Clock and Dagger (16 page)

I
texted Jeff Paisley, letting him know about Tuck's camera.

I already have the camera
, he texted back.
Is he there with you?

Just left
, I texted.
Coming back later. Any interesting pictures?

Let me know if he comes back. I have questions for Tuck.

You and me both, I thought. I also have questions for you, but they'd have to wait until we were in the same room, and you couldn't ignore me.

I looked up at the wall of clocks and sighed. If I averaged them all, I still had time for a walk. Once more to the back door. Once more an interruption, this time coming from the front.

I could only hope that the shop would be this busy once we were open. Yeesh. I went to the front and looked through
the blinds. A tall, pale, angular face stared back, his face half in shadow due to the wide-brimmed fedora he wore low on his forehead. The man from the party store? I put my foot behind the door and cracked it open.

“I'm sorry, we're not open,” I said.

“Ms. Clagan? I'm Zane Phillips. I was a friend of your grandfather. We spoke Tuesday.”

I moved my foot from the door and stepped back. I smiled, but didn't feel warmth. Something about the man still didn't sit right with me, despite Caroline's endorsement. Maybe it was the large red scar that was etched on one side of his face. A clock with knives, is that what Caroline said? But maybe the inventor of a clock with knives was a man I'd like to meet.

“Mr. Phillips, come in,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said. “I don't want to keep you from opening your shop.”

“We aren't open today.”

“Because of the unfortunate incident next door?”

“You heard about what happened?”

“Oh my dear, yes. Everyone has heard about it. It is all over the news. I understand that the young man worked for you? Terrible, terrible. Very honorable to close your shop in his memory.”

“We actually aren't going to reopen until next week. But yes, he did work for us. It is a terrible tragedy.”

Zane shook his head. He'd kept his hat on and wore glasses that were slightly shaded, so it was hard to see his face. No doubt he wanted it that way. I noted that his gray hair was straight and touched the back of his collar. He had
a goatee that was the same shade of gray. All of his clothes were shades of black. His coat was more of a cloak.

“Did we meet at the party store?” I asked.

“I did see you there,” he said, his eyes sweeping over the clocks on display. “I didn't realize who you were until I read that newspaper article. Ruth Clagan. I should have recognized you, of course. You look a great deal like your grandfather. Same red hair. Almost as tall. And a clockmaker. All three things run in your genes, don't they?”

“They do indeed,” I agreed.

“Your shop is lovely,” he said, taking a few more steps in and looking around. “Really lovely. You've been upgrading it.”

“Just refreshing it,” I said. “Have you been here before?”

“Of course. Of course. Your grandfather visited my shop many times as well. Tell me, is Caroline still working here?”

“She is, or will be. She's out today.”

“A pity. I would very much like to see her. We are good friends.”

“So she tells me,” I said.

“If you will indulge me, I found this old picture of us, from a few years back.” He reached inside his coat and slid a photograph from his inside coat pocket. He handed it to me.

I looked down at a picture of a very, very young Caroline. She was standing between two young men. I recognized Zane right away, even without the scar.

“Who is this other man, here?” I asked, pointing.

Zane looked confused and took the picture back, staring at it for a moment before putting it back in his pocket.

“An old friend. We've had a falling-out, I'm afraid. I haven't seen him in a number of years.”

That must have been Caroline's ex-husband, Wallace Struggs. I wanted to ask for the picture back, but I didn't. I closed my eyes for a moment, hoping that my visual memory would help me remember his face. One thing I would not have any trouble remembering was how Caroline looked in the photograph. She was beautiful. She was also happy, free of the burdens that weighed her down now.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I said. I tried to smile, but couldn't. Zane Phillips had an odd energy, one I couldn't read. And I was impatient to get him out and get on with my long overdue walk.

“I would love to see Caroline while I am here,” he said. “Will she be in later?”

“She may be, but I'm not sure when. How much longer will you be in town?”

“Only until tomorrow, I'm afraid. My business should be completed by then.”

“Business?”

“I drove down to deliver some merchandise and to tie up some loose ends. I am almost finished with that, and then I must be on my way.”

“Caroline would like to see you, I'm sure. Are you free for dinner tonight?” At this point I would agree to anything to get him to leave so that I could get on with my day.

