The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle

Jill Winters

Copyright © 2011 by Jill Winters

 

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Please Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

I dedicate this book to my sweet, handsome husband, who makes all great things possible.

Special thanks to my parents, who are wise and generous beyond words, and to all the family & friends who have asked about and looked forward to my next book.  I am forever grateful!

 

 

Prologue

 

At five minutes till midnight, the town of Big Clock was nearly quiet.  Tucked in a hillside pocket outside of Minneapolis, Big Clock was apart from the city noise.  The only sounds in the town square on an icy December night like this were the faint humming of the back-up generator and the off-key whistle of the wind.

Light snow slanted leisurely across the brick and stone buildings that lined the square.  The decorative candy canes that were strung high between lampposts clumsily wobbled with the breeze.  There was a deceptive serenity to the scene. 

On the north side of the square stood the clock tower for which the town had been named.  It was an office building now, eight stories high with the majestic old clock crowning the top like a proud antique.  There was a certain invincibility about that clock, a certain comfort in its endurance. 

The clock building, as it was simply referred to, was dark—except for the dim light that filled two windows on the eighth floor.  On the other side of the glass was the hurried sound of footsteps.

Running past an aisle of cubicles, the blond woman headed frantically for the main door of the Metropolax Company.  Already in hand was her ID badge which would get her to the elevator.  The plastic edge of it nearly cut into her palm as she unwittingly tightened her grip. 

She cursed silently as her heel snagged on the carpet again, lamenting both the annoying rug and her own vanity; she never should have worn high heels tonight.  In fact, with a frightening clarity she realized: she shouldn't have come at all. 

Nothing had gone the way that she had pictured.  When she had played out this scene in her mind earlier, she had never anticipated—

Finally the entrance was in reach.  Waving her ID badge across the magnetic scanner that was attached to the wall, she lurched toward the gold door handle.  She pushed her weight on it but it didn't budge.  “Damn it!” she whispered, realizing that the scanner hadn't registered her badge.  It was a dated and temperamental security system that stopped just short of being a joke. 

She whipped her head around to see any signs of her pursuer.  No one was in view yet, but a familiar voice rang through the office.  “Come back here!  Why are you running away?  I just want to talk to you!”

She couldn't resist yelling back, “Then why do you have a hammer?”  Goddamn it! she thought.  Why had she let herself be baited?  Her own mother had always criticized her hot-headedness, warning that it would lead to trouble.  But who really listened to their mothers, until it was too late?  

At least she hadn't called her pursuer “Mr. Media,” as she had done tauntingly once or twice before; Sox hated being called “Mr. Media.”  “Sox” was a nickname, too, of course, but it didn't carry the same uncomfortable implications.

As soon as she heard the thump thump of encroaching footsteps, she realized that she would not have time to get safely out of the building.  By the time the elevator climbed from the lobby to the eighth floor, surely Sox would have caught up to her. 

As a plan B, she waved her ID badge across the scanner again and gave the glass door a hard shove.  It flung open, the hinges making their trademark squeak.  Instead of exiting, the blond continued on—cutting through the maze of cubicles, past the kitchen and down toward the back stairwell.  She hoped Sox had heard the door hinges and assumed that she was on her way to the lobby.  If she hurried, maybe she could make it down the back stairwell and out to her car.

But Sox must not have been fooled, because the menacing voice rang out again.  “This ends now.  Tonight, we settle it once and for all.” 

The blond swallowed hard, discerning at once that the voice was getting closer.  Instinctively, she brought her hand to her neck and rubbed it tensely.  It was something she did only when she was anxious.  This couldn't be happening, she thought with a certain cognizant futility. 

But really—how could it happen?  “Mr. Media” wasn't a killer.  Could anyone just kill?  The two had known each other for years.  Yet...Sox's face tonight was a side the blond had never seen...and the hammer...there was no doubt Sox could overpower her...

Desperately, the blond decided: If I'm going to die tonight, I'm not going quietly.  She ducked through the nearest door, which led to the ladies' room, and raced to the sink. She bent over the counter, getting as close to the mirror as possible without touching her lips to it, and puffed hard.  She shifted by inches and kept puffing, until there was a fat cloud of steam on the glass.  With her fingers, she scribbled as fast as she could.  Maybe nobody would ever find this, but it was her only hope.  She had no paper or pens on her, her purse was still at her desk, and she couldn't risk running back toward her office.   

She cracked the ladies' room door just enough to see if Sox was anywhere around.  The corridor appeared to be empty, so she ducked out again.  Just then, she heard the door to the stairwell open.  Her heart jumped, as panic coursed through her body.  The stairs were just around the corner!   

