Just Killing Time (3 page)

I
stretched as I got out of the car, moving my hips around to get them less stiff. I pulled my fleece back down and looked down at my yoga pants. Luckily I'd brought some wrap dresses and tunics with me, so I could dress it up a bit. The retreat was already becoming a distant memory. Now it was time to get back to life.

I walked around to grab my bag from the passenger seat. It was so heavy that it registered as a person, so I had taken to buckling it in so that the car would stop beeping. I hauled it up and was pulling the strap across me when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I screamed and turned to face the tapper.

He was about my height, bald, with black-framed glasses that looked old-fashioned five years ago, but were very hip these days. His soft corduroys were dark olive, and his zipper
sweater was a shade lighter. I could swear his eyes were green too, but he jumped back so fast I couldn't be sure.

“Oh my, you scared me,” he said.

“I scared you? Are you kidding me?” I asked.

“I saw you sitting in your car and wondered if you were lost. That's all,” he said. “The Cog & Sprocket is closed. If you are picking up a clock, I can make sure the owners get the note.”

“I'm the owner,” I said. The words felt odd in my mouth, but they were true enough.

“You? You're Ruth?”

“I am. And you are?”

“Sorry, sorry. Where are my manners? First I scare you, then I accuse you . . . Sorry. I'm Beckett Green. I own the store across the street. Caroline had let me know that you were taking over for Thom.”

“I'm not sure I'm taking over. I just found out about . . . everything . . . this morning.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry. And I'm so sorry for your loss. Thom was a good man, a pillar in this town.”

“Thank you. Have you lived here long?”

“Not long. I was driving through this past spring on my way out to Tanglewood, and I saw that the building was for sale. Well, it's a long story, but to shorten it up, I decided to buy it on the spot. Always dreamed of running a bookstore, and thought now is the time. I'm in the middle of some renovations. Hoping to be open early in the new year.”

“Well, that sounds interesting.”

“Not really. A very dull midlife crisis, in fact. And here I am prattling on. Are you going to stay here?”

I looked at Beckett Green and considered his question. For him, a polite inquiry. For me, a multilayered potentially life-altering decision. Was I going to stay at the Cog & Sprocket tonight? The exhaustion of the day was catching up to me, so I supposed that staying overnight made sense. Should I be concerned about staying there, given what had happened? I looked back at the building. No, there was nothing to be afraid of at the Cog & Sprocket. I had to believe that. But was I staying at the Cog & Sprocket more permanently? That was too complicated a question to ponder right now.

“I am going to go in and look around.”

“Well, that's good. You should know, we are all keeping vigil on the building, and nothing has happened. Pat Reed's been adding more locks to all the windows and doors just to be sure, but it is perfectly safe. Besides, poor Bezel needs the company.”

“Bezel?”

“The shop cat. You can't miss her. Ben's been over feeding her, but she and Blue don't get on well.”

“Blue?”

“Ben's dog.”

“Oh.” I felt like Alice in Wonderland, and someone had given me the magic tea. Who were all these people? And where were the people I knew? “Do you know if Pat Reed is here?”

“Last I knew he was out making deliveries. He's been trying to keep up with the shop since, you know. It's difficult to believe it hasn't even been a week yet. We're all reeling, I tell you, reeling.”

“G.T. had lived here his whole life. He knew everyone in Orchard.”

“G.T.?”

“Grandpa Thom. My nickname for him.” I cleared my throat.

“Thom did, indeed, know everyone. Which is why the theft was such a shock. Who would steal from Thom and Caroline? And then that they came back?”

“Is that what they think happened?” I asked.

“Well, it's the current theory. The shop had never been robbed, then twice within a month?”

“Was anything taken the second time?”

“No. Not that anyone can tell. Thom hit the car alarm. It was making a real racket. I was getting dressed to go over and see what the commotion was about. Woke me out of a sound sleep, let me tell you. And it woke Ben up too—he lives next door. You don't hear car alarms that often in Orchard, and never at two o'clock in the morning.”

“Why was G.T. here so late?”

“Caroline was out of town, so I guess he was catching up with work at the shop. There are a lot of clocks that need fixing if he was going to meet his goals for the shop and be ready for Thursday.”

“Goals? Deadlines?” I asked. Things really had changed around here.

“Look at me, keeping you standing here. You must be exhausted. As I said, you are perfectly safe. Here's my card, call me if you need anything. What say I stop by in a couple of days, and we can get to know each other properly? I look forward to that, I really do.” With that he turned and walked back across the street, half turning to wave at me over his shoulder. I watched him go, wondering what was going to happen in six days, on Thursday.

T
he door was double keyed, so it took me a few minutes to figure it out. I finally opened it and stepped inside. I knew exactly where the lights were. And I knew exactly how it would look once I turned them on. But I paused for a minute, trying to brace myself. The last time I'd been in this shop was three weeks after my grandmother's funeral. I was heading back to London to finish my internship at the World Horological Institute. The two-year program had been a huge expense for my grandparents, but I know G.T. had been as excited as I was about the opportunity. I'd hugged my grandfather tight and promised to write soon. I had no idea that was the last time I would see the shop. Or one of the last times I would see him.

I reached to the left and flipped the switch. Since there was little ambient light from outside seeping in, it was dark. But
even in shadow, it was familiar. Shelves of clocks on both sides, starting from five feet up. Glass cases with watches and smaller clocks lining either wall. The wooden counter still cut the front part of the room off from the workshop itself. There were a few batteries out, and a couple of cases of watches on the counter. Halfhearted attempts to get last-minute sales.

I locked the door behind me and put down the bags. I walked over and lifted the counter up. Then I heard it—a noise behind me. I whipped around to see a gray cat nudging my bag with her head.

