Clock and Dagger (14 page)

“So, Caroline fixed this watch back in the day?” I said. “What does that have to do with Mark's death?”

“That, Ruth, is the question,” Jeff said. “The answer could be ‘nothing,' but I find that unlikely. I'll try to figure out some other possibilities.”

“Maybe check on Wallace Struggs?” I said, watching Caroline skim the notes.

“Top of my list,” Jeff said.

“Jeff, it's all packed up,” Caroline said, placing the plastic bag containing the watch into Jeff's palm. “Here are your notes.”

“Thank you, Caroline. This has been very helpful. Sort of unexpected, but helpful.”

“Let us know if you need any other questions answered,” I said.

“Will do. In the meantime, you both take care of each other, all right?”

“You've got it,” I said, putting my arm around Caroline's shoulder. “That's what family's for.”

•   •   •

A
fter Jeff left, and took the watch with him, I asked Caroline if she wanted to come up for some tea.

“Thank you, Ruth, but I told Flo I would go to Marytown with her.”

“Weren't you there?” I asked.

“I was, but Flo didn't know that. She is losing her mind, not being able to go into her shop. She wants to look for some new paint colors for Ben's shop.”

“New paint colors? Does he know about that?”

“She thinks that given what happened there last night, to poor Mark, Ben needs to make over the shop once he can reopen.”

“Wow, she's moving fast. It happened less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“Honestly? We had this shopping trip set up before Christmas. Flo hates the colors of the barbershop and was planning on brightening them up anyway.”

“She doesn't like chrome, gray, and navy? Why am I not surprised?”

“You need to remember, that was her shop back in the day. He may have gone a bit overboard when he wanted to make it his own. I like some of the changes, but agree that a different
color on the walls could help make it a little cheerier. Besides, I've already asked Ben for his blessing, and his opinion.”

“You have?”

“Of course. It's his shop. Flo can, and will, run over him if he isn't careful. He's a sweet guy and loves her a lot. But it's his business. I'm happy to be a go-between for them both.”

“You can let them both think they won. Genius.”

“We'll see. Honestly, I'm happy for the distraction. Of course, I can stay if you need me? Otherwise, Flo and I will do our shopping and then she is coming over for dinner. You're welcome to join us.”

“Thanks, Caroline. I have stuff for stew, and I need to get it made. Go with Flo. Call me when you get home, and we can check in. And, Caroline?”

“Yes, Ruth?”

“Thanks for telling me your story. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Ruth, as you said earlier, we're family. I shouldn't have been keeping secrets from you. That's how this whole thing got started in the first place.”

I
stirred the beef stew around in the pot, taking a deep inhale of the mixture I'd concocted. I could still make out the individual ingredients, which meant it wasn't ready. I didn't cook often, but when I did, I cooked in volume. I'd be eating beef stew for days, but the chopping, sautéing, and stirring had been calming. It smelled delicious, if I did say so, but another hour on the stove would do it good. Of course, it would be even better tomorrow.

I poured a glass of red wine and carried it back to the kitchen table. What a day. I sat down and booted up my laptop. The scent of the beef stew filled the air. It was only five o'clock. Bezel jumped up on the other kitchen chair and stared at me.

“Are you judging me, Bezel?” I said, leaning over and petting her head as she rumbled contentedly. “You're right,
it is close to dinnertime to start a new project. You're also right, I won't be done by dinner and may need to keep working. I know that web surfing isn't a good dinnertime activity, but I'm so tired that I am planning on going to bed right after dinner, and I want to get started before I run out of steam. Is that all right with you?”

Bezel put her two paws on the table and leaned in toward me, her dark, questioning eyes peering straight into mine. She had her own mind, but wasn't given to getting up on tables. She was trying to make a point, and did it effectively.

“Okay, you're right. You caught me. I'm too nosy for my own good. I want to try and find out more about Wallace Struggs. I can't wait until I'm done eating to start. Tomorrow I'll work on figuring out what happened to Mark, but I don't have the energy tonight. All right?”