Haplessly, she froze in place for a few seconds, looking all around, before she finally got her feet to move. 

She doubled back and ran down the hall until she noticed the supply room door on her right.  It was only partially closed.  The door had an automatic lock, but its antiquated magnets often precluded it from shutting all the way. 

With relief, the blond stepped inside and closed the door soundly behind her.  Her panting was steep now.  It was the first time she realized fully how terrified she was, how precious her life really was...

She backed away from the door and further into the room.  Suddenly she heard the big clock above the office gong.  The sound reverberated through the porous walls of Metropolax as it always did.  The clock chimed ten times and then stopped.

Several quiet minutes passed.  The blond almost let herself feel relief when the doorknob began to rattle.  She gasped.  Then, with a choking lump in her throat, she watched as the lock turned. 

The door opened.  Sox stood there, still holding a hammer.  Despite that, the blond suspected that Sox could be reasoned with and probably didn't really want to kill her.  Pleadingly, the blond said, “We can work this out...don't be crazy...”

Sox nodded and agreed, “You're right.  Things are going to work out—but my way, for once.”

“What are you talking about?  You did get your way!” the blond blurted and then quickly shut her mouth before she made things worse.  If things even could be worse.

“Listen up, honey,” Sox said, scowling.  “Because this is how it's going to go...”

Chapter 1

 

Things will always catch up to you.  No matter how you think you've gotten away with something or clutched a secret.  Somehow the past will come back, in one form or another.  It's just another slap in the face for humanity, really.  No matter how much you long to, you can't go back to the past—but it can come to you.   

This is where my part begins.

It all started on that Monday, the morning I thought I knew everything.  I see now that I didn't know a damn thing.  I had embarked on an investigation with a brash certainty that was misplaced (and usually is, even under the best of circumstances).  In short time, I found not clear answers, but layers of questions.  

Now, after finally figuring everything out, I found myself stuck—literally spinning my wheels. 

“Damn it!” I burst and pressed on my accelerator again, dreading that grinding sound of my tires fighting against the ice.  I had left the Chronicle office just a few minutes earlier, but stupidly decided to take the shortcut through Park Street.  Of course I hadn't realized that the narrow road had barely been paved and salted, and I say “stupidly” because Big Clock, Minnesota was such a small town, the concept of a “shortcut” was almost redundant.  But I had just been so impatient, after what I had learned tonight.  Finally the pieces had come together and all of my admittedly amateurish efforts had come to fruition.  My first thought had been: I had to find Ian.

At least tonight wasn't one of those treacherous Minnesota nights with snow falling in buckets, but it was still a half-frozen maze of frustration.  As usual, my strategy of stomping on my accelerator pedal and overworking my tires was a big fail.  With a deep sigh, I clutched my steering wheel and willed myself to calm down.  Things always seemed scarier at night.  I glanced around to make sure all my doors were locked. 

There was no reason to get flustered over this.  I tried to remember exactly how I got my car un-stuck the last time this had happened.  I knew it involved something my dad had showed me once involving inching the car forward and backward.

Thinking of my dad made me momentarily homesick for New Jersey.  Where my roots were—my parents, my brothers—and where my “direct” approach to various aspects of life was considered normal.  Being from New Jersey, I was also used to snow in the winter—just not as much and not as constantly.  But I couldn't complain much about Big Clock, which to my surprise, had turned out to be an adorable, hidden postcard-of-a-town. 

Speaking of my roots, I will give you the basic sketch: my name is Caitlyn Rocket.  At the time all this happened, I was twenty-six-years-old and a graduate student at Westcott College in Minneapolis.  I was working toward a degree in Journalism, with a focus on Print Media & Linguistics.  In addition to that, I had been employed as a “general assist” at the Big Clock Chronicle for about six months.  Literally that was my title.  And if you are thinking that “general assist” might be prestigious like a “general manager” of a baseball team or something, let me disavow you of that adorably naive belief now.  The truth was, I was the equivalent of a paid intern; my tasks at the paper were diverse and scattered, and there didn't seem to be a cap on the number of new things that could be added.

Just then a sheet of ice broke against the windshield, startling me. 

I took a breath.  Then, for some reason, I watched it slide down the misty glass and I thought about the contrast—how what had assailed my windshield at a fevered, frantic pitch just a moment ago, was suddenly moving in slow motion.  It made me think about how elusive and strange Time really was.  Just two short weeks ago, I had never even heard of the Metropolax Company.  And now, here I was...