“I am free. Dinner would be lovely.”

“Let me check with Caroline about plans. How about if I call your cell phone later, after we've talked.”

“You could give me Caroline's number,” he said.

“She doesn't have a cell phone.” I'm really not sure why
I lied to him. I was probably being overprotective of Caroline, but that was part of my job.

“Let me give you my cell phone number,” he said. He turned on his phone and then grabbed one of the Cog & Sprocket brochures and wrote along the bottom edge. “Feel free to text if you can't reach me. I'd be happy to take you both out for dinner—my treat. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great,” I said. I plastered a smile on my face and practically shoved Zane Phillips back out the front door.

I
f Zane Phillips had been in the area the night of the party, he might have seen something. I texted Jeff Paisley his number, briefly telling him about Zane Phillips. I'd learned the hard way, the more Jeff knew, the more able he was to do his job. Editing the information I gave him had almost got me killed in October. I wasn't going to make that mistake again. I tried to call Caroline at home, and on her cell, but she didn't pick up either phone. I texted her Zane's phone number, and asked her to call me.

My phone was charged, and I decided to finally make a break for it. I locked the front door and set the alarm. I walked through the shop toward the back, but refrained from looking left or right. I didn't want work to distract me. It would be there when I got back. But a walk/run around town was in order.

I put my earphones in and selected the latest episode in the podcast series I was listening to. The series was terrific, but I kept losing track of where I was in the story, so I'd end up listening to it two or three times. No worries though, the narrator was good company as I went in pursuit of some athletic ability. I walked out the back door and locked it behind me before I headed left to go over the bridge. Looking at the back side of Washington Street, and our shops, from across the river was always one of my favorite views. I picked up speed and then broke into a jog. The pace didn't last long, and I went back into a walk. At some point I needed to really try and train for a 5K. For now, I just kept starting the Run a 5K in Six Weeks program, never getting much past week one.

I kept up the pace, trying to jog a bit more each time. I never ran, but I was getting the jog down. Dare I say, I was starting to enjoy myself a bit? A beautiful winter day, cold but not too biting. No ice or snow to give me pause. The bare trees were desolate guardians of the heart of Orchard. Back in the day, this river ran much higher and was used as a mode of transport for logging companies, deliveries, and rum runners during Prohibition. After the last great flood wiped out most of Orchard for the sixth time, a dam was finally installed farther down the river, harnessing it for power, and protecting the inland community. While I was grateful for the safety, I sometimes wished I could go back in time to hear the fearsome rushing of the water, to see the boats floating by. Back then Orchard was on a major artery. Nowadays, the town was more of an afterthought, a throwback to a time gone by. Still, it was home now.

I ran and walked a bit more, focusing on the podcast,
trying to forget everything else that happened over the past few days. My breathing got a bit more labored, and I slowed down to a walk. I was almost at the place in the podcast that I had left off last time I'd taken a walk/run, and I decided to keep going for a bit longer. Instead of going over the next bridge, I'd go down one more. I passed the turnoff when my phone started to vibrate. I took it out of my pocket and checked to see who was interrupting the interrogation scene on the podcast.

“Nadia?” I answered the phone.

“Hey,” she said. Her intonation was never lively, but now she sounded completely flat, without the passion that was her usual undercurrent.

“Nadia,” I said after she didn't respond. “You called me. I'm out for a run, on my cell. Where are you? At the shop?”

“I'm hanging around my apartment. I'm not going to make it in today. I know that isn't cool, but I just can't.”

“Nadia, please, take care of yourself,” I said, stretching my legs against a tree. “Mark's death was a real shock. I know you were good friends.”

“We were. Friends, I mean. Not that Tuck ever believed that's all we were. I hope he didn't . . . The police are looking for him—did you know that?”

“Looking for Tuck? I'm sure they have some questions.”

“Yeah, well, it didn't sound like it was just for questions.”

“Tuck came by the office earlier. He was looking for you and he was looking for his camera.”

“His camera?”

“But the office is locked up, so he couldn't get in. Chief Paisley said that he had it at his office.”

“But he doesn't have the memory card from earlier in the
night. Tuck used two or three cards last night, and he handed them all back to me for safekeeping.”

“And did you keep them safe?”

