• • •
Moira signaled me to come over to the front counter as soon as I walked in.
She held up the phone. “Someone has a question about one of the clocks on the website,” she said.
“Okay,” I said, looking over at Caroline, bent over a watch.
Moira shook her head. “I think we need a salesman on the call. Sounds like a live one.”
I smiled and took the phone. Moira knew very little about clocks, but she knew a lot about customer service. After a few minutes I realized she was right. The person on the phone was asking about two specific banjo clocks that we had on the website. She read the descriptions and asked if we still had them for sale.
“Yes, they’re still for sale,” I said.
“Don’t you have to check your stock?”
“I’m the owner of the shop and know them both well. We have them.” I walked to the showroom to make sure I wasn’t inadvertently lying to her, but there they were, two stunning examples of Willard clocks, dating from the early 1800s. They were both on sale for $2,000 apiece. Selling them would hurt my heart, but it would also help me make the payroll for running the shop. Business was steady, but I had dreams of getting my nest egg feathered again before I turned forty.
“I’m interested, but would like to see them in person. I can’t get there until tomorrow afternoon. Will you be open around three?”
“We will be,” I said, marking the calendar on the wall over Caroline’s work desk with a big red circle at three o’clock. Caroline preferred paper to technology, and we all put deliveries and appointments that everyone needed to know about on the calendar. Red was used for items everyone needed to pay attention to.
“You’ll be there personally to show me the clocks?”
“I will,” I said. “My name is Ruth Clagan. I look forward to meeting you, Ms. . . .”
“Ms. Bloodsnow. I’ll see you then.” She hung up the phone.
“Bloodsnow?” I said to Moira. “Does that sound like a real name to you?”
“No, but why would she make it up?”
“Maybe she’s a collector and doesn’t want me to raise the prices. Or maybe she’s a thief, and she’s going to rob us.” Moira looked over at me, and even Caroline stopped working. “I’m joking, gang. Moira, help me bring these up to my apartment. We can bring them back down tomorrow.”
“How should I carry them? Isn’t it bad to move them? Holy smokes, is this really worth two thousand dollars? I don’t think I can do this, Ruth.” Fortunately for Moira, the phone rang at that moment, and she went over to answer it. I sighed and picked up the first clock. I carried it upstairs and opened my apartment door. Carefully. A clockmaker’s apartment always had space on the wall to hang clocks. Not just beauties in working order, like this one. Frequently I brought up clocks that I was working on, to see if a repair had worked, or to check on how the clock ran over a period of time. I went back downstairs and got the second clock.
After I hung the second one, I stepped back a step and watched them run. Ms. Bloodsnow had a good eye—these were real beauties. Lovelier in person than in photos, despite Nadia’s abilities. I went to go back downstairs, but checked Bezel’s food first. I topped off her dry food, and she looked up from her perch on the foot of my bed, giving me a slow blink of thanks. I slow-blinked back and closed the door behind me.
Both sides of the hallway outside my apartment had storage for clock parts in beautiful oak cabinetry that was five feet high. Running along the wall on top of them we’d hung a few clocks, part of the rotating stock for the shop. I took one of the other banjos down, a replica from the 1950s, and brought it to the shop. I hung it up and stepped back. I could obsessively rehang all the stock, but I let it go. This was a placeholder, and would be fine. If the other clocks sold, I’d rehang the room. I loved the artistry of our displays.
I opened the door of the clock and took out the key for winding. I checked my cell phone and set the time and then wound the clock carefully. A part of me admired the absolute precision of my cell phone time, but I still preferred the artistic craft of the clocks I worked on. Bits and pieces of metal, fitted together in such a way as to capture time with both precision and beauty. I loved that clocks didn’t have extra pieces. Everything contributed to the whole, once it was understood. Sometimes you had to ferret out the explanation, but once you did, it all made sense.
I was heading back upstairs to get another clock when there was a sharp knock on the back door. “I’ll get it,” I said to Caroline, who had made no move to answer it, completely absorbed in her work. I walked around the Zane minefield of jars and opened the door, half expecting to see Ben. Instead I saw Pat and Nancy. I instinctively opened my arms, and Nancy stepped in for a hug. She rested her head on my shoulder for a moment, and I held her tight. When I let her go, she went over to Caroline, who also offered a hug. Moira had stopped working and was waiting her turn.
“Okay if we hang out here for a while?” Pat said.
“Of course,” I said, closing the door after he stepped in.
“We could go home, but do what? Stare at each other all afternoon? Besides, better to be close to the Sleeping Latte so once they’re done, we can get her ready to open tomorrow.”
“You think they’ll be done soon?” Moira said.
“Who knows?” Nancy said.
“You sound exhausted,” I said to her. “Do you want to come upstairs and have a cup of tea?”
“I’d love that,” she said, not waiting to walk up the stairs.
“Pat?” I asked.
