Chime and Punishment

by Julianne Holmes

  I knew myself well enough by now. I needed to stop thinking about murder and concentrate on clocks for a while. That always got my mind working.

  • • •

  I went downstairs and saw that Zane had already put Moira to work. He had three jars out on one of the worktables, and was taking out his box of rags. These were ratty-looking old sheets that he’d cut into squares, and washed regularly. I admired his frugality, but they weren’t a pretty sight. He was taking out an old board. A staining lesson was about to happen. Moira lifted up a jar and swirled it around, holding it up to the light.

  “Really? I never thought about making my own stains,” she said. “Of course I’m not a woodworker, but my dad is. I think he’s always bought stains.”

  “Nothing wrong with that, though I think I have him convinced to try these,” Zane said. “They’re water based. You take something, say a walnut—”

  “Like you buy in the store?”

  “No, more like you find dropped from a walnut tree. With the husks on. You want as much of the organic material as you can get. You boil it down, strain it, and voilà.” He picked up a jar that was full of a thick brown liquid.

  “Can you make a stain out of coffee? Or beets?”

  “Sure. Listen, people used color for years before chemicals. I like the way these old stains look. They have a patina that brings a particular glow to the wood.”

  “That’s why you want to use them on the tower figures,” I said, leaning a hip against the workbench.

  “Exactly. I want these figures to look like they were hiding in the tower all these years, and they came out to play when the tower was released.”

  “Released?” Moira asked.

  “Released. The spirit of a clock tower remains a clock tower, even after the clock stops working. This one will be released soon. The rest of the glass is coming in this week, so we can install the windows and let the light in. That will help.”

  When the old clock tower had burned down, part of the reason it hadn’t been restored right away was that the old clockface was wooden. Most of it had been burned beyond repair. It had been boarded up and weathered in time to a gray patina that matched the stone building. We’d talked about making the face wood again, but instead decided to put in plates of milky glass. Rather than a single pane, which would have been expensive, we decided to create a stained glass frame with three concentric circles on each window. Installation of the frames had started this winter. We decided to do it then, when folks needed the work, rather than later in the spring when the craftsmen we needed would be busier. We had to wait until the weather was a bit nicer to install the glass itself, since the glazing needed to cure correctly. Until then, tarps had been hiding the work being done, partly to keep the surprise, partly to try and be a barrier against the weather.

  I’d been up in the tower a lot this winter, prepping the space, taking measurements, getting the frame for the clock tower mechanism itself installed. Right after the fire, my grandfather and his father had saved what they could. The Seth Thomas clock piece, the guts of the tower, had fallen through the floor when it burned, crashing into the second mechanism below that ran the figurines. The only thing that stopped it from crashing into the Town Hall was the layer of slate that the original builders had used. I was grateful for those eighteenth-century builders, overbuilders really, of the Town Hall. Nothing would take this building down. Floods, fires, gentrification. Nothing.

  Though they’d saved the old clock parts, we hadn’t been able to use most of them. When I decided to focus on rebuilding the tower, Caroline asked me to come out to the cottage. She brought me out to the workshop and showed me a hidden door on the side of the main workroom. She had to move a shelf to the side to show me where it was. It was locked with a dead bolt, and Caroline handed me the keys with a flourish.

  “This was Thom’s pride and joy,” she’d said. “Open the door.”

  “Must be top secret to be hidden like this,” I said, going through the key ring to find the match.

  “This room was where Thom locked away his dreams,” she said just as I found the right key. I undid the lock and reached into the room, searching for the light. I turned it on and saw exactly what she meant by his dream. The clock tower had been part of G.T.’s DNA for a long time, and he’d been storing pieces of his dream in this room. Over in the corner I saw old wooden parts of a clock—maybe part of the original that had been salvaged? I walked over to take a closer look. The parts still smelled a bit like smoke. Resting up against the wall, on a frame that kept them upright, there was a sheet covering large poles. I lifted the sheet and saw clock arms.

  “Thom did some work on a grandfather clock a few years ago in barter for getting these arms forged.”

  “They’re beautiful,” I said, running my hand along the sides. The pointer of each hand had an open-weave pattern that may not read from the ground during the day, but would be magical when the lights went on in the tower at night. “When did he paint them?”

  “He didn’t. He did work for someone who worked in an auto body shop. The hands got painted there. Thom thought they’d stand up better in the rain.”

  “More barter?”

  “All of this is barter. Or, like in the case of that clock tower piece”—she pointed to another mound covered by a sheet, which I lifted up—“folks would keep an eye out for him. A friend let us know about a church that had decided to go electric and was getting rid of their Seth Thomas clock. The challenge was that it was in South Carolina, but that was a blip. We drove down one January, took it apart, loaded it up, and brought it back. Thom was thrilled. It was built the same year as the original clock, 1912. It desperately needed cleaning, and several parts needed to be replaced, but it gave Thom something to focus on.”

  “That’s quite a trip! How long were you gone?”

  “Two months. A long time, but we decided it was a good time to visit friends from around the country. I’m so grateful we made that trip. Wonderful memories.”