Knee-deep in the whole convoluted mess. 

But I suppose I should start at the beginning.  As I had said, it was a Monday morning.  The Big Clock Chronicle office was the same as always—battered but cozy, had seen better days, which were probably in the Fifties.  Despite the woodsy “decor” (i.e. mismatched wooden desks and chairs, and a plank-wood floor partially covered by a threadbare Oriental rug), the office was bright with sun, which shone brilliantly against all the snow piled up outside.

The air was thick with that decadent aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.   My boss, Ian Beller, and I gravitated right toward the pot.  “Ladies first,” he said and waited for me to fill my mug.  As always, Ian and I were the first ones here.  I always came early, because I had to go through all the voicemails and emails that accumulated in our general mailbox the night before.  Ian arrived early, because he was the Managing Editor of the paper, and pretty uptight in general.

After I stepped aside, I took a sip of coffee and turned my attention back to the Sunday edition of the Minn. Ledger, one of Minneapolis's largest newspapers.  Ian had his copy folded beneath his arm, as he poured his own cup.

“Hey, Ian, did you see this?” I said, as I sat down at my desk, which was burrowed in the far corner, diagonally across the room from the front door.   

“What's that?”

“This article about a robbery here in Big Clock,” I replied, then looked up at him.  “In the clock building.  Did you know about that?”

“No...oh, wait, yes.  Do you mean that supply closet thing?  Over at—what was the name of the company...” he said, thinking aloud.

“Metropolax,” I read, pronouncing it just like “metropolis,” but with “ax” at the end.  “Am I saying that right?”

Ian didn't respond; he was scanning his own paper now, as he walked back to his office.  “Where is it...oh, wait, here it is,” he mumbled as he walked, loudly folding the pages over.  It wouldn't take him long to read the piece, which wasn't an article so much as a blurb. 

“How come we didn't cover that?” I asked curiously, wheeling my chair far enough out of the corner to see Ian's office.  “The paper said it happened last week.”

Ian sat down at his desk, tossed the Sunday edition off to the side and called back through his open door.  “Fredriksen told me not to, unless more came out about it.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I think he's friendly with the president over there,” Ian remarked, but didn't elaborate any further.

Mr. John Fredriksen was the owner of the Big Clock Chronicle as well as a Minneapolis-based arts and theater guide called, Culture & Performance.  Whereas Culture & Performance ran bi-weekly, the Chronicle put an issue out every Wednesday and Sunday. Typically, the Chronicle consisted of weather, classified ads, horoscopes, local sports and community updates.  Sunday's issue added two feature articles—one with a local focus, and another that dealt with a topic of regional or even national significance.  Sunday's paper also had an expanded sports section, with updates on professional teams and an opinion column, tons of coupons, and just added to the paper was a “Movie Spotlight Corner” that I was put in charge of (well, sort of—Ian still had a plethora to say.)

Mr. Fredriksen didn't actually live in Minnesota.  He was based in Los Angeles, where he was apparently a successful theater producer.  He visited the Chronicle office only sporadically, and he was always pleasant to Ian's staff.  But it seemed that whenever he left, Ian called a meeting and somehow at the end of it, I wound up with a few more responsibilities. 

“It wasn't really a big deal anyway,” Ian added now, obviously to justify our lack of reporting on a news item that had literally happened in our backyard.  Or front yard, as it were.  The old store building that housed the Chronicle was on the south side of the town square, so there was about a football field's distance between the big clock and us.  I was in and out of the clock building on a weekly basis, because the print company we used had its office on the first floor. 

“Granted, I am surprised that the story found its way to the Minn. Ledger,” Ian added. 

“Well, it says here that the supply room was broken into after hours.  That the receptionist went in on Wednesday morning to find things missing.”  I looked up toward Ian's office.  His eyes were fixed on his computer screen and he was clicking away on his mouse.  “Was anyone arrested since then, do you know?”

“No.  But if it happens we'll certainly cover it.”

“Well...”  Perplexed, I set down the paper.  “If the receptionist reported this Wednesday morning, it means that the robbery actually happened on Tuesday of last week.”  Ian didn't ask me to elaborate, but kept clicking his mouse.  I chose not to take the hint and continued, “The story is in the Ledger in the Weekly Recap section, which is pretty much just fluff.”

“And your point?” Ian replied, sounding faintly bored with the topic.

“My point is, if there had been any developments with the investigation, the Ledger would have covered them.  Clearly, this is like a sound bite—it's a blip, a nothing.  Are the police actually even doing anything to solve the crime?”