“I kept them here, with me. I guess that's safe. At least I hope so.”

I hoped so too. “Nadia, why don't you bring them over to the chief?”

Nadia's laugh didn't sound jovial, nor did it sound like she thought much of my idea.

“Okay. How about if you bring them to me, and I'll bring them to the chief.”

“Later, all right? First I'm going out to find Tuck. We have a lot to talk about. Then I'll go by the station, I promise. But first, I have to find Tuck.”

“He wants to talk to you too. Keep trying him. If he comes back here, I'll text and let you know. Meanwhile, you e-mail, call, text me with updates. Whatever works, keep me in the loop. I'm worried about you.”

“Thanks. I mean it.”

“No worries. Talk to you later.”

She paused for a second, keeping me on the line. “Ms. Clagan, Ruth, do you have any idea who killed Mark?”

“I wish I did, but I don't,” I said.

Was I telling the truth? I couldn't help but think about Tuck and how squirrelly he had been acting, even for him. What wasn't he telling me?

I
sent Jeff another text, letting him know about my conversation with Nadia. I didn't want to pressure her, but those cards could be important. I didn't even wait for a text back. Later I'd need to go by the station to talk to him if I wanted a response.

I turned back and went over the bridge closer to town. Who was I kidding? The next bridge was another mile down the river. Aspirations for another day. As I crossed the bridge, I looked around. This bridge spilled into a five-way stop, which could be a complicated traffic pattern in some areas. Not in Orchard, where there wasn't room for a rotary, and no budget for a traffic light. Most folks actually obeyed the rule and took turns going through the intersection. That was not the Massachusetts norm, but neither was Orchard. Of course, I was a bit prejudiced. I loved my town.

The library across the street was, as always, hopping. Like most libraries, Orchard's had added banks of computers where people could work for free. That, in addition to story hours for kids, a variety of book clubs, and a few writing groups who met there regularly, made it a hub of activity. The only downside was the constant call for quiet by Harriet Wimsey. Moira Reed helped solve the problem by giving anyone with a library card a 5 percent discount to the Sleeping Latte. There weren't volume concerns there.

The hardware store, or what used to be the hardware store, loomed like a gray ghost up ahead. It had closed a few years back, and nothing else had opened in its place, until recently when Max decided to open it back up. There weren't a lot of closed businesses in Orchard, but there were enough to remind folks that times had been tough, and they weren't over yet. Becket Green buying the old bank had been a vote of confidence for the town. Too bad he didn't seem focused on the greater good of Orchard or on being a good citizen.

I turned to my right, behind the hardware store. That's where the access road that ran along the riverbank ended. The lowered riverbed made this access road possible. Though the Cog & Sprocket didn't need regular deliveries, I know that it was a great help to the Sleeping Latte, and now the hardware store. It was barely visible from Washington Street, and any additional lighting came from the stores themselves. This time of day, the road looked welcoming, all sun dappled with the river rushing quietly along beside it. At night, it disappeared. I couldn't help but wonder if that is how Mark's killer got to the barbershop that night. I shuddered, but kept walking down the access road. I'd talk to Pat later and get my motion detector moved up on the Pat Project List.

I walked past the Sleeping Latte. The back door was open, and I was tempted to poke my head in, but then I looked at my phone. It was one o'clock. Lunch hour, their busiest time. I'd stop by later.

I called Caroline. “Hi, I'm heading back to the Cog. Where are you? Call me.” I hadn't heard from her since yesterday. Not time to worry. Yet.

I was getting cold, and picked up my pace a bit. I was heading toward Parker's Emporium, the old name for the building that now housed Ben's Barbershop on one side and, on the other, his aunt Flo's new drugstore, which she planned on opening soon. She was still working on the official name, but I kept pushing for her to bring back the Emporium. A grand name, sure, but if anyone could pull it off, Flo Parker could.

As I came closer, I noticed that her car was parked on her side of the building, and her back door was open. I walked over and saw piles of boxes inside. I looked up in time to see Flo coming down the back stairs, holding on to the railing. More like leaning on it. She was dressed in full Flo regalia: a leopard-print down vest straining against her ample midsection over a black turtleneck, her artificially red hair swept up into a beehive with a zebra-print scarf holding it in place, large gold earrings that almost touched her shoulders, and black leggings tucked into short white boots that were covered with long white fake fur. Flo was as short as Caroline was, and a bit wider, though they were about the same age. But where Caroline was closed off, Flo's emotions were always close to the surface.