Bezel went back to sitting on her chair, and shook her head a few more times. Then she jumped down and went back to daintily eating her dinner.

Before I'd moved into the Cog & Sprocket, I'd never owned a pet. Sure, I'd visited my grandparents during the summers, and they always had a cat or two. But I'd never had my own pet. My mother was allergic, and my ex-husband wasn't a fan. (Yet another sign of his true nature, which I'd ignored.)

Of course, I didn't really own Bezel. She pretty much owned the Cog & Sprocket and had graciously allowed me to move in. Still, I was amazed that after a few short weeks I was talking to her regularly, and as worried about her eating habits as my own. She was a sweetheart, though she pretended not to be.

I poured myself another glass of red wine and sat back down at the computer. My search for Wallace Struggs
brought up no pictures, but I did find a few news stories dating back seventeen years. I read them all and took notes on a pad of paper. These notes weren't going into my notebook—they were too private. Puzzles always intrigued me, and this piece was a huge help in understanding Caroline and her reserved nature. Rather than asking her more questions, it was far better for me to find out what I could on my own.

The most recent article that mentioned him was dated six months ago. There had been a discovery of several priceless paintings, rolled up into a tube and left in a storage bin in Brussels. The reporter wrote that the paintings were first tied to the notorious Struggs art theft gang, during the height of their activities in the late '90s. Forgeries were swapped out with the real paintings, creating a shell game of auctions, private collections, and cross-border smuggling. The rest of the article was about the restoration work on the paintings, though the reporter included the fact that Wallace remained in prison in Monaco.

I went back chronologically, but after reading the first few articles, I knew all there was to know, at least from news reports. I did a few more searches and followed up on some of the thefts that had been tied to Wallace Struggs. His vocation was mentioned, but the real press interest was in the paintings and jewelry that he'd been accused of stealing, not the clocks he'd forged. I needed to take a trip to the library to find out more, but that would have to wait. I'd learned what I could, and it all matched what Caroline had told me.

That would have to be enough, for now.

Surprisingly, it was. I closed the lid of my computer and walked over to serve myself some stew. Bezel came over and wound around my legs, purring loudly.

•   •   •

T
hursday morning I woke up and looked out the back window of my apartment. Sigh. Blue skies. I'd made a deal with myself before I went to bed. If there were bright skies, I'd go out for a walk/run in the morning. I doubted Bezel would tell my secret if I didn't keep my promise, but I couldn't be sure of that. She and Pat were pretty close.

I made a small pot of coffee and drank a half a cup of very thick brew. The bananas on my counter were on the verge of overripe, so I ate one. Most days I let them go into overripe, since that led to a banana cake or muffin, but this close to the New Year, I was trying to be healthier. Just a banana, no bread this morning.

I put my layers on and found the headband that came close to taming my curly mop into submission. Let's face it. I was hardly a fashion plate in this getup, and you never knew who you were going to see. With that in mind, I slathered on a bit of lip gloss and went downstairs to the shop.

As was my habit, when I hit the bottom step I looked over to my left, at the model of the Clagan Clock Tower my grandfather had started, and I'd finished. He didn't call it the Clagan Clock Tower, of course. I didn't either, at least not publicly. But the small group who had been working on the plans with me had started using the name, as an homage to my grandfather. He'd hate it, but then he was never one for public displays of affection. I loved that the citizens of Orchard, at least most of them, didn't agree with him on that topic. I hoped he knew how well thought of he was by people in town.

“Good morning, G.T.,” I said, touching the corner of the model. “The New Year gets rung in on Saturday night, the
shop reopens next Monday, and I have a lot to do before either of those things happen. I know you'll help where you can, and I thank you for that.”

Bezel jumped on the table beside the model and bowed her head toward me. I leaned down to accept the headbutt, which I stopped with a kiss. Bezel nuzzled my face a bit, and then sat back and looked up at me, squishing her eyes. I squished mine back.