At that, Ian snorted.  “Rocket, you make it sound like someone shot a bank teller or something.  We're talking about some office supplies that went missing. I don’t know why the receptionist would even call the police—versus going to a manager or supervisor first.”  He gave a shrug.  “Either way, maybe there was a legitimate reason the supplies were taken and the receptionist just wasn't in the loop.  That's possible.” 

I held up the paper.  “But it says also that the lock appeared damaged.”

Again, Ian shrugged.  “The police will figure it out, I’m sure.”

“Ha—I doubt that,” I said and got up to re-fill my mug.

“What's that mean?”  Now Ian got up from his desk; he stepped out into the main office again, this time carrying some papers.  He was looking at me and I couldn't tell if his expression was amused or curious or bemused.  Ian was always so poker-faced it was hard to tell exactly what he was thinking.  He was still relatively new in town, having moved from Seattle to Big Clock four months ago when he took the job at the Chronicle.

Once I was seated at my desk again, I tucked in my chair and clicked open my inbox.  “You know my feeling on the Big Clock police,” I said.

“No, I don't,” he replied.

I pulled my gaze from my monitor, and slanted it at him.  “Okay, I know you're fairly new so maybe you haven't gotten around to noticing this yet, but the police force in town is basically incompetent—on pretty much every level.”

“That seems harsh.” 

There's something about Ian you should know: he always has to disagree with me.  It's maddening, if you want to know the truth.  Whether it's in the form of quiet skepticism or editorial feedback, it seems like he usually has something contrary to say.  He often acts much “older and wiser,” even though he's only thirty-three.   

“Wait, I take that back,” I amended.  “I shouldn't say they're incompetent, because I  don't know that for a fact.”  I realized that I should give them the benefit of the doubt.  “Maybe they're just lazy.”

He barked a laugh at that and continued on to the fax machine, shaking his head.

“Hey, I'm sure it's not just in Big Clock,” I offered.  “Probably there are lots of police forces out there who basically don't do much.  Except swagger around in their uniforms, give parking tickets, and get free food at all of the local establishments.” 

“Your inclination to make pronouncements without any real data is...charming,” Ian remarked.

“Thanks!” I said sweetly.  Though I admit: I was being overly cynical.  But I tended to exaggerate and over generalize when I was making a point.  “Like take that jewelry store robbery in October.  There was a lot of 'person of interest' BS that never went anywhere.  I'm surprised the police 'profilers' didn't come out of the woodwork to do their number,” I added, and then felt compelled to do a brief impression of a profiler.  “ 'Our man is most likely someone who enjoys money and understands that selling jewels may get him money.  He likely lives alone, or with people, and looks like everyone else.  He probably has difficulty forming relationships, except sometimes, when he doesn't.' ” 

In spite of himself, I could tell, Ian smirked.  Then he said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Rocket, but I’m not sure how great of a detective you would make.”

“Why do say that?” I said, surprised. 

“Ah, many reasons,” he replied vaguely.

When he didn’t elaborate, I insisted, “Well, I can't promise I could solve the case—definitively—but I'm sure with some thought and some tenacity, I could come up with more leads than the Big Clock police do.  And a lot faster.” 

“I'm sure,” Ian replied dismissively and walked into his office. 

Suddenly I had an idea.  “Care to make it interesting...?” I called out. 

At first he ignored me.  Then I heard him say, “Meaning what exactly?”

“If I can do what I said—well, a wager is what I'm proposing.”

“Okay, Nancy Drew, it's been fun.  Now why don't we get back to our work?” 

I forgot to tell you that Ian could also be very condescending.  I sometimes wondered if the unfortunate trait played any part in his impending divorce. 

“Seriously,” I persisted.  “If I can prove what I said and uncover something here—like a real investigative journalist—then I will be rewarded in return.”

“Please don't bother asking for a raise,” he said flatly.  “We're on a shoestring budget as it is.”

“No, not money.  I want a recommendation from you to Wells-Web once I finish my degree.  And also that office with the window.”

“Oh, Rocket—not this again.”

“Why not!” I yelped.  “It's been sitting empty since Tanya left.”  The office in question had a picture-perfect view of the town square—which beat my current view of dry wall and tack holes. 

“Fine for the recommendation,” Ian agreed finally, which was a relief.  I was dying to work for Wells-Web, a diversified media empire that currently ran some of the most respected news and commentary sites in the country.  Their elite roster of writers included journalists, scholars, published scientists, and even mathematicians. It probably went without saying that I wasn't nearly qualified yet.  Ian had worked for Wells-Web at one point, so I figured he still had to have a contact or two and that his personal endorsement would carry weight. 

