Just Killing Time (11 page)

T
he bags were full and heavy and I began to regret not buying a canvas bag. I felt the paper handles strain with each step. I put both bags down and tried to redistribute the weight a bit better. Wine in nylon bag, bread in paper. Potatoes in nylon, mango in paper.

As I refocused on walking home, I looked up the next block at Ben's Barbershop. The lights were on. I bet I could see inside now. Not that I wanted to stare, but in the dark, who could tell? The best part of twilight walking was looking in windows, since people inside couldn't necessarily see out. I loved getting glimpses of people and trying to figure out what was really going on. The waitress washing down tables at the Sleeping Latte, dancing with her earbuds on? From what I could see, she didn't have a care in the world.
Who was she? Was Moira there? I could stop by and find out, but I'd see her soon enough at her parents' house.

I crossed the street in the crosswalk, having looked both ways. I felt a bit ridiculous at first, but then a delivery truck barreled down the street, making me glad I'd stopped. Aggie Kurt was at the wheel, oblivious. Or so I thought until she waved. I needed to ask someone about Aggie Kurt. I'd bet Moira would know all.

I slowed a bit as I approached Ben's. I resisted the desire to check on my hair, which probably looked as if I had just stuck a fork into an electrical socket anyway. I licked my lips, wishing my lip gloss was in my jean jacket pocket. The rest of my uniform—black leggings tucked into Doc Martens, my tunic loosely belted, long earrings made out of clock parts—were what they were.

The shirt colors changed, I'd made five pairs of the earrings, and sometimes I added some variation of a skirt, but I'd worn the same style for a few months now, and loved it. The freedom of not having to be the staid faculty wife, wearing suits, sweater sets, and nice pants, defined only by my career-conscious husband, was a joy that I swore I'd never forget. I shook my head, still wondering how it all went so wrong. But I'd stopped blaming myself, which was a good sign.

I slowed down before I got to the barbershop and stood up a little straighter. I tried for a casual glance, in case Ben was looking out. I needn't have worried. He was in the throes of a passionate embrace. Or at least a big hug. The lucky recipient? Moira.

I sighed and kept walking. Maybe Moira would be lucky in love with the handsome barber. At least I had Bezel.

I
carried the grocery bags up the front stairs of the shop. I wrestled with the keys again. Why were there so many keys on this ring? What did they all go to? I needed to ask Pat Reed if he knew, which he probably did. I found the one, relieved that I didn't have to go in through the back door. I couldn't bear to go in the shop that way. Not yet. Too many ghosts.

Thankfully, Pat had left some lights on, which helped. I hated it when the days got shorter. There were a couple of streetlights, but not close enough to the Cog & Sprocket to cut through the night. Back in Boston, it was never that dark out, but darkness redefined itself out in the Berkshires. As I walked in, I noticed a piece of paper in the middle of the foyer. I put down my bags and turned on more lights.

Ruth, so sorry, but we need to postpone dinner till
tomorrow. I don't have your cell phone number. Mine is 413-555-3511. Come to the Latte for coffee in the morning. xoxo Moira

I texted her back,
Ruth here, see you tomorrow
. Was she ditching me for Ben? Did I care?

Frankly, I was more relieved than anything. It had been a long day and I needed to settle in. Not to mention I had lunch with Caroline looming tomorrow. I brought in the bags and then closed and locked the front door of the shop. Bezel came down the stairs, blinking her eyes and meowing loudly. No hissing this time. And no yowling. Just a conversational husky meow.

“Of course I bought you something,” I said, smiling at the cat.

She really was a beauty. A good-sized cat with beautiful blue-gray fur, but surprisingly delicate on her feet. She meowed again, walked over, and head-butted my knees. She was pretty strong—they buckled a bit when she hit them just right. She looked at me, squished her eyes, and walked toward the back of the shop. I hesitated for a second but followed her, taking my grocery bags, turning lights off and on as I went through the shop.

