The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle

by Unknown

  Meanwhile, since Frandsen's look-the-other way attitude was helping me out, it probably wouldn't be an optimal time to bring up the whole unsavory moment I'd witnessed between Frandsen and Mayor Krepp. Did I really need to mention the payola that appeared to go down at the Cup/Cakes Cafe? Maybe not yet. Especially since—as I rationalized in the days that followed—it could have been poker money Krepp owed Frandsen, or Girl Scout Cookie money Frandsen was collecting for his daughter, or some other innocuous explanation. One of the toughest things for me to learn was going to be when to curb my cynicism, and when more of it was warranted.

  At home in the brownstone, things had changed. The apartment below me was empty now. Lucy and her “mental capacity” were currently being evaluated by the state. I could only hope that she got committed for a long time. And not even for what she did to me, but for the fact that she apparently had no mother living in California. She had, of course, up to about fifteen years ago.

  Apparently Lucy had killed her, by drugging her and setting the house on fire. According to the information Ian dug up, Lucy had always been suspected, but there was no proof—especially since her mother had been rendered unconscious by her own sleeping pills, for which she had a prescription. Lucy's birth certificate did not list a father. As far as we knew, she had no other family. (But could you ever really know anything for sure?)

  Oh, and one more unsettling detail. When Mary entered Lucy's apartment to set her stuff out, she discovered twenty copies of Professor Helmuson's faculty photo, printed off the Westcott College website. They were pinned up on Lucy's bedroom wall, with different photos of herself glued alongside, and a few had big loopy pink hearts drawn on Helmuson's face. According to Helmuson, he never spoke with Lucy outside of class.

  And by the way, remember those ginger snaps Lucy had made for me? I forgot to mention: those had apparently been laced with sleeping pills. The idea that those cookies had been right in my kitchen all this time had been a hell of a way to kick off my New Year's. How could the “paranoid” girl from New Jersey not have already suspected something like that? Was I slipping? Was Big Clock, Minnesota changing me? Or was it possible to be paranoid, cautious, and highly naïve, all at the same time?

  And now, here I was back at the Chronicle. The coffee maker was bubbling away, the wonderful aroma wafting toward me. I filled a cup and brought it to Ian's office. He wasn't there, but I saw a pill bottle on his desk. Abruptly I recalled that afternoon that I'd seen him take some pills, but didn't know what they were. Of course it was none of my business. None whatsoever. I looked over my shoulder, then leaned over to try to read the label on the bottle. It didn't appear to be a prescription label...maybe if I just tilted more forward, a little to the right—

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “Oh! No, no,” I told Ian, who emerged from the Archives room that connected to his office. “Here—I brought you this.” I handed him the cup. “It's to thank you for all of your help. For saving my life, and keeping me out of trouble.”

  He nodded and remarked, “A Dixie cup of coffee ought to settle it.” When he sat down at his desk, he saw the pill bottle. “Is this what you're looking at?” he said, lifting it up. Before I bothered denying it, he handed it to me. As I read the label, my mouth curved open in surprise.

  “Oh...you have an ulcer?”

  “It's not too bad,” he said, taking the bottle back. As he stuck it in his top drawer, he added, “I guess that's what divorce will do.” He shut the drawer. Then nodded toward the Ledger that was folded on his desk. “I can't believe we got scooped on this,” he said. Today's article was an interview from jail that Dede had done with the paper, getting her side of the story out. She included details of the “psychological torture” Suzie had used on her, which included referring to her derisively as “Mr. Media” because Dede had a facial hair problem.

  She also described how Suzie—having helped Xavier with the books, back in their restaurant days—had coerced Dede into giving her not only the accounting position, but also the office that she wanted—even though it already belonged to Diana Dupont. To me, this detail was helpful, because it finally made sense of the telephone number on the desk blotter in that office. Since John Fredriksen and Diana Dupont were siblings, the number surely had been written back when Diana resided at that desk.

  Now Ian tapped his pen. “But don't feel bad; you had good instincts on this.”

  With a scoff, I said, “Oh some instincts—hi, allow me to introduce my friend and neighbor—Lucy Borden.”

  Ian chuckled at that. “Well..nobody's perfect.”

  Motioning to the Ledger, I said, “Even though they took the story, think of it this way: whatever I would have written you would have told me it was 'unprintable' anyway.”

  “You're probably right,” he admitted.

  “And we never would have agreed on the title,” I added.

  “Title? You mean headline?” He shook his head. “Rocket, why don't you just admit that you'd rather be a storyteller than a journalist?”

  “Hey at the New York Times, I think you can be both.”

  “Uh-huh,” he muttered, reaching for his coffee. Took a taste, then wheeled out of his chair and stood. “This coffee's not hot. I don't mean to throw out your gift, Rocket, but do you mind if I go pour a fresh cup?”

  I followed him out the door and we branched off—Ian went to the coffee maker, and I returned to my desk. After a moment or two of silence, he stirred his coffee, not looking at me, and said, “So...private detective, huh?”

  I swiveled to face him. “No, of course not. I was just improvising when I told Dede that. You know, making up a cover story.”

  “I see, I see,” Ian said and tossed the stirrer in the wastebasket. “Seems you did a lot of that.” He shook his head, as if impressed. “So many identities, so many cover stories...and all juggled masterfully.

  I rolled my eyes. “All right, all right.”

  “No really. If the whole print media thing doesnt work out, have you ever considered getting a job as...The Saint?”

  “Why do I even bother?” I replied, hiding my grin.

  Just then the bell over the door jingled. “Hello all!”

  “Oh, God,” I muttered under my breath and hopped up from my chair. “I'm going to the the ladies' room.” I left Ian to deal with Bud, and only when I was sure the coast was clear, I returned to my desk. It would be two hours before I got around to sorting through the mail Bud left on the table. Two hours before I came upon a tattered looking brown envelope with no return address. And only two hours before the disturbing contents of the envelope forever changed my life.

  But that was a whole other story.

  About the Author

  Jill Winters is a summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa graduate of Boston College. She can relate to whimsical grad students like her protagonist—as she wrote her first novel Plum Girl instead of her master's thesis, and shares not only Caitlyn Rocket's NJ roots, but also her love of mysteries and a profound belief in spoiling her dog.

  Prior to her Big Clock series Jill published five books with Penguin Group, which were featured on Barnes & Noble's Bestseller Lists and Booksense's Top Ten. Her debut novel Plum Girl was a finalist for the Dorothy Parker Award of Excellence. You can visit Jill @ www.jillwinters.com, or follow her updates on Facebook and Twitter.

  Coming soon from Jill Winters:

  The Unspinnable Big Clock Scandal (Big Clock Mystery #2)

  Kingdom by the Sea (a romantic suspense/mystery set on Cape Cod)

  JILL LOVES TO HEAR FROM READERS! YOU CAN EMAIL HER VIA HER WEBSITE: www.jillwinters.com

  Table of Contents

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