“But just remember, if you're going to look into this incident, you can't do or say anything that would jeopardize this paper or its reputation.”

“Of course not,” I agreed.

“You have to be a consummate professional.”

“Always.”

“Be ethical, be discreet,” he rattled on.  “Oh—and this project of yours can in no way interfere with your regular work here.”

“Fine.  No problem.”

“One more thing.  A wager has two sides, remember?”

“Um...oh yeah...okay, what do you want if I fail to come up with any solid leads?”

Ian replied, “You'll agree to match twenty percent of Gary's advertising sales for the month.”  Since advertising sales could be done any time, the task wouldn't interfere with my daily work at the paper, and would obviously only benefit the paper. 

Begrudgingly I agreed.  Ian still hadn't promised to give me the vacant office, but just then the bell over the front door rang and Monica Fong, the Chronicle features writer, entered.  It seemed like time to quit while I was ahead. 

Except—was I ahead?  Damn, what had I gotten myself into?  Shooting my mouth off at the coffee maker might prove costly.  And if I had to spend my nights cold-calling for advertising sales, it would significantly dampen my Christmas spirit. 

I just couldn't let that happen.  It was one of those times I had to believe in myself, because I simply had no other choice.

Chapter 2

 

Our morning staff meeting began once advertising sales rep, Gary Netland, blessed us with his tardy presence.  “Hey all,” he said, shaking snowflakes off his fluffy brown and gray hair.  “Give me two secs.”  He wiped off his mirrored sunglasses on the way to his desk, while Ian, Monica, and I waited at the round table in the center of the room.  

“Hi, Gary,” Ian said.  “Pour yourself some coffee and come join us.”

“No prob, be right over.” 

I sat, tapping my pencil on the chipped edge of the wooden table, casually eying my fellow colleagues.  Since we were a small staff, a quick lap around the table will give you an efficient picture.  There was Ian Beller, of course, our boss and on a good day, our mentor.  Ian was about six feet tall with light brown hair; so far he seemed to have four basic expressions: focused, impatient, inscrutable, and vaguely amused. 

He was still new to the Chronicle, having replaced our previous editor just four months earlier.  I had to give him credit for being painstakingly logical and, as implied by the diploma from Northwestern hanging above his desk, the man was intelligent.  He was originally from the Midwest, but his parents were military, so he had lived all over the country.  An accomplished skier, Ian had apparently been an Olympic hopeful back in the day, but had never quite made it.

To the left of Ian was Monica Fong, with her usual gargantuan breakfast spread in front of her.  She arranged paper napkins all around, using one as a coaster for her large plastic thermos, and stuffed tufts of powdered croissant into her mouth with one hand, while smearing cream cheese on a bagel with the other.  For such a precise, exacting, grammatically correct writer, she was a surprisingly messy eater. 

But as always, I envied her hair, which was shiny black and perfectly straight.   My own brown hair was usually up in a ponytail, because it had a “natural wave” that looked different from one day to the next and I could do nothing with it.  I was once told by a hairdresser that with a simple blow-dryer, rolling brush, hot rollers, mousse and styling gel it would be gorgeous—so as I said, I could do nothing with it. 

When I had first come to work at the Chronicle, I had hoped to become friends with Monica, because we were close in age and most of the people I knew from Westcott College lived in the city.  But there was some kind of disconnect between us.  She seemed like a decent enough person, but our conversations never flowed smoothly.   

Finally our sales rep, Gary, moseyed over and sat to Ian's right.  Gary was in his mid to late forties and had a generally rumpled appearance, from his thick untamed hair to his saggy khakis and loose fitting shirts.  He exuded a casual comfort in his own skin.  I presumed it came from an innately schmoozy nature and years of cultivating contacts.

Not present but still vital to the staff, were our sports and leisure writer, Bart, who was disabled and generally worked from home, and our web group.  The Chronicle's website was maintained by the same Minneapolis-based team who handled Mr. Fredriksen's other publication, Culture & Performance. 

“All right,” Ian began.  “First off, Monica, you did a great job with that story about the fire in Jenkins Market.  Very thorough.” 

Monica Fong smiled proudly, her chubby cheeks indented with dimples. 

“Let's do a follow up piece for the next edition, interview the neighboring store owners for their observations on the fallout,” Ian continued, and Monica quickly unearthed a spiral notebook from beneath some sticky napkins.  Ian added a few more ideas, to which Monica nodded profusely and appeared to jot down every word he said. 