  Caroline’s face changed as she remembered some of those happy moments. The smile she wore was one I rarely saw. When she and my grandfather had married, I was still in deep mourning over my grandmother. I didn’t understand then that Caroline wasn’t G.T.’s way of getting over my grandmother, it was his way of rejoining the living. I would never forgive myself for letting my grief and G.T.’s obstinate nature drive a wedge in our relationship, a relationship that was never healed. He should have been able to call me and ask me to help out in the shop. He should have shown me this magical room and walked me through his dreams.

  “Ruth?” Caroline said.

  “Sorry, I was missing G.T.,” I said to Caroline.

  Caroline took my hands in both of hers and held on. “He’s here. He was here when you looked at those clock hands. His light shines in you. I’m so grateful that you are carrying on his work.”

  I squeezed her hands and used my other hand to wipe the tear that had rolled down my cheek. “Thanks, Caroline.”

  • • •

  “Don’t you think so, Ruth?” I shook myself and focused on what Zane was saying.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “What did you say?”

  “I asked if you finally agreed we should have a carillon so the figures could dance to a tune, rather than wobble to a bell.”

  “Zane, not again. Not today. Let’s get one bell working, a new bell, and the clock installed. The dancers are a second-half-of-the-year project. I’m already worried about living with a clock bell every hour across the street. Not that I would admit that to anyone but the two of you.”

  “You live with clock chimes every hour. A new bell will have a finer sound—it will become part of your existence. You’ll be fine,” Zane said. “I’ll stop pestering you until after the clock is set at the end of the month.”

  “And I’ll stop asking you if the figures will all b
e done,” I said.

  “They are all going to be done,” Zane said. “You’ll have to trust me. Don’t pester Pat either, mind you.”

  “Pat’s been working on them? But you won’t show me?”

  “You need a surprise or two, Ruthie. Good surprises,” Zane said. “Listen, are we still on schedule for the clock being set at the end of the month?”

  I took a deep breath. “We are,” I said. “But I want to get back to the tower.”

  “Will it take long to get the clock parts moved up?” Moira asked.

  “It will take time, and assembly,” I said. “But we need to finish getting the windows installed first. The arms have been welded, and we’ll get them installed this week as well. Your dad is the foreman on this part of the project.”

  “He’s been talking about it for weeks,” Moira said.

  “Ironic that this is where the last reinstallation stopped, with the fire,” Zane said.

  I glared at him, but he went on, oblivious. “I hope this business about Kim’s death gets sorted out soon,” he went on. “We don’t need the distraction right now. ‘Distraction’ is an unfortunate way to say it, under the circumstances, but you know what I mean.”

  “You mean that we need to find out what happened to Kim so she can rest in peace,” I said.

  Zane looked at me and shrugged. “If you say so, Ruth. How’s Jeff doing?” he asked Moira.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “We aren’t exactly on speaking terms right now.” She took her phone out of her pocket and looked at the display. “I put it on vibrate just in case . . . This is my dad.” She swiped the screen and walked over by the kitchenette.

  “Janet’s supposed to head back home today,” Zane said. “Maybe I’ll give her a call and tell her Jeff could use someone on his side. He’s had a rough go of it these past few years.”

  “What do you mean?” I wasn’t surprised that Zane and Janet had become friends during her short visits to Orchard. He’d come down here early in the year to recover from some injuries. From the stories I’d been told, I expected him to be a recluse clockmaker. Nothing could be further from the truth, however. He was a clockmaker, first and foremost. He was also a kind and curious man who was able to get stories out of people. He’d become a cog in the gossip wheel, but understood what stories were meant to be shared, and when.

  Zane looked over his shoulder at Moira talking on the phone, and then back at me. “Do you know why he came to Orchard?” he asked in a low, conspiratorial tone.

  “Zane, you shouldn’t—”

  “I should. Listen, Janet’s worried about Jeff.”

  “Isn’t that a mother’s job?” I said, instantly remembering that my own mother was less than concerned about me, mildly put. She and my father had been on an academic exploration for the past year and a half, with a quick e-mail check-in every few weeks. I’d given up on them playing the role of proper parents years ago and was a little jealous that Jeff had someone who played that role in his life.

  “Jeff was a good cop who lost his job because of politics. Janet told me the story, but I don’t remember the details. Something about him blowing a whistle on someone. Anyway, that’s not the point. Grover Winter stepped in and offered him a five-year contract to come to Orchard. Janet says that he saved Jeff’s life. She also says that he’d given up everything to be a good cop, including chances at a family. She’s thrilled that Moira’s wormed her way into his heart. Janet’s phrase. She also said that if Jeff had to choose between Moira and the job, she hopes he’d choose Moira. But . . .”

  “She isn’t sure.”

  “Right. I’m going to give her a call, see if she can stay for a few more days.”

  “Jeff may not want her to,” I said. “His place is pretty small.”

  “I don’t care what he wants. It’s what he needs. She can stay with Caroline. She’d probably be more comfortable there anyway. That way Jeff wouldn’t have to sleep on the couch. I’m going to give her a call. In the meantime, make sure you stay on Jeff’s side. He needs someone who can help him see the big picture.”

  “He’s going to follow the evidence.”