We were almost at the staircase when Bezel turned and stood in the middle of the shop. She looked at me and then she jumped up on the back workbench and looked out the window. I looked at her, my heart pounding in my chest. I walked over and looked out the back window for the first time. There was nothing there. Not even G.T.'s ghost.

“What are you trying to show me, sweetheart?” She wouldn't let me get too close. Instead she walked me around the shop, to every corner. “You're telling me I'm home, aren't you?”

Bezel squished her eyes, came over to me. I knelt down and petted her head. I felt a tear stream down my face, and I wiped it with the back of my hand. When I looked around the shop, I saw G.T. bent over the workbench, lovingly bringing a clock back to life. One way I could honor his life was by continuing his work. Maybe it was a little bit for me too, since that was also my dream, and the idea of doing it in the Cog & Sprocket was perfect. But I also wanted G.T. to rest in peace. What could I do to help that along and get my own life back on track?

“Bezel, I think everything is going to be okay, don't you? See, the back door is locked.” I double-checked that and pulled at the door. “I'll put these crates in front of it.” I took the dolly and moved one of the stacks of crates over against the door. I checked on the windows and was relieved to see that they had extra locks on them. They looked new, with bits of sawdust still on the panes. No note, but an obvious Pat Reed effort.

“Tell you what, Bezel. Let's leave this light on, so people know we're home. How does that sound?”

Bezel meowed again and turned to walk back to the front of the shop. Talking to Bezel made me feel a lot less lonely. It helped that she talked back. I left the desk light on and rechecked every door and window on my way upstairs, to make sure they were locked. Then I did the same to the front of the shop.

Tight as a drum, as my grandfather used to say. I picked up the bags of groceries and carried them upstairs. I put the bags on the floor near the kitchen table and then turned to shut the door that went down to the shop. It was a beautiful eight-pane window door, with side lights on either side. I
remembered helping my grandfather put the door in after I'd complained about being shut up in the dreary upstairs room. The door kept the noise out, so I could do homework or read. But the windows let me watch the comings and goings, especially after I put a mirror on the staircase. I was always interested in observing the comings and goings of Orchard. I was a little winded after hauling the groceries up the stairs. Pitiful. I needed to get back to the gym. Or, to be honest, start going to the gym. Or take a walk. Something.

I'd left in such a hurry that there was still the chaos of paperwork on the kitchen table. All part of my new world. I was tempted to leave it, but I could hear my grandmother's admonition:
“No work at the dinner table.”
I compromised, piling the papers on one side, clearing off the other for eating. I unpacked the groceries and looked around. This afternoon the apartment looked like a disaster, but in the gentler evening light, the charm came back.

What a beautiful place the Cog & Sprocket was. I'd never really noticed it until I moved to Boston and saw the same architectural details being highlighted in the high-end rehabs of friends'. Crown molding, end caps, wainscoting. High-end architectural elements that I'd grown up with at the Cog & Sprocket, but never really appreciated. The tall ceilings were mostly tin up here and gave the space some charm. A little bit too shabby on the shabby chic scale, but still lovely. I had a couple of friends who would swoon over the chance to redo this space. It was small, but with a better layout? Perfect.

After I put my groceries away, I poured myself a glass of wine. I picked up my bag again. Oof. It was heavy. What was in there anyway? I looked in it—computer, cords,
notebooks, a box of pencils, protein bars, a water bottle. I closed it back up. I'd tried to carry a purse, but it just didn't work for me. My life required a bigger bag. Hipster Mary Poppins. I smiled thinking of the chief's remark, and shouldered the bag, carefully picking up the glass of wine.

I put my wine on the dresser and took stock. I opened the drawers in the dresser. They were all empty and clean. I put my clothes away and laid out my jewelry and toiletries on the top. Then I moved over to the armoire, hoping to make some room to hang up a few of my skirts.