Then she said, “I also had an idea for another piece.”

Ian raised his eyebrows with interest.  “Really, what's that?” 

I should back up and tell you that Monica was obviously Ian's favorite on the staff.  To her credit, she was very diligent and responsible about deadlines.  But it was hard to picture her ever developing a real following with a writing style that was so stiffly informative.  When Monica wrote a feature, it was like she went into straight-A student mode and was writing a scientific term paper. 

“I was reading a biographical article about Joe Slock, you know the man who was arrested last year for bigamy, fraud, tax evasion, and a host of other charges.”  Nobody asked for clarification, because the news story had made national headlines, for its intrigue factor alone.  Apparently this Joe Slock had been living two separate identities in two different states, which included not only wives and children, but also two separate companies that he owned.  The story made headlines because it called into question how someone with a fake name and fraudulent social security number had been able to accomplish all of the seemingly legitimate transactions that Slock had—with banks, Realtors, and stockholders in his companies. 

Big stories had a way of taking on lives of their own, and in this case, the story became not about why Joe Slock had done any of this, but how.  It seemed the question that was constantly raised by newscasters was how Slock and his alter-ego had “slipped through the cracks” for so long.

Monica continued, “I decided that I would like to write a piece about the viability of business owners leading, in effect, double lives, and the tax implications it would have.  I will of course thoroughly research the topic before I commit to a thesis one way or another.” 

Ian paused, as if mulling, absorbing.  Then he slowly nodded.  “It's an interesting idea.  Although I'm afraid it would sound too much like academic conjecture if we're only talking about one concrete example.  If there is one or more similar cases, it could warrant an investigative piece.  I wouldn't want us to write what amounts to a celebrity piece for Joe Slock.  But, I like the idea of a 'bigger picture.'  Keep me posted.”

Monica scribbled frantically in her spiral notebook. 

Gary Netland's cell phone rang then, breaking the flow of the meeting with a loud instrumental version of “Funky Town.”  He let out a half-hearted chuckle.  “Sorry, she never leaves me alone,” he said and turned the sound off.  Gary's remark didn't pertain to the caller; he always referred to his cell phone as “she.”

Then Ian shifted focus to me.  “Rocket, I made a few notes on your spotlight piece.”  Several weeks ago Ian had asked me to start a monthly “Movie Spotlight Corner.”  The review he had marked up now was only my second effort.  He slid the copy across the table to me, the dreaded red ink mocking me as it careened closer.  To add insult to injury, Ian's handwriting was terrible, so I would have to squint to find out exactly how I'd flopped.  “Overall it's good,” he added, “but you need to be less acerbic.  Like I said, I made some notes.”

Monica Fong's bag rustled loudly as she pulled out her next course.  I tried to wait until she was done, but finally just spoke over her noisy crinkling. 

“But it's a film review,” I replied, confused.  “It's not supposed to be objective.”

“I understand that.  Like I said, overall it's good.  Giving your opinion is fine, but you need to tone down the subjectivity.”

“But—”

Ian cut me off.  “Rocket, the word 'hack' should be nowhere in there.  Just for one example of what I mean.”  I couldn't recall if I'd called the director or the screenwriter a “hack.”  Or had it been the leading actor?  “Language like that is too alienating,” Ian explained.  “Especially in this economy, with this current job market.  It's going to touch a nerve with too many people.” 

His voice turned didactic then, almost condescending, as he informed me, “Offending our readership is counter productive.  To entertain is fine, to offend is not.  You're going to need to learn the difference if you want to continue the film reviews.” 

With that, he opened his laptop, turned it so we could all see, and started blathering about our online traffic.  Meanwhile, my cheeks burned with embarrassment. 

I felt chastised.  Even though Ian's tone had been even-keeled and professional, his words still stung.  Maybe part of it was realizing that he was right.  Inwardly, I had to admit I got carried away sometimes when I was writing.  Sometimes I was so caught up in making a point or trying to be amusing, I was hyperbolic, maybe too sarcastic.  Ian calling me out on it reminded me that I still had much to learn.  I was beginning to wonder how much graduate coursework pertained to real life field experience.  (And I suppose I should have read his notes before trying to argue.)      

The meeting wrapped up shortly after, with Ian praising Gary because our online subscription numbers were up.  These days, The Big Clock Chronicle was something of an anachronism: our printed newspaper outsold our online version by more than 50%.  Apparently most of our revenue came from advertisers and daily sales straight off the newsstand. 

