Clock and Dagger (11 page)

Ben didn't say anything, and Jeff left. I imagined that Jeff was used to people not being happy with him, but Ben was radiating animosity. You'd think he blamed Jeff for Mark being killed in his store.

“Come in,” I said. “It's cold out there.”

“Yeah, it's fine. I've got to get back,” he said, shuffling his feet a bit on the welcome mat.

“Oh well, those are lovely flowers,” I said. The mixed bouquet was in shades of white, a welcome change from the red and green that had covered every surface over the holidays.

“They're not for you,” Ben said quickly. “They're for Caroline. For her birthday. We never did get a chance to celebrate it.”

I was taken aback. I didn't expect them to be for me, though a girl could hope. Why would they be? We were friends, just friends. But still, he didn't have to bite my head off.

“Last night was hardly a night for celebration,” I said, immediately regretting my tone, and softening it. “At least at the end. The first part of the night was great. I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to tell you how wonderful the lanterns were.”

“As you said, the night ended up pretty badly, at least for most of us. I won't keep you any longer.”

“Ben, don't rush off. Maybe we should talk?”

“I've been talking all night, to the whole town, it seems like,” he said, rubbing his scruffy chin with his hand and looking more tired than I'd ever seen him. “I'll see you around, Ruth.”

With that, he turned and walked down the front steps. I went to close the door and saw Beckett Green watching the scene from across the street. I'd talk to Ben later. Right now, I had business with Beckett.

B
eckett had to have seen me coming, but that didn't stop him from turning, and half running into his store. I quickened my pace. Not only was I as tall as he was, I was in much better shape. I caught up with him as he was about to close his front door. I pushed my way in, and turned, ready to give him a piece of my mind.

The words all caught in my throat as I looked around the store, taking it all in. Cartons of books were everywhere. A few had been shelved, but the ones that were unpacked were laid out on tables, in piles. A coffee station in the corner, surrounded by overstuffed leather chairs. A round customer service station anchored the center of the space, with a few computer stations on it, and shelves below filled with magazines, candy, fruit-and-nut mixes, and other assorted sundries. The wall to the left of the store was painted deep red
and had a dozen clocks hanging on it. The ticking was audible in the silence of the room.

“I wouldn't have believed it, but it's true. You are trying to be all the shops of downtown Orchard in one place, aren't you?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his color rising.

“Your magazine rack looks like the one over at the Corner Market.”

“Good for impulse purchases. Bookstores are risky businesses,” he said, tapping his foot impatiently. “I need to make the customer happy.”

“Coffee?”

“Why should folks have to walk down the street?”

“Never mind that if you'd agreed to be part of the POL card, you could have said with a purchase of so much money, folks could get a free cup of coffee at the Sleeping Latte? Or a free candy bar at the Corner Market?”

“You sound like Rina. She's been all over me this morning about that blasted card, and the open house. Have you two been talking? I still don't see the value of discounting.”

“What don't you get? That's the point of the program, to get the businesses to support each other, not to take away sales.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said, straightening a pile of paperbacks on a nearby table.

“And what about these? And this?” I asked.

“What?” he said, not looking up.

“The clocks,” I said. He flinched when I said the word
clocks
, and he should have. I sidestepped him, again not difficult, and walked over to the wall of clocks. Lovely banjo
clocks, examples that rivaled my own collection. A few Viennas. A Seth Thomas.

There was a sign affixed low on the wall, underneath the row of clocks.

“‘Have a clock that needs to be fixed? We can help! The Clock Doctor will be in on Wednesday afternoons.' Who, exactly, is this clock doctor?” I scoffed.

“None of your business.”

“None of my business? You are offering a specialty service across the street from my shop, and it is none of my business? You've got to be kidding me.” I couldn't decide if I wanted to laugh or scream.

“If I am able to offer comparable service for a fraction of the cost, that is simply good business strategy. You have to admit, you overcharge for your services. Just like I hear your grandfather did.”

“My grandfather and I both undercharge for our services. Do you have any idea what it takes to be a horologist? The years of training? The apprenticeships? The costs associated with opening a shop, keeping the right parts in stock, finding vendors to make parts, the hours that a repair can take? Even a simple cleaning is anything but. I know that you offered Mark Pine a position, and he turned you down. So who did you hire? Who's your clock doctor?”

“How do you know about Mark?” he said, meeting my eyes for the first time since this ridiculous conversation began.

“He told me, of course. The last time I saw him, alive. I saw you looking for him later. Did you find him, Beckett? How angry were you that he turned you down? Angry enough to hurt him?”

“How dare you? Get out of my shop. Now.”

