Just Killing Time (20 page)

“I'm a planner. And I don't make quick decisions. I need a lot of information and I need to ponder. Your grandfather had been percolating a few ideas and was looking forward to talking to me about them when I got back. Then this hearing got called for Thursday and he needed to move forward more quickly.”

I opened the package and pulled out three file folders. None of them were labeled. I opened up the first one and read the note attached.
As requested, comps. Here's what the shop is worth, market value.
The number was decent, but not huge. I handed the folder over to Caroline.

I opened the second folder. In it were several stapled
packages of information. I looked at the top one and was surprised to see Ben's Barbershop. I glanced at the sheets and saw the history of the property and its owners over the years. Stephanie had made some notes on purchase prices and the estimated amount due on each property. I wondered if these were facts or educated guesses. Glancing quickly, it looked like all the shops on Washington Street were in the folder. I handed it to Caroline.

The third folder was a stack of forms, peppered with colorful notes with short sentences like
research needed
or
history on deed unclear
. I looked at them more carefully and it seemed to be information about getting buildings marked as historical landmarks, what it meant, and how it varied by town.

I handed that final folder to Caroline. She glanced at it and then handed them all back to me.

“Looks like he was doing a lot more than just proposing this historic landmarking business. He was digging in deep for the long fight,” she said, looking up at me.

Oh, G.T., what were you up to? Is that what got you killed?

C
aroline and I spent the rest of Monday looking at inventory, looking at the database, and talking through the operations of the store. Midafternoon we agreed on a system. Looking at new inventory was much easier than reading my grandfather's notes on the inventory he'd brought in or was working on.

“I wonder if seeing his handwriting will ever not make me miss him?” I said aloud after we'd broken for a late lunch. We were sitting at the card table in the front of the shop again. I looked out at the Town Hall across the street. I'd never spent much time over here and was sorry that I hadn't. It was a great view of Orchard.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Caroline said. I looked up. She looked tired and ten years older than she had that morning.

“I'm sorry, Caroline. I've kept you too long. You should head home and get some rest.”

“We still haven't talked about a service for Thom,” she said, shuffling the pile of papers in front of her.

“I've been thinking about this. When my grandmother died, G.T. was completely unhelpful when I was doing the arrangements. He hated the whole thing, made me promise that when it was his time, I'd cremate him, go to a pub, and raise a pint.”

The look on Caroline's face was priceless. Her lips trembled as she waffled between horror and laughter. Finally she burst into a surprised giggle.

“That sounds like Thom. Why were you making the arrangements for your grandmother? Where were your parents?”

“My parents were useless. I know that sounds terrible, but it's true. Have you heard from them again this week?”

Caroline shook her head.

“Neither have I. Well, that's not exactly true. I got an e-mail from them this morning, telling me that they were devastated, but were knee-deep in research and wouldn't make it back in time for the services. They both felt that working was the best way to honor Thomas Clagan. An e-mail, no call. I wish I could stop being surprised by them.”

“They are your parents. He is Thom's son. Far be it from me to judge anyone. But it does seem that you have had your share of grief, and I am sorry about that.”

I wasn't sure what to say. Should I thank her? It was one of the kindest things someone had said to me for quite a while, which wasn't saying much.

The moment passed. “When Grover Winter died, Jonah
asked us to help him with the arrangements. Your grandfather wasn't much help, but I thought it was the grief. It was more than that: the perfect nexus of not belonging to a church per se and his contempt for public displays of emotion. Anyway, he made me promise the same thing. No service, a party instead. So what should we do?”

“I'm not sure,” I said. “There are a lot of people who would want to pay their respects.”

Caroline mulled that over. “Tammy Dunn. Did you know Tammy?”

I nodded. I didn't know her well, but her face was on the newsletters that the Massachusetts Horological Society e-mailed four times a year.

“She called me this morning. There's a meeting of the society this Saturday. She wondered if perhaps we might want to turn it into a memorial service instead.”

“That may be a good idea,” I said. The Horological Society was the only organization my grandfather belonged to that I knew of. “Did he still go to all the meetings?”

“Most of them, yes. They were his friends.” Caroline was still for a moment and suddenly started to cry quiet tears into her hands. I started to get up, but she waved me off.