In keeping with the times, Fredriksen and Ian were trying to transition the Chronicle better to the Internet and mobile markets, and the various changes that Ian implemented following one of Fredriksen's visits were usually toward that end.  Obviously, the more online exposure the Chronicle had, the more we could charge for advertisements on our site.

As Ian rose from his chair, and the rest of us followed, Gary's cell rang again.  “God, she's merciless, huh?” Gary announced with amusement and glanced at the number.  “Oh, I've got to take this.”  As he answered the call, he shot a glance back at us and held two fingers up, which was Gary's way of saying that he'd be back in “two secs.”  Then he stepped outside. 

On my way to my desk, I heard Monica say, “Ian, I forgot to mention that I will provide you with a comprehensive bibliography and a detailed list of my source material when I submit my formal prospectus.”

I couldn't help rolling my eyes.  (The only one who might have seen me was the spindly spider who lived in the corner above my desk, the one I had unoriginally named “Charlotte.”)

“Thanks, Monica,” Ian said.  “But really, you don't need to bother with a prospectus.  If you want, you can just shoot me a draft and we'll go from there.”

Once I was face to face with my computer, I found my eyes drifting down to the Sunday edition of the Ledger that was folded next to my keyboard.  Finally I reached for it and reread the blurb about the Metropolax Company, amid the brief section entitled: “Weekly Recap of the Greater Minneapolis Area.”  

 

BIG CLOCK, MN. Police reported possible robbery at Metropolax Company on December 10th. The call came from a Metropolax employee who arrived for work and found the supply room door open. “It's normally locked,” Jennifer Agnor said, “That's when I noticed the lock looked like it had been smashed. When I went in, a few of the shelves didn't look right. Things were definitely missing.” Allegedly among those things were an electronic paper cutter, a computer monitor, two boxes of white paper, and an old laptop. Metropolax Co., est. 2001, sells pillows and seat cushions. Receptionist Agnor is an aspiring actress who has been employed by the company since October. At this time, no other employee could be reached for comment. 

 

Pillows and seat cushions…  I considered what might be valuable inside a supply room of a company that sold pillows and seat cushions.  Prototypes with drugs hidden in the stuffing?  Or maybe stolen gems, sewn into the embroidery?  Sure, in fiction, maybe.  But the article didn’t mention anything about cushions missing.  Only office supplies.  And an old laptop, I noted.

Absently, I rapped my fingers on the desk.  How great would it be if I could win the wager I had made with Ian? I thought.  If I could actually investigate the robbery myself and come up with some leads, then I would not only have that recommendation, but also gain my boss's hard-won respect.  Not to mention, take that office with the window.  “I need that office...” I murmured to myself, then flashed a cursory look up in the corner.  “No offense, Charlotte.”

Just then, Gary came back inside, stomping snow off his boots as he wrapped up his phone call.  “Okay, great, Lar.  That sounds great.  Listen, you crunch the numbers and wrap it up in a pretty bow for me?  Thanks.”  After he disconnected, he casually slipped the phone in his pocket and ducked his head in Ian's office.  “Larry Antonsen Automotives is going to do a three month spread with us.  Back cover.  Big money.” 

“Really?”  Ian sounded pleased.  But like I mentioned earlier, Ian was never one to jump up and down.  “Gary, that's excellent.  Great job.” 

“No prob,” Gary replied and then winked at me when he caught my eye on the way to his desk.  It wasn't a lecherous wink; it was more of a: hey kid, isn't life grand, pass the bowl of cherries when you get two secs, type of wink.  I have to admit, I envied Gary's happy-go-lucky persona, which I could only assume was genuine. 

Even more than that, I envied the praise that he and Monica always seemed to garner.  I knew that I juggled my myriad duties as “general assist” competently, but I guess I was looking for more.  Again I eyed the Ledger and thought about that silly wager—which wouldn't be so silly if I actually came through.

That settled it then: this was going to be my time to shine.

Chapter 3

 

For almost a year I had been living in the top-floor apartment of a lovely two-story brownstone.  The house was owned by a sweet elderly woman named Mary, who often came by to dust the grandfather clock and sideboard that stood in the entry foyer, or to vacuum the chenille runner that climbed the staircase.  In the bottom-floor apartment lived Lucy Wright, whom I had met in a linguistics class at Westcott.  Lucy was the one who'd tipped me off about the vacancy upstairs from her, and I always felt grateful for that because it was what had brought me to Big Clock. 