“I’ll make myself a cup down here. I’ve got some work I want to catch up on. Moira, you go upstairs with Ruth and your mother. It will make it easier if she doesn’t have to repeat the story twice.”
chapter 18
I filled up the kettle and turned it on. The basket of tea selections was sitting in the middle of the table, and I’d put my notebook on my seat. “Are either of you hungry?” I asked. “I have leftovers from last night.”
“I’m still stuffed from breakfast,” Moira said. “Ben made us an amazing omelet,” she explained to her mother.
“Tea is fine for now,” she said. “If I want more, I know where it is.”
I took out the tin of cookies, putting them in the middle of the table. Cookies were always a good idea, in my opinion. The water was going to take another minute or so, so I sat.
“What did he say?” Moira said anxiously.
“Who he?” Nancy asked.
“Jeff he, that’s who,” Moira said.
“Typical Jeff, he didn’t say a whole lot. Mostly asked questions. It didn’t take long, but he wanted us to look over our statements and sign them. Then he took poor Freddie back.”
“Why ‘poor’ Freddie? Aside from the obvious, I mean,” Moira said. “That sounded mean. Sorry.”
“She is a bit of a mess, is our Freddie,” Nancy said. “But she means well and she certainly has her talents. And I can’t imagine she’d do anything to hurt Kim, not intentionally.”
“Hurt Kim?” I asked, getting up. The electric kettle had clicked off, and I poured hot water into three mugs. I carried two over to the table, putting them in front of Nancy and Moira. I brought my own mug back and moved my notebook to the side.
“From what I can gather, mostly from Ro, they think Kim died of some sort of allergic reaction. Since the bell was also on her, they seem to be thinking the allergic reaction could have been caused intentionally and the bell was insurance. Jeff kept asking me if any of the food at the party had nuts. Which, of course, it didn’t. I never use nuts in food for large events where we can’t make sure folks know what they’re eating.”
“What about cross-contamination?” I said.
“Possible, but not probable. We’re really careful. Other than food, I wonder what else she was allergic to? Do either of you know?”<
br />
“Bees,” I said.
Moira shook her head. “I don’t remember seeing bees, but I guess there could have been,” she said.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, Ruthie,” Nancy said. “About how little we knew her. There is a part of me who feels badly about that. Only a little part, though. I know, that makes me sound like a terrible human being. Maybe I am. But she was a miserable woman, no doubt about it. Question is, who hated her enough to commit murder?”
“Unless it was accidental?”
“And someone took the opportunity of her dying to drop a bell on her face?” Moira said. “Instead of helping her?”
“Maybe they wanted to make sure she was really dead, or make some sort of statement?” I said. “That’s why they used the bell. It could be anyone, though. Maybe someone we don’t even know. We need to figure this out. You had to go past the check-in table to get back there. But Kim didn’t.”
“Yes, she did,” Moira said. “She came in late, tried to come in the side door, but it was blocked by the table. She was ticked off, but then her phone rang so she went out back to take the call.”
“How do you know that?” I asked. “Huh. I’d been thinking that Kim had snuck into the portico somehow. I didn’t realize anyone had seen her at all.”
“Freddie told me.”
“Freddie saw her go back? Did anyone else, I wonder?”
“I don’t know,” Moira said. “Jeff knows Freddie saw her. I made sure she told him.”
“When was this?”
“Around two, I think,” Moira said. “Why?”
“I’m just wondering who else went back there after Kim arrived. Those are the folks who would have known she was back there . . .” I said.
“And would have murdered her,” Nancy said. “Yikes. Okay, at that point in the day the only people going back toward the vestibule were working the event.”
“That means the both of you, me,” Moira said.
I opened to a clean page in my notebook and made a list. “Ben, Jason, Fred, Freddie . . .”
Moira took out her phone and started to text.
“Who are you texting?”
“Nadia. Woman’s got a memory like a steel trap.”
“What are you asking her? Who killed Kim?” I asked.
“No, I’m asking her who went back out to the portico during the event. She’ll know why I’m asking.”
“Your father, me, Zane, Nadia, Caroline . . . who else? Jeff?” Nancy asked. She sounded like she was making a guest list for a dinner party instead of a list of murder suspects.
“No, Jeff and Janet stayed out front,” Moira said. “Besides, I think they can be taken off the list, don’t you?”
I flipped back in my notebook and looked at one of the timelines I’d been working on. I tried to visualize the day. I took out my phone and scrolled through pictures, trying to refresh my memory.
“So now let’s figure out who should really be on this list. Moira and I were camped out by the tables that blocked folks from going back.”
“Neither of you took a break?” I asked.
“No. It really wasn’t that long an afternoon, especially when you’re used to working a lunch shift at the Sleeping Latte,” Nancy said. “So who else went past us? What about Jimmy? And Harriet?”
“Harriet stayed out front, watching over the clock parts, talking to folks about the gardens,” Moira said. “I did see Jimmy go back.”
“I saw Beckett,” Nancy said.
“Beckett and Jimmy got into a fight today,” I said, recalling the incident. “Jimmy hauled off and belted him.”
“Belted him? Why?” Nancy said. “Not that we all haven’t wanted to belt Beckett.”
