Clock and Dagger (5 page)

“As a matter of fact, I wondered if you had a couple of minutes to talk,” Mark asked.

Nadia reached over and squeezed his arm. “I'm going to head out and find Tuck,” she said. She didn't look at me when she walked out through the back of the shop.

Just when everything was falling into place. Please don't let this be bad news.

“P
lease don't let this be bad news,” I said to Mark after the door closed behind Nadia.

“It isn't. At least, I hope it isn't. Beckett Green offered me a job.”

“What? Doing what?”

“Fixing clocks.”

“Fixing clocks?” Nancy had been right; he was trying to put me out of business.

“He told me that he had an opportunity to buy some antique clocks and watches. He wanted to hire me to get them ready to go on sale. Part-time. He said I didn't have to tell you.”

“What a weasel,” I said.

“Yeah, definitely uncool,” Mark said. He sounded so sincere, I had to smile. He wasn't that much younger than I
was, about five years. Part of his soul seemed so much older. But then there were these times, when he seemed like a kid.

“What did you tell him?” I said.

“I told him I was working for you and that meant I wasn't working somewhere else.”

“Thank you, Mark. That means a lot. You're a valued member of the team, that's for sure. Did you look at the clocks? I wonder . . .”

“I saw some pictures, but only saw one in person. The clocks looked like some of your pieces. You know, the banjos.” Banjo clocks were invented by Simon Willard, right here in Massachusetts, around 1800. The wall clocks had a round face, an elongated neck, and then a rectangular box on the bottom. There were only four thousand or so true Simon Willards produced, but there have been hundreds of replicas made over the years by members of the Willard family, and other companies. There wasn't a chiming mechanism built into original Willards, but they were still beautiful clocks. We had dozens of examples of banjo clocks, but I had yet to work on a Simon Willard. I went to the museum in Grafton a couple of times a year, trying to charm the director.

“But you couldn't tell the era?”

“No, sorry. Yesterday, he showed me pictures of a couple of watches. Again, couldn't tell the details, but they looked authentic. One looked like it could be a Patek Philippe. You know them: Patek was Polish, Philippe was French. They founded a company in 1851, one of the premier Swiss watchmakers. The Stern family has owned the company since 1932 and—

“Slow down, Encyclopedia Brown! I remember them.” I
almost hated to cut him off—his love of horology was so earnest and pure—but this chocolate was heavy.

“Well, last year a Patek Philippe sold for twenty-four million dollars.”

“Twenty-four million dollars?”

“It was a Supercomplication pocket watch. Nine hundred and twenty components. Man, I'd love to take a look at that baby.”

I had to smile, since I recognized the look on Mark's face. I wore it myself when I thought that one of the grandfather clocks in the shop was a rare find a few weeks back when I was unpacking. It wasn't, but it was still a thrill to work on.

“The watch Beckett showed you was a Patek Philippe?”

“Looked like one, at least. Like I said, he said he'd gotten his hands on a huge shipment of clocks and watches at a good price. He needed someone to help him look over the collection. A good quality watch, like the one he showed me, could be worth thousands, maybe more.”

“Why does Beckett Green have watches worth thousands of dollars?”

“He said he had a friend who stumbled across them at an auction and gave them to Beckett to put in his shop, sort of like decorations.”

“Did Beckett say why he wanted to decorate with clocks?”

“No. Honest, Ruth, I have no idea. He was showing me one of the clocks, so I showed him how to wind it up, talked him through it, explaining a little bit how it worked. He was fascinated. But I guess you understand that.”

“I do. All too well. I wonder why he didn't bring one by the shop? I'd have been happy to give him an estimate.”

“I suggested that, but he acted kind of squirrelly. Today, he
upped the pressure. He told me he needed to hire me to get the clocks ready for sale, but like I told you, I turned him down.”

“Even though you were itching to look at those watches. It's okay. I know you love them. Listen, as I said, I really appreciate your loyalty. You know I have more than enough work to keep you busy, but I can't stop you from taking on other jobs,” I said half smiling. I didn't want him feeling pressure from me too.

“Thanks, Ruth, but I've decided I want to work for you right now. If that's all right?”