“I'd imagine some of the folks here in Orchard would want to see him off as well. Tell you what,” I said, “call Tammy and tell her that Saturday sounds like a plan and that we'll be there. And then we can figure out the Orchard piece later. How does that sound?”

“It sounds good. Thank you,” Caroline said, smiling even as a few more tears slipped from the corner of her eye. “I always have trouble making these sorts of decisions.”

B
oom. Boom. Boom. The front door rattled on its hinges. Boom. Boom. Boom. If folks didn't stop pounding on that door, we'd need to replace it.

I jumped up and ran to the front door, pulling the blinds back. Chief Paisley stared at me.

“Open the door, Ms. Clagan,” he said.

I did as I was told. The chief walked into the store and I noticed his hand was close to his gun on his belt.

“Is Pat Reed here?” he asked me.

“No, he isn't.”

“His car's out front. Don't try and protect him, Ms. Clagan. I need to talk to him,” he said, looking past me into the front room.

What in the world would he want with Pat? “He isn't
here,” I said. He waited for me to keep talking, but if he was serious he was in for a long wait.

“Mind if I check for myself?” he said, moving around me toward the back of the store.

“Chief Paisley, stop.” Caroline walked in. “Chief. Jeff. Please. Pat drove my car over to Marytown to get the brakes checked. He isn't here. I promise. But you are free to look around if you'd like.”

The chief stopped and looked at Caroline. “Ladies, it's imperative I speak with Pat Reed as soon as possible. As. Soon. As. Possible. Do you both understand?”

“You want to talk to Pat. Got it,” I said flatly.

“He's going to call shortly to give me an estimate on the work. What should I tell him?” said Caroline, crossing her arms and tipping up her chin defensively.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just have him call me when he's on his way back into town.” With that he turned and left, but had the good grace to close the door softly.

“What was that?” I asked.

Caroline was already picking up the phone and dialing. “I don't know, but I am going to try and find Pat to give him a heads-up. It's what Thom would want me to do,” she said.

C
aroline and I took turns trying to call Pat's cell phone, to no avail. We talked a little more about the business, but I decided the best way to distract us and deal with some of the challenges for both of us was to appraise the inventory and get it ready for sale. Caroline and I went back to the workroom. I reached over and squeezed Caroline's arm.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“I am. It just feels so empty in here,” she said, resting her hand on the back of Thom's stool.

I nodded, but decided that work was the answer for both of us right now.

“Caroline, let's look at these longcases. I do have a soft spot in my heart for grandfather clocks. Such a statement about clockmaking. So, there are eight all together. Well, seven. This one doesn't count. Pat called it Grover's Folly.”

I pointed to the empty case in the middle of the row. Very tall, a steeple top, lovely but plain face. But when you looked inside, it wasn't a clock. There were shelves and wooden doors that opened to reveal places for documents. I hadn't looked at it closely once I realized it was empty.

“That specific case was left to Thom, with all of its contents,” said Caroline, stepping toward the clock to inspect it. “It was Grover's, always in his office. It looked like a stopped clock, but, as it turns out, it was really more of a safe. Even the pendulum was an illusion, placed between a mirror and the glass door of the case. Wait. Where's the pendulum?”

“Chief Paisley has a pendulum he is holding as evidence in the death of G.T. That may be the one that is missing.”

“A pendulum?” Caroline looked back at me, shocked. “How do they know for sure it's evidence?”

“From what the chief said, they found a pendulum by the river. Well, Blue officially found it. And Ben called it in,” I filled her in.

“So it must have been this missing pendulum. Or another one from the shop, I suppose.”

“Which means that the killer must have been in the shop with G.T. and picked it up. Otherwise how could they have used it outside, next to the car?”

“Maybe the killer came in later?”

“Not if the weapon was a pendulum,” I said, feeling a little sick at the thought. “From what I understand, the shop was locked up that night.”

“So Thom knew his killer. Which means I probably do as well. What a horrifying thought.” Caroline leaned against the workbench and lowered herself onto a chair.

“It is indeed. Do you have any ideas?”

“No, none.” She looked helplessly around the shop as if searching for an answer.