“I wonder if the police know about your fight with Mark. I need to give Jeff Paisley a call and let him know. I think I told him last night, but maybe I didn't.”

“Never mind. I'll call him myself, unless you leave right now.” Beckett walked over to the customer service desk and picked up the phone. He stood and stared at me. I shrugged and turned back to the clocks.

I opened the door on the third one in, a lovely antique. The card said it was a “Biedermeier Vienna Regulator Wall Clock dated 1865.” A beautiful clock, rosewood. Brass pendulum, working. Grande sonnerie movement, if I wasn't mistaken. In less than five minutes the quarter hour was due to chime. The clock should be better protected from customers, but I wasn't going to tell Beckett that. I took out my cell phone and turned on the flashlight app, sweeping it inside the clock. Beckett grabbed at my arm, pulling me away.

“That clock is worth thousands of dollars,” Beckett said. “Get away from it.”

I turned to look at him, and knew that he believed what he said.

“Don't get your panties in a twist,” I said, shaking him off. “I'll leave. I've seen enough. But listen to me, Mr. Historical Council, you should probably know what you're talking about before you start making judgments on historical accuracy.”

I wish I'd been able to look at all the clocks more closely, but it didn't matter. I'd already seen enough.

Beckett Green was selling fakes.

I
left Beckett's store and walked down to the right, to the Corner Market. I needed more cat food, but also wanted to check in with Ada and Mac Clark.

Mac had inherited the Corner Market from his uncle, but he and Ada had made the store their own. With an emphasis on locally sourced and organically grown food, it was hip enough for foodies to flock there. But they also carried staples like eggs, milk, cheese, and bread. Not enough junk food, but I had noticed they'd started carrying a few more bags of chips. They were responding to customer demands. This customer, at least.

I'd learned early on, never just carry a basket through the aisles. Get a cart. Even when all you want is cat food, you'll find a half-dozen other things you didn't know you needed. Today's case in point, half-priced sourdough bread and a
grapefruit that was the size of a softball. I had barely gotten in the front door.

I found Ada Clark in the condiment aisle, trying to stock shelves. What was normally second nature had become a chore for her, as she tried to navigate around her enormous belly. From the back, she looked much the same, but when she turned around it looked like she had swallowed a basketball. Or two.

“Ada, can I help you with that?” I asked. I bent over and handed her the bottles and jars she had in her cart.

“Was there a run on mustard?” I said, taking note of the labels as I handed them to her.

“Last night got a little crazy. We offered people three percent off their bill as part of our promotion, and boy, they took us up on the offer.”

“Three percent could really add up, couldn't it?”

“Mac is running the numbers now. It could, especially on items that are expensive for us to carry, like some of the specialty cheeses. But there are other items that have a decent profit built in, and folks were buying them as well. I think we had a really good night. Up until the end, of course.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “It feels like there are two different nights. One before we let the lanterns go, and one afterward, when I found Mark. We're all so focused on the afterward it is hard to remember the open house.”

“I wonder if we'll ever stop thinking about the night and feeling sad?” she said, holding a jar of fancy, spicy mustard in each hand.

“If you want something to help move you to another mood, go over to Beckett's store and look at his checkout
counter. See yours, the display of candy, magazines, mints, water, all that? His looks like that.”

“What do you mean? I thought he was selling books?”

“Books, and sundries. And clocks.”

“Clocks.”

“Clocks. Then there's the free coffee.”

“Free coffee?”

“I'm telling you, Ada, you'd think he was the only store in town. I'd be surprised if he didn't start selling eggs and milk.”

Ada laughed and sat down on the stool that was nearby in the aisle, likely for that express purpose.

“Sorry, I know it isn't funny. What is he trying to do? Someone should explain how a small town works,” she said.

“He thinks he has it figured out. He's got Kim Gray in his pocket.”

“How do you know?”

I told Ada about my conversation with Kim, and she thoughtfully rubbed her belly. Ada and I were almost the same age, but she seemed years younger. When we'd first met, I envied her happy marriage and her impending motherhood, both things I'd always wanted. Now we were friends, and I was excited about the arrival of Baby Clark, knowing that I would play a role in his or her life.

“We need to tell Mac about the meeting with Kim. You know we'll help however we can. What happens if the deal with the town doesn't go through?”

“Then I own the Town Hall. I can figure it out, but I don't want to. I know that I sound like a wimp, but taking care of the Cog & Sprocket is enough for me to deal with right now. The old Town Hall is Pandora's box. Who knows what's
inside?” I said, opening the last box full of mustard bottles in Ada's cart.

