there was not much else in the room to explore, but Viola was drawn toward the box on the table. The other three followed. She used her fingers to brush the thick layer of dust from the top of the container. It looked like it hadn’t been opened in some time.

  “What’s inside?” Sylvester asked. Silently they all wondered the same thing: Were they about to uncover the treasure?

  “One way to find out,” said Woodrow.

  “You do the honors, Viola,” said Rosie. “You’re the one who had the guts to come in here.”

  Viola lifted the lid. The hinges squeaked as the cover swung open. She sighed when she saw the contents. Tools in a toolbox? Big surprise. She felt she should have known better. Behind her, the group tensed. They were just as disappointed.

  “Hold on,” said Sylvester, tapping Viola on the shoulder. “Can I see?” He stepped closer to the table, peering into the container. “This looks familiar. My magic kit is set up the same way. Look, the floor of the box isn’t as deep as it should be, which means …” He reached into the box and felt along the sides. “There’s a false bottom.” He pulled up on a small drawer that had been nestled inside. “There is more hidden here. Underneath.
” He grabbed something from the box’s secret compartment and held it up for his friends to see. It was an old-fashioned-looking key.

  “Holy cow,” said Woodrow. Viola and Rosie silently shook their heads in disbelief.

  “Where does it fit?” Sylvester asked, glancing around the room. The light outside was growing ever dimmer. Streetlights flickered on across the back alley, casting long swatches of illumination and ominous shadow through the windows. “There’s nothing here to open.”

  “Maybe what it opens isn’t in this room,” said Woodrow.

  “Can I see it?” Rosie asked. Sylvester handed her the key. After a few seconds, she looked up at her friends, her mouth parted in shock. She said nothing. Instead, she simply held the key up into the light from outside. They all observed what Rosie had: At the top of the key, three images had been sculpted into an elaborate, intertwined pattern.

  Viola spoke, enchanted. “The cherry. The leaf. The acorn.”

  “A final clue?” said Woodrow. “Telling us where to find the lock that will reveal the treasure of the Timekeepers?”

  “Maybe,” said Rosie. “Hopefully.”

  Sylvester threw his hands into the air. “So, where the heck is this lock?”

  Woodrow didn’t even wait to answer. “Up the street.”

  Rosie nodded. “At the library.”

  “And at the train station,” Viola added.

  Sylvester gasped. “And near the college’s entry gate?”

  The rest of them nodded. “The clocks,” said Rosie.

  “The cherry. The leaf. The acorn,” said Viola. “All the streets. All the addresses. All of the Timekeepers’ clues led us to this discovery. It was like they wanted someone to find what they’d hidden.”

  “So, what are we waiting for?” said Sylvester. “Let’s go get it!”

  Outside, the glow of the streetlights turned the snow into a dreamlike orange sorbet. This color against the darkening sky made the town look candy coated, almost too sweet. Too safe. The roads were empty; the entire world was quiet. The group dashed up the block, toward the clock in the indent of the library’s plaza. They were too enthralled to notice the familiar pickup truck parked across the street from the diner.