“I wonder if all this is connected to why the chief is looking for Pat,” I said.

“Again, no idea.” She bit her lip. “None.”

Funny, this time I wasn't quite sure I believed her.

“Anyway,” Caroline said, “it's an interesting clock case. Thom talked about using it to model the clock tower when he first got it in the shop. He'd been working on some models, but this one looked like the steeple of the tower.” She wiped her eyes and then looked away from the clock.

“These three on the end, they're in really good shape,” I said, changing the subject. “What do you think? We could get them ready to be sold, let some folks on the Internet know, and see if we can move them? It would help the cash flow a bit.”

“Ruth, whatever you want to do . . .”

“No, Caroline,” I interrupted her. “We need to agree on these steps. For the next few weeks while we're both dealing with everything, we need to work together to make sure bills are paid and the business keeps running, so that we can make better long-term decisions later. What do you think? These three?” I said, indicating the three clocks closest to us.

“No, those two and this one. Your grandfather said that one there has potential,” she said, pointing to a fourth clock. “His words. So I suspect you may want to take more time with it.”

I looked more closely at the last one she pointed to. A David Wood? I looked at the clock face with its hand-carved numbers and painted face. What a thrill it would be to find a piece by one of the great masters. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed it before. The mahogany cabinet had a warm patina and the bonnet was in excellent shape. Caroline had a point.

“You're right. That one needs more time.”

I was intrigued, I'll admit it. Most of the time, fixing old clocks was getting it close to what it must have been like new. But there was a fine line that couldn't be crossed between fixing, and restoring, and replacing. Most clocks had had inner workings fixed over the years, so it was already a patchwork. But once in a long while, you found a clock that was close to its original state. The David Wood replica must have been such a find. Surely it couldn't be real, could it? These clocks were copied by many clockmakers, to varying degrees of success. Even today, they were manufactured. But if the David Wood was an original?

If it was an original, the clock would be both a horological and financial treasure. That clock alone would be a big step toward getting the Winter estate into the black—and the Cog & Sprocket, for that matter.

I took a deep breath and resisted the urge to stop everything and open the clock. Instead I inspected the three we'd decided on. Caroline took notes on my observations and then together we came up with a to-do list. The three clocks Caroline chose were excellent candidates for quick turnarounds. I had to wonder how much she knew on her own about horology.

“Pat can work on the cases,” Caroline said. “If we hadn't had Pat, Thom never would have brought in all these clocks. They were quite a team.”

“It looks like Pat put the weights and pendulums in these three. Let's try to wind them, see how they run,” I said. I brought in my cell phone and we set the time. One of the clocks was key wound. The other two were wound by pulling the chains with the weights, getting the weights lined up, and letting gravity and mechanics do their work. I wound
the one with the key, and set the time. Then I wrestled with one set of weights while Caroline went to work on the other.

“You're good at this,” I said.

Caroline nodded. “Winding clocks is part of the business. Being in this shop has taught me a lot over the years. We have a dozen house calls we make every week, most of them over at Harris University, keeping clocks running.”

“Another revenue stream,” I said.

“Not huge, but yes, a revenue stream. We also have contracts to wind and maintain some clock towers in the area.”

“Pat mentioned that.”

“I helped with those, but that was mostly Pat and Thom. Lots of work winding clock towers.”

“I haven't done it in a while, but yes, it's an excellent workout,” I said, smoothing a wayward curl back into my bun.

Caroline finished prepping her clock before I did. We reset the times to all match, and then stepped back and watched the three clocks.

Nothing happened for three minutes. They kept time. Honestly, we probably could have stood there forever, except for the sharp knock on the back door. We both jumped, and Caroline put her hand over her heart.

I opened the door, chain in place. Nancy Reed stood on the stoop, still wearing her apron and without a coat. I closed the door, slid the chain off, and reopened the door to let her in.

“Nancy, is everything all right?” I asked. “Is Pat all right?” I asked. Suddenly I was ashamed that I hadn't called Moira and Nancy to let them know the chief was looking for him.

Then something happened I never thought I would live long enough to see. Nancy Reed started crying. Big, loud, ugly crying.