“Zane went over to try and find out,” I said. “He isn’t back yet.”
“Zane? That should be interesting,” Nancy said.
“Zane’s a quiet one,” Moira said. “But still waters run deep. He’ll find out anything there is to find out. So, who does that really leave on this list? Taking all of us off it—”
“Gee, thanks, Moira,” Nancy said.
“Which Jeff can’t do,” I said. Both of the Reed women stared at me, but I forged ahead. “He has to rule us all out, and that is going to take time. Don’t look at me like that. He’s doing his job. I’m on his side on this. I know today has been hard for you, Nancy. But I think it’s been pretty tough on Jeff too.” Neither woman said anything, so I went on. “Let’s keep trying to figure out who went back to the portico during the event and try and find out who may have had a motive we don’t know about.”
The three of us talked through the event. Moira and I both flipped through pictures on our phones, trying to remember who else was there. “Not just there, but went out to the portico,” I said.
“Good thing the bathrooms aren’t back there,” Nancy said. “Otherwise the list would be longer.”
We’d honed down the names, and Nadia finally texted back and confirmed what we’d been thinking. I looked down at the scrambled note, names, cross-outs, and circles. What a mess—I couldn’t think like that. So I opened up a new page and wrote five names: Fred, Freddie, Jason, Beckett, Jimmy. Those were the only five people Moira, Nancy, and Nadia all agreed went past the tables. Five people I knew.
One of whom may have killed Kim Gray.
• • •
Once the list was made, there was no clear next step to take.
“I could use a nap,” Nancy said.
“Me too,” Moira said.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Seriously. One of you take the couch, the other one can take the bed. Close your eyes for a few minutes. I’ll go downstairs and see if Zane is back.”
“We could go home,” Moira offered.
“Or you could relax, and then we’ll regroup in a little while and talk through next steps. Whatever that means.”
“Whatever that means. You can figure that out while I close my eyes for a bit,” Nancy said. “Moira, you take the couch. I’ll take the bed, and hope Bezel joins me.”
• • •
I went downstairs and saw that Zane was back. He was over at his workstation, moving jars around. He’d unwrapped the figure he’d carved of my grandmother, and he was sanding it lightly.
“You’re back,” I said. “How’s Beckett?”
“He’ll live. What do you think of this color, Ruthie?” he asked. I walked over and looked at the deep brown hue. Zane did things his own way. I needed to let him drive this conversation. I knew we’d get to Beckett eventually.
“I like it, but it seems dark.”
“Better for contrast,” he said. “Remember, these will be about forty feet up.”
“I need to see it finished, I guess.”
“Next step,” Zane said. “Just sanding this down to prep. The stain has a lot of water in it, so it raises the grain.”
“This is the walnut stain?” I asked.
“It is,” he said.
“If you’re allergic to nuts, would you be allergic to the stain?”
“Well, you’d wear gloves while using it. I suppose if you drank it, it may affect you. But why would you drink it?” Why indeed? At least, on purpose.
“Trick will be,” Zane said, “if we like it, to make enough so that the stains are all the same color, though I don’t mind a little bit of a difference.”
“Especially since you’ll be looking at them from a distance, in sunlight or at night. They’ll be polished, right?”
“Been testing different polishes, got a board over in the clock tower. Looking forward to getting your thoughts. Me, I don’t love high gloss, but I can be persuaded since it’s—”
“Forty feet up,” we said together. During this process we were constantly reminding ourselves that details didn’t matter as much as they did on clock
s. Forty feet required broader strokes. Though the mechanisms for the clock itself still required detail, the decorations required a different scale.
“One option I’m testing is bowling alley wax. May be best for standing up to the elements.” Zane moved jars around again, and I realized these were all colors.
“Did you make these too?”
“Not all natural, but I did mix the colors. I think these will be the best ones to go for the look I want.” Zane took out a felt parcel and laid it on the table. He unrolled it, showing a display of paintbrushes.
I had to stop myself from staring at Zane’s rituals. As clockmakers, we are all fastidious and have a process. But I’d never seen anyone with such specific work habits. He had real talent, but as many tics. It was no wonder he worked alone for so many years.
He was fanning paintbrushes one by one and putting them down in front of the jars. I wanted to ask him how he decided which brush went with which jar, but I refrained.
“How was your conversation with Beckett?” I asked as he adjusted the brushes so the handles were all lined up.
“That man is a real piece of work,” Zane said. “Has the backbone of a jellyfish.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Jimmy Murphy’s got twenty years on him, hit him once, and Beckett’s a basket case.”
“Is he going to bring Jimmy up on charges?”
“For a punch? I told him he’d be the laughingstock of Orchard if he did. Jimmy would be cashing in on that story at every bar in town for the rest of the summer. Beckett’ll be fine. He’s panicked because he’s bleeding, but noses bleed. I remember once—”
“Do you think it’s broken?” I asked. I knew better than to let Zane wander with his stories. His storytelling cast a spell I couldn’t afford to get caught in.
Chime and Punishment Page 17