I took out boxes of notebooks and bent down to look at what was filling up the bottom of the wardrobe. On the bottom there were boxes that were marked with my grandfather's handwriting.
Knitting Patterns
and
Cookbooks
and
Tea Cups
were three of the boxes. Some of my grandmother's things. I recognized her knitting bag and also saw one of her afghans resting on top. If I wanted to make room for clothing, I needed to move all of that. Right now, I couldn't take that trip down memory lane. Besides, there weren't any hangers.

While I looked around for another place to hang my clothes, I rested them on top of a couple of boxes that were stacked up. I decided to add a third box so that my longer skirt wouldn't hit the floor. As I moved a box from one stack to another, a large envelope dislodged from somewhere, hitting the floor right in front of me. I picked it up, noting it was addressed to my grandfather, from someone named J. Harrison with no return address. I peeked in and saw a picture of the Cog & Sprocket that must have dated back from the turn of the last century. Another rabbit hole that I didn't want to fall into. I added the envelope to the pile in
the wardrobe. I spied a coatrack in the corner and dragged it over.

“This place is a mess,” I said to Bezel, who appeared in the doorway. She meowed in response, resting comfortably on my pile of skirts. “Get off those, please. Good thing you've got gray fur; it goes with most of my clothes. I can already tell I'm going to be wearing you all day.”

I really didn't mind. I'd missed having a pet and already felt less alone than I had in a while. I looked through boxes and started to move them into some semblance of order. Since I'd looked over the papers from downstairs, it all made a little more sense. I had assumed that this was more inventory that needed to be repaired, but then I found a few clocks that I recognized. They'd been in older crates than the other clocks, more showpieces than anything. From the look of things, they'd been put away with some care, wrapped in old tea towels I remembered from my childhood. These had always been “Grandma's clocks,” stronger on beauty than the art of horology. Some of them, many of them, had been electrified at one point in their history. Others were attached to neon signs, part of the vintage collections that my grandmother had loved so. My grandfather had been less of a fan, but indulged her.

I separated the clocks out as best I could. It might be nice to use some of them up here once the space got in better shape. I liked the potential of the wide openness of the room, but it needed some work to make it someone's home. Like getting rid of the clock guts spewed all over tables. Creating a better storage system for the clocks. Taking down the rest of the walls or putting them back up. Lots to think about.

I poured another glass of wine, fed Bezel, and then made
a sandwich. Thick slices of homemade bread. Chicken salad with a little bit of mayonnaise, some toasted walnuts, and dried cranberries. There was a hint of sage in the salad as well. It was delicious.

“Looks like I can't boycott the Corner Market after all, Bezel. Food's too good.”

She looked up at me and squished her eyes, then went back to her own dinner. She obviously was enjoying her food as well.

I walked back to the bedroom area, finally exhausted. I went in to take a shower and to wash my hair. I fought back the curtains as I raked my fingers through the knots in my mess of curls. Being cleaner felt good, though. I braided my wet hair, hoping that would help keep it tangle free. I brushed my teeth and climbed into bed, bringing my notebook with me. I started to write without editing myself. I made lists of what I had done today. I made a task list for Monday. I opened to a blank page, and drew a line down the middle, listing with the pros of keeping the Cog & Sprocket on one side and cons on the other. I stopped after a few minutes. My heart wasn't in it. Instead I opened to another page, and titled it “What Happened to G.T.”

The first thing I wrote was
G.T. was murdered
. Just spelling out the words caused me pain like I'd never known. Bezel jumped up on the bed and picked her way over to me, getting in as close as she could before rubbing against my upper arm. I looked down at her and put my head down. She gave me a head-butt and then flopped down next to me, purring like a lawn mower.

“Thanks, Bezel. I needed that.” I went back to the notebook. I made notes on the people I'd met. Beckett Green.
The chief. The Clarks. Aggie Kurt. Ben Clover. The Reeds. I made notes on all of them, and the stories I'd heard. There were some questions, but I hoped the notes from the real estate agent would answer some of them. What was G.T. up to? And how could any of this lead to him being killed?

I worked until I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore. I closed the notebook, and laid it under the pillow on the other side of the bed. I finally fell asleep with Bezel curled up on the other side of the bed.