Clock and Dagger

Just Killing Time

“A fast-moving story, and a great start to an intriguing new series.”

—Sheila Connolly,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Orchard Mysteries, the Museum Mysteries, and the County Cork Mysteries

“Holmes creates the perfect contemporary cozy—with a smart and engaging heroine, a quirky and mysterious Berkshires town, and a cast of characters to rival any who live in Cabot Cove. Don't waste another minute—this is your new favorite series!”

—Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha, Anthony, and Mary Higgins Clark award–winning author of the Jane Ryland series

“Delightful . . . The story, with a hunky barber, Ruth's childhood friends, and conflicts between the new town manager and the ‘old' Orchard, winds up to a suspenseful and satisfying end.”

—Edith Maxwell, Agatha Award–nominated and national bestselling author of the Local Foods Mysteries

“Take one tightly wound plot, a charming clock shop in the Berkshires, a woman you want to be your best friend, and you have
Just Killing Time
.”

—Sherry Harris, Agatha Award–nominated author of the Sarah Winston Garage Sale Mysteries

“With its bucolic setting, engaging characters, and clever plotting, Julianne Holmes has crafted a mystery to stand the test of time.”

—Jessie Crockett, national bestselling author of the Sugar Grove Mysteries

“An intriguing premise, a fun mystery, and a town and heroine with heart.”

—Barbara Ross, author of the Maine Clambake Mysteries

JUST KILLING TIME

CLOCK A
ND DAGGER

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

CLOCK AND DAGGER

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2016 by Penguin Random House LLC.

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.

eBook ISBN: 9780698164307

PU
BLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2016

Cover illustration by Cathy Gendron;
Clock Face
© by harlowbutler/Shutterstock.

Cover design by Danielle Mazzella di Bosco.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To my sisters,
Kristen Hennrikus Spence and Caroline Hennrikus Lentz.

I am lucky to have you both as sisters,
and blessed to have you as
friends.

Writing may be a solitary pursuit, but getting published takes teamwork. What a team I have. Writing this series is a dream come true, and I owe thanks to so many folks. Some of them include:

Allison Janice, my editor at Berkley Prime Crime. Ruth Clagan is as much a part of her as she is of me, and I am so grateful for her insight, her work, and her thoughtfulness.

John Talbot, my agent. Thank you for your support.

The Wicked Cozy Authors: Barbara Ross, Jessie Crockett, Liz Mugavero, Edith Maxwell, and Sherry Harris. Their friendship and support are invaluable. I love being part of our blog and our community (wickedcozyauthors.com). Writing with Kimberly Gray, Jane Haertel, and Sheila Connolly is a lot of fun as well. Our readers are so terrific—I can't wait to hear what you all think of the book.

My Live to Write/Write to Live blogmates: Lisa J. Jackson, Diane MacKinnon, Lee Laughlin, Jamie Wallace, Susan Nye, and Wendy Thomas. Such a great crew—I love sharing ideas on nhwn.wordpress.com.

Sergeant Patrick Towle of the Bedford Police Department. Any mistakes are mine. His generosity about answering even the craziest questions made making up stories much easier.

The Roberts brothers at the Clockfolk of New England (clock folk.com). I look forward to clock tower lessons in the future.

Kimberly Gray bid on a Wicked Cozy Author basket at Malice Domestic three years ago, before I had a contract. I promised to name a character after her, and kept my word. Who knew Kim Gray would end up being such fun to write?

My first reader, Jason Allen-Forrest. Thank you, my friend. Your enthusiasm and thoughtfulness make a world of difference.

Sherry Harris, for her editor's eye. Even on deadline her own deadline, she takes the time to read and respond.

Scott Forrest-Allen, who came up with the title for this book. Thank you—and keep it up!