“Ruthie, aren't you a sight for sore eyes,” she said, leaning against the hood of the car heavily.

“What are you up to, Flo?” I said.

“Jeff Paisley told me that the state police were done processing my shop. Isn't that a terrible phrase? Processing my shop, like it did something wrong. Anyway, I told him I needed to keep setting up if I hoped to get it open next week, and so he let me come by and drop off some of the supplies. The rest will be delivered on Friday. Can't believe that's tomorrow already. I just hope all this is over by then. That sounds terrible, doesn't it? You know what I mean. Bad enough that poor Mark died next door. From what I understand, no one has been arrested yet. I sure hope Jeff Paisley is on it, and not letting those out-of-towners take over. If they don't solve it in the first forty-eight hours, it's hopeless.”

Whoa. Flo was on a roll. “Who told you that?”

“I watch a lot of true crime television, and read a lot of books. I know about these things,” she said, inspecting her flawless hot pink manicured talons.

I had learned long ago that arguing with Flo was useless. A much better approach was to persuade her to think differently. Not that I worried about her blaming Jeff for lack of progress. I was more worried about her trying to beat the clock on her own. Over the past few weeks she'd asked me dozens of questions about what happened at the Winter estate in October. I got the distinct impression that she wished she had been in Orchard last summer, when it all got started. She had implied more than once that things would have ended up differently. Maybe she was right. Flo was a force. The idea of different outcomes was something I dreamed of in my darker nights.

“Are those boxes heavy?” I asked.

“No, not terribly. But there sure are a lot of them.” She smiled.

“Let me help you,” I said. “Where's Ben? I'm surprised he's letting you do this on your own.”

“He's back at my house, sleeping. He's got insomnia, poor dear. Hasn't got a moment's sleep the past two nights. Of course, they keep hauling him in for questions.”

“He isn't a suspect?”

“No, he was here with me all night. But it is his shop. He's taking it personally. Besides, this time of year is always a little rough for him.”

“This time of year? You mean the holidays?” I took out one of the boxes. Flo was right—it wasn't too heavy. But it was awkward. I tried to find a larger flat box, and started to assemble a few more boxes, like a puzzle. I picked them up and started over to the back steps.

“Yes, the holidays. Has he ever told you about his family situation?” Flo followed me up the stairs, huffing and puffing a bit.

“Should I put them down here?” Flo nodded. “No, he hasn't mentioned his family. Why?”

“It's his story to tell,” Flo said, showing unnatural restraint. “Suffice it to say, the New Year is always welcome to him. Though he did seem happier this year, up until Tuesday night.”

“Tuesday night was a terrible night for all of us,” I said. I didn't push Flo about Ben's story. Not that I wasn't interested. Everything about Ben interested me, perhaps more than it should. I'd found that I never needed to pry a story out of someone. They usually told me in their own good time, in their own way. I'd hate to get the reputation of a busybody here in Orchard. There were enough of them around already.

“It was indeed,” she said, shifting the conversation.

“Any idea when he will get his shop back?”

“Jeff is trying to move it along, but he says it will be a few more days. Then we'll need to do some work in the shop,” Flo said.

“Caroline told me a little about that part. Nothing too drastic, I hope.”

“A fresh coat of paint, some new towels. A refresh. A new start for the New Year. Ben deserves it, and he'll need it, after this week.”

“Are you going to start cutting hair again?” I asked.

“I'll help out when I can. Maybe we'll trade shifts once in a while.” Flo leaned on the counter and fanned her face. “I can't tell you how much I appreciate the help. These tired old bones are having trouble getting up and down those stairs.”

“These tired young bones have a few more trips in them. Let me get the rest of the boxes, and you stay here and keep setting up. No buts about it, Flo. You can pay me back with a haircut for the New Year. Deal?”

“Deal. You know I've been wanting to get my hands on those gorgeous curls for weeks. You've given me something to look forward to.”

The gleam in her eyes told me that she'd already decided what she would do. Why did I think a flat iron was in my future? I just hoped I didn't wind up looking like a poodle.