“Of course it is.” I studied Mark, who was specifically not looking at me. I added
Get to know the staff better
to my internal list of New Year's resolutions. Mark was holding something back, but I didn't have time to pry it from him now. “Tell you what. My grandfather had several pocket watches he always meant to get to, but he never did. How about if I bring them in for you to work on? They'd be a good challenge for you, I think. Especially since they haven't worked in years.”

“Did your grandfather work on watches as well?”

“He did, or he meant to. Whenever he bought an estate, he'd hold on to the watches, promising himself, and me, that we'd work on them.”

“Why?” he said, looking up.

“He thought I should know a bit about watches, in case business slowed down. Old habits passed on by his father. During the Depression, the Cog & Sprocket couldn't make it as just a clock shop, so they brought in other craftsmen to work on watches. My grandfather was young, and he learned how to do repairs from some of the people in the shop. He preferred clocks. To each his own, I guess.”

“To each his own. I'd love to take a look at those watches.
Don't worry too much about Beckett Green. He's worked himself up to a tizzy. Rina tries to talk him down, but it is going to get worse the closer they get to opening. At this rate, he's never going to open if he keeps getting distracted by other people and crazy ideas. He isn't anyone to worry about.”

I hoped Mark was right. In fact, I was banking on it.

I
loved my new bathroom. It was the biggest indulgence of the entire renovation. The old clawfoot tub was perfect for baths. When I moved in, there was a contraption that turned it into a shower as well, but it was always a nightmare trying to keep the circle of shower curtains from attacking me. At five foot ten inches, the five-foot-tall showerhead was also way too short for me to get my curly red hair really washed, never mind rinsed. Adding a shower stall, one that I could stand up in, and move around in if so inclined, was a luxury. A luxury made affordable by the fact that the shower bed didn't match the color of the tiles, and the glass door had a scratch. The scratch-and-dent reject section of every store was more than adequate for me, and perfect for my budget.

Much as I wanted to linger, my shower was quick. I did wash my very curly hair. I knew it was never going to dry
in time for the open house, but since I planned to wear it up, the only hope of taming it was starting all over with the conditioner-and-product balancing act that kept my curls controlled for very limited periods of time. Wintertime was the worst. Hat head combined with static equaled a very scary hairstyle.

I finished up my ablutions, including layers of lotion and a lot more makeup than I normally wear. The natural look took a lot of effort. Layers of powders, blending, outlining, and smudging. Lipstick came last, once my dress was safely over my head. I wrapped myself in my robe and went to get dressed.

I walked back to my bedroom area and closed the curtain that gave me a semblance of privacy. Even though I'd locked the door to my apartment, I was well aware of the other people who worked in the shop, and had keys.
Better safe than sorry
was my motto about privacy. The living area had needed the most work when I decided to move in, mostly because it had been a hodgepodge of half-torn-down walls that had morphed a small apartment into a storage area that had been filling up ever since my grandfather had moved into the house Caroline still lived in. We'd taken down all of the walls and then used shelving and cabinets to divide up the space. I hung a curtain between the two cabinets that created the doorway into the bedroom area so that I could close it for privacy, but Bezel, my roommate, could move about freely.

Bezel was the shop cat my grandfather had adopted last spring. She was a mixed breed, but looked and acted a lot like a Russian Blue. Her headbutts were a force. The only way to stop them from breaking my nose was to kiss her head as she moved in. She'd look at me with disgust, turn,
and walk away. But she'd always look back, as if to wink, before she settled down on the nearest soft, flat surface. I could hear her purring from across the room.

Even though I'd made the design choices upstairs, Bezel had been part of the plan. She needed windowsills, safe places for her food, privacy for her litter box, and plenty of space to roam. After a break-in last fall, I also needed to make sure I could lock us both in the apartment. That said, I recognized that living above your shop meant people would come in and out more often than usual, hence the curtain.

I looked down at the black knit dress I'd laid out earlier, and sighed. Gray hair. I was always wearing gray cat hair. I took out the lint roller and did what I could to remove traces of Bezel. Caroline was terribly allergic to her, so de-Bezeling had become part of my routine. I put on my undergarments and pulled up my tights. Last step: I needed to get the dress on without ruining my hair or makeup. I unzipped the back and stepped into it, pulling it up carefully. Navigating it over my hips took a moment, but the give of the fabric worked with me. The dress was a simple shift with a sweetheart neckline. Flattering, but not too dressy. Bezel jumped up on the bed and blinked her eyes at me. I blinked back and she smiled.