My friends and family who supported me all along this journey. I couldn't do it without all of you in my cheering squad. Thank you, Mum and Dad (Paul and Cindy Hennrikus), the Spence family (Kristen, Bryan, Tori, and Becca) and the Lentz family (Caroline, Glenn, Chase, Mallory, Harrison). Thank you to Amy, Emma, Evan, David, Rhonda, Deb, Ruth, Stephanie, Pat, Alex. To everyone who supported me, cheered me on, bought the first book, or said “That is so exciting!”—you'll never know what your encouragement means.

The mystery writing community is amazingly supportive. I am a proud member of Mystery Writers of America and the Guppies. Sisters in Crime, especially the New England chapter, has made all the difference in my life. I could name some folks, but would forget too many. Suffice it to say, you wouldn't be holding this book in your hands if I hadn't joined Sisters in Crime fifteen years ago.

I
was running late. Again.

Tardiness is not an admirable trait in anyone. But for me, a clockmaker, it was just plain embarrassing. I knew how to create objects that managed time, but I couldn't do it for myself. I looked up at the row of banjo-style clocks that hung in a row. Five clocks, five different makers, made decades apart. And five very different prices. That was part of the new marketing strategy I'd decided on, making sure customers understood that owning a beautiful clock was within financial reach, while still emphasizing quality.

The fact that all five clocks were showing approximately the same time gave me a thrill. Anyone else would take it for granted, but Pat Reed and Caroline Adler, my collaborators in the shop, had a vague idea of what it took. They heard me complaining about it enough while I labored to get each
of the clocks cleaned, in good working order, and able to keep time while overseeing renovations to both the shop itself and the cozy apartment upstairs.

I looked at the pile of three envelopes, two scraps of paper, and four Post-its scattered on the counter and thought for a moment how much sense it would make to compile all of this into one list. Then I shook my head. I'd need a personality transplant to make that work. Instead, I opened my messenger bag and swept the whole jumble into it. I hastily grabbed a pen and a pad of paper and added them to my stash. Likely there were several pens and at least one more pad of paper in the bag already, but who had time to look? I scanned the Cog & Sprocket, the shop that had taken over my life for the past two months. Where did I leave my scarf? The heck with it; I needed to get a move on. The clock was ticking. Or, in this case, the clocks.

Tonight was the first time I was going to open the doors to the citizens of Orchard since the renovation and I still had a million things to do before that could happen. Not many people could pull off this Herculean task in two months, but then, most people didn't have Pat Reed overseeing the project. I'd helped Pat out of a jam back in October, and he'd more than paid me back. The changes down in the shop were mostly cosmetic, though it had a much more open feel. Upstairs was where he'd really pulled off a minor miracle, turning a jumble of rooms into a home.

I didn't bother to button up my coat. It was cold out, certainly, but I was only going out to the car. Maybe it was the glow of the holidays doing a holdover, but today it was downright temperate, a balmy forty-five degrees. Hardy New Englander that I was, I never really considered it cold
until mid-January, when the temperature went well below freezing and ice abounded on roads and sidewalks.

“Pat, I'm heading over to Marytown,” I called up the back staircase.

“Drive safe, Ruth,” he called back down.

“Will do.” I closed the back door, locking it behind me.

I'd only recently started using the back door of the Cog & Sprocket again after my neighbor Beckett Green had complained about me taking up a customer parking space, which was supposed to be two hours only. I started parking out in back of the shop, not to make Beckett happy, but because Jeff Paisley, the chief of police in Orchard, had asked me to. Jeff, as I called him when he was off duty, had become a friend. He didn't want to start giving me tickets, and I didn't want to get him in trouble with the town manager, Kim Gray. She already had it in for both of us. I didn't want to add fuel to her fire.

I scurried down the stairs and hustled over to my car, hitting the button on my key fob to open the doors. Nothing happened. I tried again, but the doors didn't unlock. I used the key to open the door and slid into the driver's seat. The engine didn't turn over. I tried again, but nothing happened. Just a click.

“I did it again,” I said, banging my hand on the dash and then resting my forehead on the steering wheel.