“Bezel, I know you'll do your part too. I don't know what I'd do without you. I'll let you hang out down here until I get back, but then you have to go upstairs so Caroline doesn't have an allergy attack.”

I put my cell phone in my jacket pocket and took a sip from my water bottle. I caught my reflection in the glass door of a grandfather clock. I certainly looked the part of an athlete, though a little on the softer side. Truth was that I had the gear, part of the wardrobe I owned when I was married to my weekend warrior ex-husband. But these days, I didn't run, I walked with short bursts of jogging. Still, breathing the outside air was always good for clearing the cobwebs. Soon enough there would be too much snow on the ground to go outside, so now was the time.

I walked over to the back door of the shop and looked out the window as I was about to go out. Moira Reed was standing to the right of the stairs, looking up. She had a tray of coffee and a bag with her.

“Moira,” I said after I'd opened the door. I plastered on a smile and tried to forget the cold shoulder she'd given me the day before.

“Ruth, I came over to talk to you, but then it occurred to me that you might not be up yet. So I was just standing here trying to decide what to do.”

“I have become more of a morning person since moving back to Orchard,” I said. “Besides, there's a lot going on. I couldn't sleep.”

“Are you on your way out?”

“I was going for a long walk. Do you want to join me?”

“I'd love to, but I'm not really dressed for it,” she said, looking down at her jeans and boots. “Besides, I need to get back to the Sleeping Latte soon. The place is really hopping. Do you have a minute to talk? I brought food.” She held up the bag.

I sighed. The food from the Sleeping Latte was one of the reasons I needed to get more exercise.

“Come in,” I said, backing into the shop. Resistance was futile. And I was hungry.

“Wow, the model looks great,” Moira said as she followed me into the shop. Bezel had sat back up, and I could hear her purring. Moira put the food bag down on the counter and said a proper hello to the Russian Blue.

“Thanks, I've been working on it when I can,” I said, flicking a little spot of dust from the base. “It helps keep me focused, and it calms me down.”

“The details are amazing. I've got to admit, I was having trouble picturing how the figurines were going to come out of the clock tower, but this makes perfect sense. It's like they're on a little conveyor belt, aren't they?”

“For now, yes. Four of them. Eventually, I'd love to have them inside as well, and there to be a little more action. But for now, four figures coming out of a door, turning around, and going into another door is all I can pull off. Actually, I'm hoping I can pull that off.”

“Dad said that Kim Gray was giving you the runaround.”

“That's one word for it. More like she's adding obstacles
to the course. Apparently any modifications to the building need to be approved by the Historical Council, which is being headed up by Beckett Green.”

“Since when do we have a Historical Council?”

“Since Christmas Day, around dessert time. You know, I thought trying to figure out how to navigate academia was tough, back when I was a faculty wife, but Orchard has the ivy walls beat by a mile. I wish Grover Winter had made the Town Hall Trust a nonprofit from the outset. It would have made life easier.”

“I wonder why he didn't?”

“Paperwork. Having to maintain a board of directors instead of keeping it in the family. Plus, when the family gifted the Town Hall to Orchard for fifty years, they didn't need the money, and he was the chairman of the Board of Selectmen.”

“I still don't see what Kim Gray is thinking, not signing a new lease for the building.”

“You've heard her at meetings. She's worried about deferred maintenance, that I will use the money the estate is earning from the sale of the Winters' clock collection to pay for the clock tower—”

“She's calling it Ruth's Folly these days.”

“Really?” I said. I looked over at the model and smiled. “Maybe it is. But if it is, game on. I'm making this happen, one way or the other. Anyway, enough about that. What brings you by? And as importantly, what's in the bag?”

“In reverse order: a breakfast sandwich and an apology. Mind if we go upstairs to talk?”

“You know the way,” I said. I picked up the bag and followed Moira upstairs. My walk would have to wait.