“What do you think?”

“Meow,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said. I looked at myself in the mirror I'd hung up on the back of the wardrobe. Aside from at my grandfather's funeral, I don't think anyone in Orchard had seen me this dressed up. No wonder. I'd given it up the day my divorce papers had dried, leaving my faculty-wife costumes in my rearview mirror, along with my ex-husband.

I futzed with my hair, pulling damp auburn spirals out of my bun to frame my face, and took a deep, shaky breath. I was nervous. But not only about the open house. As much as I hated to admit it, even to myself, I was nervous about seeing Ben while I was dressed up, and what his reaction would be. I wanted it to be positive. Not too positive. I wasn't ready to start dating. But I was ready to start thinking about it, and Ben was an interesting prospect.

I struggled to reach the back zipper. I should have paid more attention in yoga class—I couldn't reach it.

“Bezel, can you help?”

She sighed, and I joined her. This was the hard part about being single. No zipper help. A rare need, and one for which there surely had to be a modern work-around. There is a fortune to be made on personal zipper-pulling inventions. I reached around by my waist and tried to get the zipper inched up. A couple of inches. Still couldn't reach it over my shoulder, so I twisted again. A couple more inches. I could almost grab the zipper, and somehow thought jumping up and down would help. Bezel meowed and moved to the other side of the bed. I finally got the dress zipped, but now my hair needed fixing. But when didn't it?

I was mid curl wrangling when I heard the shop phone ring in the kitchen. I was glad I'd had an extension installed up here, and even gladder that I could turn off the ringer if I wanted to. I was tempted to let it go to voice mail, but decided against it at the last minute. Maybe Nancy needed something, or Caroline was running late?

“Hello. Cog & Sprocket. How can I help?” I said.

“Caroline?” a voice whispered.

“No, this is Ruth. May I help you?”

“Ruth? Are you Thom Clagan's granddaughter?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Zane Phillips. I am, I was, a friend of your grandfather's. Perhaps he's mentioned me? Or Caroline has?” The voice was still whispering. Maybe he didn't want to be overheard? Or he had a cold?

“I think so,” I said. The name was familiar, but since I'd become immersed in the business of the Cog & Sprocket, I couldn't be sure.

“I'd love to come by the shop. I haven't been there for years, and I read about the open house in the paper. I didn't realize that you were Ruth until I read the article more closely. I saw you—”

“We are going to reopen next week. On January second,” I said. I didn't want to rush him, but trips down memory lane took time, and I was running late. No big surprise, but still, I couldn't be late to my own party.

“Please, tell me. Is Caroline about?”

“No,” I said. I didn't elaborate. Something about his voice sounded familiar, but my gut said to hold back until I could talk to Caroline directly. She was so private, it was contagious.

“Is she going to be at the open house?”

“She isn't feeling well, so I'm not sure she's going to make it.” I'd run the name by Caroline first. Not that it was my job to protect her, but still.

“I'm sorry to hear that. I was hoping to stop by tonight. When you talk to her, please tell her I called and am in the area. I'd love to see her.”

“May I have a phone number where you can be reached?”

I reached for a scrap of paper and wrote down the numbers he rattled off.

“If I don't hear from her, I'll call back,” he said. “Perhaps you could give me her home number?”

“You know, I don't know it off the top of my head,” I lied. “I have it programmed in my phone, which is downstairs, charging. Sorry about that.”

“I'll try back later in the week. Please do pass on the message. I'm sure she'll want to see me.” With that, Zane Phillips hung up. I wrote down his name and put the paper in the pocket of my dress. All of my dresses had pockets—a prerequisite for purchase. I heard one clock chime, and then others join in. Five o'clock.