  “Then find him different evidence,” Zane said. “In the meantime, I’m calling his mother.”

  • • •

  Moira got off the phone as Zane was about to hit send on his phone. Instead he turned it off and put it in his pocket.

  “They let Mum go, of course,” Moira said. “They’re still questioning Freddie, though. Kristen is going to stay with her.”

  “Is Freddie’s father there?” I asked.

  “Yeah, he’s waiting for her. Mum said Dad took him for a walk, so he could calm Fred down.”

  “Good luck to Pat. Fred’s got a helluva temper,” Zane said. “Pat and I were supposed to meet about the scaffolding. It’s being delivered in a few days. Ruth, come with me over to the tower. I want to talk through the installation again.” Walking through the installation was a daily routine, but that was fine with me. There were a lot of moving parts to this project, and rehearsal was necessary. For a lot of the work, we’d have only one chance to get it right.

  “Is it reopened?” Moira asked.

  “I have no idea. We’ll check on that. In the meantime, I want to talk through how we are going to get the scaffolding down without trampling the new gardens,” Zane said. I winced. I wouldn’t want to cross Harriet’s path if we ruined the gardens.

  “Is Nadia coming in today?” Caroline asked. Whoa, my heart raced. I hadn’t even seen her there. She’d been bent over a watch, and stood and stretched her back.

  “You scared me, Caroline. Good morning. Nadia isn’t coming in,” I said. “Since she worked on Saturday I told her to work from home today. But Moira will be here in case anyone comes in.” I looked at Moira, and she nodded. Phew. Caroline did not like dealing with customers now that she’d rehung her watchmaker shingle. She much preferred focusing on watches, and had a lot of work lined up. She was also determined to get a few pieces up on our website, thinking that they could help drive some more business to the shop.

  Zane and I stepped out of the front door. Zane walked over to one of the rocking chairs on the front porch, sat, took his phone out, and hit send to call Jeff’s mother. I stepped away from him and took one step down. I loved this view of Orchard. The current of the river humming behind me, and the town laid out in front of me. Honestly, I usually stopped my visual sweep at the edge of Been There, Read That, since Beckett Green sucked so much of the joy out of my life. Today I kept going, looking over at the Federal-style building.

  One of the things I loved most about my town was that every building was different, with dozens of architectural styles represented one way or another. Been There, Read That had started life as a mansion of sorts, a Federal-style building complete with columns, a huge front porch, and a U-shaped driveway. The driveway was empty this morning, more’s the pity for Beckett. The original owners had built it in anticipation of a train route that was supposed to stop in Orchard, which would have made it a hub of the Berkshires. When plans changed, along with it the fortunes of Orchard for several years, the owners gave up on the house, which became a school, the police station, the library, and eventually a bank.

  It had been empty for a few years or so when Beckett bought it and decided its next incarnation would be as a bookstore. He had been open for a few months and was hoping that the summer season would see a boom in business. So far it had been slow, but that was as much to do with Beckett’s reputation in town as it had to do with the store itself. Tourists wouldn’t know that Beckett had aligned himself with the wrong people and wouldn’t hold it against him.

  I glanced over at Zane, whose eyes were closed while he was having his conversation. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and nodded while listening. I turned back, just in time to see Jimmy Murphy come stomping around the side of
Been There, Read That, followed closely by Beckett. I’d never seen Jimmy so angry. I stepped back up on the porch instinctively, stepping back into the shadows. Though I couldn’t make out the words, I could hear Jimmy’s voice raised above the river sounds. Beckett’s wasn’t audible, but his mouth was moving. Jimmy turned and faced Beckett directly, leaning in and poking his finger into the other man’s chest. Beckett swatted it away, but Jimmy started poking again.

  “Over my dead body,” Jimmy said. That was loud and clear. Zane hung up his phone and stood next to me on the porch. Beckett responded, though the words weren’t clear. Jimmy’s response came not in words, but in actions. He hauled off and belted Beckett across the jaw. Beckett twisted as the blow landed, and fell over onto the ground. He didn’t even try to get up and take a swing at Jimmy, which was just as well. I suspect Jimmy would have enjoyed hitting him again. Fighting in the streets. What was next?

  Jimmy shook his fist over Beckett’s face. He turned around, shaking his hand out in front of him. He saw us both on the porch and gave us a salute with his good hand. Zane laughed, loudly.

  “He’s got style, you’ve got to give him that. I wonder what the fight was about,” Zane said, walking to the edge of the porch.

  I watched Jimmy get into his car, which had been parked in front of the Town Hall. He pulled away, taking a right by the Corner Market without stopping first.

  I stepped off the porch and walked toward Beckett.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. Don’t come over here, Ruth. I’m fine,” Beckett shouted as he stumbled back toward his store.

  I stopped, feeling a little ridiculous.

  “He’s not a big fan of yours, is he?” Zane said. “Well, someone needs to make sure Beckett is all right. May as well be me.” Zane walked down the three steps to the path in front of the store. “You go back in and let Caroline know she’s going to have a houseguest. Janet is glad to stay with Caroline and be able to keep an eye on Jeff. I promised you had his back as well.”