“Hey, you.” I leaned down and reached my hand out. “Bezel, I presume?”

When I'd left, Chime, a huge tabby, was the shop cat. My great-grandfather had started naming cats after clock parts, and my grandfather had continued the tradition. Bezel was a large gray beauty. She looked like she was part Russian Blue. She was eyeing me warily as she inspected my bag, though I could hear her purring from four feet away. She crept forward, stopped about a foot from my hand, and looked at me. I just waited.

“My name is Ruth. I am Thom's granddaughter. Sorry we haven't met before.” Bezel walked around my hand and gave my knees a head-butt. She made a hissing sound, but looked up at me with her big, round eyes. She walked in between the curtains that led to the back of the shop, looking over her shoulder as if to say,
“Are you coming or not?”

“I'm coming.” I pulled open the heavy velvet curtains and walked into the back of the shop—the heart of the operation.

Under the best of circumstances, there was never enough room at the Cog & Sprocket. Clock repair required wall space for testing, shelf space for storage, and somewhere to put clock
parts and packing cases. G.T. and Pat had always been good about using every possible space for storage, including shelves that ran a foot from the ceiling around the entire perimeter of the shop. Because we backed up to the river, the basement was always deemed too dank for storage. Too dank for much else either.

I'd seen a lot of inventory before, but never anything like this. Clocks were packed on every single shelf. The smaller clocks were double shelved. All three worktables were covered with clocks in varying states of repair. Boxes sat all over the room, some piled on top of one another, some opened, most closed. I peered into one of them, but restrained myself from taking anything out. Was there a method to this madness? Probably. I looked over at the old library card files where G.T. kept his clock filing cards, but wooden crates blocked them.

Bezel stopped about halfway into the workshop and blocked my path back. I walked up to her and looked to my right. More boxes. “You're right—I can look through that later. Should I look upstairs?”

Bezel hissed and then smiled again. Was hissing her way of letting me know who was boss? She certainly owned the place. She walked to the back of the shop, where the curtain to the upstairs was pulled open. Before I went back, she stopped and flicked her head to the left.

So far, I'd avoided looking at the back door, for fear of seeing outside to where it had happened. But Bezel wasn't pointing me there, but rather to the left of the door, behind a wall of boxes. I walked back and gasped. Eight grandfather clocks, beautiful examples of longcases. All different sizes and styles, but all impressive. I took out my cell phone and used the light
from the screen for a closer look. There was a card table set up in the corner, and I saw three pendulums laid out. There were weights laid out in front of each clock. Most of the doors were partially open. Were these what G.T. had been working on?

Bezel nudged the back of my knees, waking me from my reverie. She walked over to the staircase and took one step up. She meowed at me, a deep husky meow that wasn't friendly—more “Obey me now.” She took one step up, and then looked back at me.

I did as Bezel told me, following her upstairs, ducking as I walked up the first step. Funny, I hadn't walked up or down those stairs in years, but I still remembered that the staircase was only easy to clear if you were five foot six or shorter. I'd outgrown the door when I was fourteen, topping out at five foot ten finally. I reached the top of the stairs, felt around to the right to find the light switch, finding it and flipping it on by rote.

If the shop hadn't changed that much, the same could not be said of the rooms upstairs. Rather than the rabbit warren of four small rooms where my grandparents had started their marriage that I remembered from my childhood, the space was open. I could see the fading light through the window on the back, though the details loomed in darkness. On the right was the galley kitchen, such as it was. A refrigerator, microwave, and deep slop sink. Old metal cabinets that had been there for as long as I remembered, and looked much the worse for the wear. Behind the kitchen was the only room with doors left in the space. I turned on the light and peeked my head in the bathroom. Clean, but still as cramped, with a toilet, tiny sink, and the claw-foot tub. Walking down the hall I reached around the back of the bathroom and found the light switch. And I stood there, gobsmacked.

My grandmother's bedroom set was all there. The sleigh bed, the highboy dresser, the bureau, the wardrobe. More than the bedroom set was in the back of the space. A couple of chairs, both of which I remembered from my grandparents' living room. A dry sink. Books, so many, many books, piled on the furniture. And more clocks. Everywhere I turned there were clocks. Were I not Thom Clagan's granddaughter, I would be overwhelmed. Cuckoo clocks stuck open. Gears exposed on a beautiful but tattered grandfather. Clock guts everywhere. A smell that combined lemon oil, dust, mothballs and motor grease. As I was, indeed, Thom Clagan's granddaughter, I felt comforted and inspired.

I turned and looked on the bed, noticing the box set on it. A piece of yellow legal paper was folded in half and taped to the side.
Ruth
was written in big red letters. I pulled it off and read the note.

Dearest Ruth,

I'm sorry to not be there in person to welcome you back to the Cog & Sprocket, in case you decided to stay here. I've added new locks, and the place is locked up as tight as a drum. I cleared some space for you and hope that you can find some rest. Here are a few things for the night. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.

All my best,

Pat

I looked in the box and found sheets, towels, a bar of soap, a tin of cookies, and a bottle of wine. I looked over at Bezel, who perched on top of the headboard.

“I'm just going downstairs to get my bags. Do you want to come?” I asked Bezel, hoping the answer would be yes. Instead she climbed up onto the bed and curled herself into a ball.

“Thanks for the support,” I said. I took my phone out as I went back down the stairs, ready to dial for help if I needed it. The enormity of today hit me, and I moved around the shop triple-checking the locks. The back door had a crate in front of it. I walked to the front of the shop, and moved a box in front of the door, grabbing an alarm clock from one of the shelves and resting it on top. I realized it was a silly security system, but it made me feel better. I turned off all the lights, my Yankee frugality kicking in. Then I went back and turned one of them back on, common sense taking over. I grabbed my bags and headed upstairs.