“Woof!”

I cracked open the door and looked up just as Blue, the Australian shepherd who lived next door, pushed his muzzle into the car, followed by as much of his body as he could fit. I couldn't help but smile, even as I thought of his gray and white fur shedding onto my black coat.

“Hey, Blue. How are you, sweetheart? I don't suppose you know how to jump a battery, do you?” I asked.

“He doesn't, but I do.” I looked up at Blue's human and felt the color rise on my cheeks. Ben Clover, owner of the barbershop next door, was standing behind his dog, hastily picking up the trailing leash. The back alley was well traversed by all of the shop owners, so I wasn't surprised to see Ben there.

“Was Blue taking you for a walk again?” I asked as I climbed out of the useless car.

Ben had the good grace to look embarrassed, his reddish blond hair falling into his eyes. Blue owned him, not the other way around. My cat, Bezel, controlled my life, so I didn't have room to judge. Not that I would. There could be worse things than being owned by the sweetest dog in Orchard.

“He was,” Ben said. “Since we have to walk back here, behind the shops, there isn't a lot of running space for Blue, so I let him off the leash to run by the river for a few minutes.”

“Why do you have to walk back here?” I asked.

“Haven't you heard? Beckett Green found some ancient ordinance that doesn't allow dogs on city sidewalks, so we have to slink around in back alleys.”

“Back alleys?” I said, looking around at the tree-lined road, well-paved street, wide enough for two cars, stunning river gurgling past. “Ben, you've been in Orchard too long. This is practically a country lane.”

“You know what I mean,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I heard he was giving you a hard time about parking in front of your shop.”

“He was. Two-hour customer parking only. I guess the excuse that I didn't want to park where my grandfather died didn't much matter to him.” I looked over at the spot, where
Ben's car was parked. “I do really appreciate your switching spots with me, Ben.”

“Listen, our shops are so close together, we practically shared a space already,” he said. “So, what's up with your car?”

“I think the battery is dead,” I said, resting my hand on the hood. “I used the headlights to light up the back stairs last night while I was moving a couple of more boxes back into the shop. I must have forgotten to turn them off.”

“We need to get better lighting back here,” he said.

“That one floodlight, over by the Sleeping Latte, really doesn't help us much here,” I agreed. “Pat is going to put in a motion detector with lights. It's on the Pat Project List for the New Year. Of course we'll need to check the city ordinances first, so good old Beckett doesn't sic Jeff Paisley on us again.”

“You'd think that Beckett would care more about what his neighbors thought, since he is about to open his bookstore,” Ben said, watching as Blue trotted and snuffled about with the sort of enthusiasm reserved only for dogs exploring their outside world.

“You'd think. He probably doesn't understand how valuable word of mouth is in a small town like Orchard.” The Berkshires are in Western Massachusetts—less than four hours from either New York City or Boston. Proximity helped for tourism in the summer and during leaf peeping season. But the rest of the year, the population shrunk to residents only, and Orchard was like dozens of other small towns in America where everyone knew one another, and one another's business.

“Or lack of word of mouth,” Ben said. “Aunt Flo has decided we aren't even going to mention Been Here, Read
That aloud.” It was a shame. I'd been so excited when I first heard that a bookstore was coming to Orchard. Then I got to know Beckett. “But back to the matter at hand. I don't have jumper cables. I bet Pat has some, so I can jump your car later, but I have to run over to Marytown right now.”

“Oh, perfect.”

“Perfect?”

“I need to go to Marytown, to the party supply store. Can I hitch a ride?” I made a little hitchhiker gesture with my thumb, and smiled. When Ben laughed, I immediately felt heat rise on my cheeks.

“Sure, let me put Blue back in the shop. Sorry, buddy, Ruth's going to sit in your seat today.” Ben smiled his dazzling smile as he ruffled the dog's fur, and I felt myself blush again.