“We're all here to help—you know that. I can't believe Beckett is selling clocks.”

“Right? I don't think he knows what he is doing. He had mislabeled the one I was able to get a good look at. I didn't even get a chance to look at them all.”

“Mislabeled, like wrong name or year? Or mislabeled, like pulling the wool over customers' eyes?” she asked, shifting uncomfortably on her little perch next to the packaged pastas.

“Pulling wool.”

“Yeesh. How can you call him out on that?”

“I'm not sure. I should probably let Jeff know, since he is looking into . . . Hey, what are you smiling at?”

“You and Jeff Paisley,” she said, smiling and shaking her head.

“What about Jeff and me?”

“I heard he stayed at your place last night. And he had breakfast this morning.”

“Wow, what time is it? Not even nine o'clock, and the gossip mill is in full gear? Please, Ada, Jeff and I are friends. I spent the night at Caroline's.” Was that what was wrong with Ben? It couldn't be. Surely he'd know better.

“I know. Look at me, I'm turning into something I despise. No, please, don't explain anything. Your business is your own. I promise, I won't be part of the gossip mill. It doesn't suit me.”

“But you should know . . .”

“I should know nothing. Again, I'm sorry. Thanks for your help with the mustards. I have to go to the ladies'
room—big surprise there. Can you help me up? Thanks. Let me see if Mac can come out front and chat with you.”

“That would be great. How about if I put these boxes back in the cart for you?”

“I'd appreciate it. Harder for me to stock shelves these days.”

“Happy to help. Anytime. Really, just ask.”

“You're a good neighbor, Ruth. Make sure you tell Mac about Kim's plans. I'm done being the nexus of information.”

With that Ada waddled toward the back of the store. I picked up the empty mustard boxes and put them in the cart, pushing it to the side.

•   •   •

“Y
ou looking for a job?” Mac said.

I turned away from the condiment section, where I had been finishing up Ada's work and straightening the labels.

“I would become obsessed by this,” I said. “I was moving one jar to the right shelf, and next thing I know, I'm finding out how satisfying lining up labels can be, and moving everything forward.”

“It's called facing. Anytime you want to work out your obsessive tendencies, come on down. Once Ada has the baby, I'll need all the help I can get for a while.”

“Are you hiring new staff?” I asked. I knew that was a tricky question. Hiring staff for small businesses, especially on a short-term basis, was difficult during the winter.

“We've got enough folks filling the shifts. I'll need to keep up with the ordering and the inventory though. Nancy Reed is going to help out.”

“Nancy Reed? Does she have time?”

Mac laughed. “I know, she's everywhere these days. She already helps us keep stocked on baked goods and sends over sandwiches for us to sell after the Sleeping Latte closes in the afternoon.”

“Moira's thinking about starting to serve dinner,” I said.

“Not till the summer, when there's more traffic in town. Anyway, Nancy kind of works for us already. We're making it more official.”

“We're all in this together,” I said, shrugging.

“All except Beckett Green. Did you hear about the readings he is going to be holding at the store?” I nodded my head. That was part of his business plan.

“Guess who's going to be catering them?”

“The Sleeping Latte?” Mac shook his head. “You guys?”

“No. He's going to a chain over in Marytown. Not even a small business, which would be bad enough. A chain.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“Tuck told me. We did a proposal for him—all discounted prices and fair rates— and when I didn't hear back I went by. Tuck was working in the store, unpacking boxes, and let me know. Of course, Beckett didn't have the guts to tell me himself.”

“Tuck works for Beckett now?”

“Didn't you know that?” Mac asked.

“I don't think I did,” I said. “We hired him for some odd jobs through Nadia, but not enough to live on, really. I guess I never asked. I wouldn't have cared, really. Until today.” I told Mac about the clocks, only telling him as much as I'd said to Ada, about Beckett's deceptive labeling. I wasn't sure why, except that I felt that Jeff Paisley should be the first person to
hear the news that they were full-blown fakes. Then I realized that he hadn't heard about my phone call with Kim either, so I repeated that story as well. I was beginning to think I should just print up a newsletter every time anything happened so I could just hand it to each friend at the beginning of every conversation to catch them up.

“Whatever you need, Ruth, let me know,” he said, his face serious as he thought over everything I just related to him. “I'm behind your plans for the old clock tower one hundred percent. It's the best plan for Orchard. It keeps the building open and available for town use. The clock tower project is exciting and could get folks to visit, which is good for all of us. Kim Gray and Beckett Green are awfully shortsighted, if you ask me.”

Or they were both playing a different end game, one that I didn't understand. I had to wonder—did their game have anything to do with Mark Pine's death?