Yeesh. Once again, I was running behind time. A heckuva habit for a clockmaker. If anyone asked, I'd blame it on the zipper. The party started in a half hour. I looked longingly at my beat-up Dr. Martens nestled in the corner before I zipped up my slick, high-heeled-for-me black boots, and slashed on some red lipstick. I was tempted to try and fix my hair again, but gave up. It would have to do. I closed the door behind me as the clocks finished their five o'clock show.

•   •   •

I
closed, and locked, my apartment door, which was an unusual move for me, especially since I'd moved back to Orchard. But the shop was going to be full of strangers tonight, and some might decide to explore. I worried less about a burglar than I did a curious visitor letting Bezel out.

The steps down to the shop were wide and not terribly steep. The entire building was designed with hatches, trapdoors, and movable walls. I needed to explore the history more, and kicked myself for not asking my grandparents more questions while they were alive. I'd spent a lot of time
with them, especially during high school, but I'd always taken the marvel that was, and is, the Cog & Sprocket a little for granted. No longer. During the renovations, Pat Reed and I had agreed that not a single hatch was to be nailed shut and any wall safes were to be kept in use. Though we'd configured the attic space to be storage and office space, we both were surprised by the number of hiding places we hadn't known about. We hadn't finished exploring loose floorboards and boarded-up eaves upstairs, and exploring and archiving the contents of the basement had been delayed. The onus had been on getting me moved back in, and the shop open, and we'd met those goals, or were pretty close. Who knew what treasures we still had left to discover?

I stepped off the final step to the stunning wide pine planks of the shop floor and felt the now-familiar pang of joyful pain. Joy at being at the Cog & Sprocket, and the pain of not being able to share the joy with G.T. His death, his murder, was still a fresh wound. That his murderer was behind bars was of some comfort, and I was pleased that I had played a small role in making that happen. But the ache was still there for me, and I know it was still fresh for Caroline. We'd left the wooden pegs by the back door, and one of G.T.'s plaid wool work shirts still hung there. The sight gave me comfort, and last week I'd caught Caroline burrowing her face in the fabric, undoubtedly looking for the scent of Old Spice, pipe smoke, and machine oil that were the memory markers of the man who'd worn the shirt.

I walked through the workroom and then took a left into the showroom. This space had been a forgotten pocket a few months ago, but now it showcased some of the more beautiful clocks, while giving customers a place to sit while
waiting. We'd even added a restroom and small kitchenette toward the back for both customers and staff. Family story had it that my great-grandfather had served “special tea” in this room during Prohibition. I looked over at the picture of Harry Clagan from the '20s, smiling at the mischievous grin on his face as he stood in front of the Cog & Sprocket. From what my grandmother had told me, he was not as gifted a clockmaker as his father or his son, but he was a gifted town leader and a wonderful man. His was one of the many ghosts I wanted to welcome back to the Cog & Sprocket.

I looked around at the old family pictures interspersed among the impressive clock collection. Deciding what to put in the showroom had been a difficult decision. Because of the two estate purchases G.T. and Caroline had made last winter, we had a lot of inventory, including some really stunning pieces that were worth a great deal of money. But, as Nadia kept reminding Caroline and me, the Cog & Sprocket wasn't a museum, it was a shop. Customers needed to see a range of clocks, some of which they could afford, others which they needed to aspire to. Caroline had pushed me to include a couple of my own creations—part clock, part art pieces. I'd created one I called the Cog & Sprocket, a large piece that evoked the spirit of the shop. I'd started working on it before I came back to Orchard and finished it right after I'd moved back. To the outside observer, it looked like something a clockmaker would create instead of scrapbooking. But looking more closely, there was more to it. The clock was an eight-day mechanism that worked perfectly. Each cog had a name, or memory, or date etched on it. Some were well known to the town, others were personally meaningful family dates. I'd hand painted all of the pieces on the clock, most of which
moved throughout the day. I was proud of the Cog & Sprocket clock, and knew it would help people envision what was possible to create in the new clock tower. Pat had installed it on the back wall, near the kitchenette and restrooms, hoping it would do its job and draw people farther into the showroom.

The showroom was cramped, overcrowded, and wonderful. Nadia's website included more of the inventory than we had on display, with promises that more would make it to the shop, but all was available for sale. There was a lot riding on this new online presence. The shop had needed to step into this new century. The website was a leap.