•   •   •

“S
o, where's Betty?” I asked, settling into the warmed seats of the SUV.

“Away for the winter, I'm afraid. Betty doesn't mind snow—it's the cold that gets to her,” Ben said.

“Betty and I have that in common,” I said. Betty was the name of Ben's car, an old, oft-repaired Volkswagen Bug that had apparently moved to Ben's aunt's garage for the winter. Like me, Ben lived in a small apartment over his shop, so occasionally borrowing his aunt Flo's car was a great option for him. I'd never tell Ben, but I preferred the heated seats, storage options, and quiet ride of the SUV to Betty's wheezing, bumpy ride and paper-thin floorboards. I pulled out my scraps of paper, and a pad, and started to consolidate my lists.

“What's that?” he asked as he pulled out onto the main road.

“I have four events in the shop this week. The open house tonight, Caroline's birthday party, New Year's Eve, and the official opening on January second.”

“Don't forget the Town Hall celebration.”

“If we have something to celebrate,” I said, sighing. “I have another meeting with Kim tomorrow afternoon. She sent me a cryptic e-mail, referring to some ordinance issues if the town lease was going to be extended on the building.”

“But the lease will still get extended on January first, right?” Ben said, shifting in his seat.

“That's the plan. Which means I have three days to deal with whatever new obstacles she wants to throw in my path.”

In October, I had inherited the old Town Hall, a building that sat across the street from the Cog & Sprocket. The inheritance was a paper transaction—no huge sums of money were changing hands; we just changed the name on the title to mine—since the town had used the building for years, thanks to a favorable lease offered by the building owners, the Winter family. That deal was set to expire on December 31, four days from today. I'd offered to extend the same deal to the town of Orchard at the same rate: a dollar a year. But I'd added two caveats.

First, based on some input from Pat Reed and other folks, I asked that the town figure out a way to increase the budget for the building itself, so that it and its grounds could be properly maintained. Right now there was enough money to keep the doors open, but the old girl needed serious updates to make it more usable for the town in general. After some negotiation, the Board of Selectmen agreed, especially when
it became clear that making some of the changes would make the Town Hall more viable and provide a revenue stream for the town. Harris University had expressed interest in becoming a partner in the operations, which helped make the deal more favorable to even its biggest skeptics.

The second caveat was personal. I wanted to rebuild the clock tower. During World War II, the clock tower's inner workings had been taken out and melted down to support the war effort. In the early '50s, as they were replacing the weights, cogs, and gears, a spark from a welder's torch caused a fire. At least that was the story everyone was told. My grandfather always hinted that it was something more nefarious—attempted arson. Thankfully, the fire was contained quickly, and the tower structure remained solid. The work to replace the clock itself was deferred over and over again, despite the fact that the Clagan family volunteered to maintain it once built. Small-town politics, petty grievances, and good old-fashioned New England orneriness didn't help discussions over the years. Still, my grandfather always dreamed of rebuilding the clock tower and had been working with Grover Winter to make it a reality. Then both men died within a year of each other. Now it was on me to see that the dream moved forward. Having decided to move to Orchard from Boston to take over my grandfather's business after my divorce was finalized, I was more than up for the task. I just hadn't expected the town manager to be such a barrier.

“What happens if you can't deal with them?” Ben asked.

“Then I own the building and all that entails, including having to pay the operating expenses.”

“Would that be so bad?” Ben asked.

“I am trying to figure out how to keep the Cog & Sprocket
open, never mind the local white elephant. Insurance costs alone would wipe out all my savings. Running a building—not my area of expertise.”

“Any chance that Harris University can help out? You mentioned that they were interested in renting some of the space.”

“They are interested, and willing to pitch in a bit for repairs. But not until their new fiscal year starts.”

“In January?”

“In July,” I sighed. My ex-husband was on the faculty of a small college back in Boston, so I understood the glacial pace of decision-making for colleges. Still, it was disappointing when that avenue was blocked.