Mary was a kind, unobtrusive landlady, the rent was reasonable, and the old house was charming and comfortable.  If I had any qualm at all it would be that the attic of the house was accessible only through my apartment.  Since Lucy had stored some of her things up there, she sometimes needed to get into my apartment so she could access them.  Early on, she had asked me for a spare key in case she needed to get something from the attic when I wasn't home, but I'd never supplied her with one. 

I hadn't wanted to tell her the truth—that I was not on board with anyone having a key to my home, period.  So instead, I had avoided the issue and stalled on it until it seemed to fade away.  Not very direct of me, I know, but I didn't want to offend her and I figured that she might not understand that it wasn't personal—that I didn't grow up in a town or even a state where people “left their doors unlocked” or even particularly trusted anyone, and the truth was, I didn't see a need to un-train myself.  Basically, my occasional cautious paranoia was bizarrely comforting.  Well, as I said...she probably wouldn't have understood.

Now, as I turned my key in the front door, I heard voices. 

“Oh, hey, Caitlyn,” Lucy said, smiling as she saw me.  “How was your day?”

“Pretty good,” I replied.  “How are you guys?”

“Hello, sweetie,” Mary said with a warm smile, rubbing a cloth over the banister.  At her feet was a can of pine-scented wood polish.  “We're fine.  Glad to see you've got a nice warm coat,” she added with grandmotherly precision. 

I gave a perfunctory glance down at my puffy, enormous parka, which, if I were into tracing ancestry, I would describe as a distant cousin in the hot-air balloon family.  The coat was warm, though, so Mary was half-right anyway.

“Mary was just telling me that she was thinking of decorating the house for Christmas,” Lucy told me. 

My eyes brightened at that.  “Really?  But Mary, I wouldn't want you to go to that trouble.”  After all, Mary lived in a totally separate house, two streets away.  Although I loved Christmas decorations—and my own apartment was lit up by flickers of multi-colored bulbs and glimmers of silvery garland—I would definitely feel guilty at the thought of a seventy-five-year-old standing on a ladder, stringing lights for my benefit. 

But Mary insisted.  “It's no trouble at all.  I still take a lot of pride in this house, and besides, I want my girls to have a festive place to come home to.”  She said it with such a contented smile, the moment was touching.  Especially in that Mary seemed to have a kind of maternal fondness for Lucy and me. 

“I love Mary,” Lucy announced, “because she's the only person who calls me a 'girl' anymore!”  Lucy was forty-one, though she often made herself look older with long, baggy skirts and billowy tops.  She always wore socks with sturdy black shoes, and sometimes, for a twist, she'd channel the nineties' look of Blossom and wear a flouncy purple hat with a fake flower in the middle of it. 

Now I started up the stairs to my apartment.  “Well, Mary, let me know when you want to decorate, because I will definitely give you hand,” I said.

“Me, too,” Lucy said, then called after me.  “Oh wait, Caitlyn!  I almost forgot!” 

I turned back and saw Lucy duck into her apartment, the door of which was right off the foyer.  She quickly returned with a brown parcel in her hand, about the size of a shoe box.  “This came for you today,” she said, walking up the steps to hand it to me.  “I saw it right outside the door, so I brought it in.  I didn't want it to get wet.”

“Oh, thanks, I really appreciate that...”

“There's no name, but I see the return address is New Jersey.  Is it from an old boyfriend?  Or maybe a secret admirer?” Lucy speculated, her eyes wide with intrigue. 

I gave a little laugh and explained, “No, it's from my mom.  She does this Twelve Days of Christmas thing every year.  Basically, she sends me twelve packages before Christmas Eve.  Just little things...”  

I was suddenly overcome by the warm, comforting sense that my family was not so far away, and also a spontaneous feeling of gratitude for having such a caring mom.  I knew that not everyone did.  Like most people, I usually took it for granted, but moments like this did remind me that I was lucky.

In fact, Lucy proceeded to drive that exact point home when she replied, “Wow, must be nice.  My mom's a total bitch.”

“Lucy!” Mary chastised. 

“Sorry,” Lucy said.  “I just mean: she only cares about herself and always will.”

“Well...” I said awkwardly.  “I should go feed Cappy and take her out.” 

I continued heading up the stairs only to realize that Lucy was trailing behind me.  “See you later, Mary!” she called down, and proceeded to follow me as I unlocked the door to my apartment and stepped inside.

To be honest, I wasn't really in the mood for company.  I had a frustrating afternoon of getting exactly nowhere with the Metropolax robbery.   I had called the company a couple of times, and instead of getting a receptionist, the phone went to a general voicemail box.  At first, I hadn't left messages, because I wanted to catch someone live, and try to ask them questions before they had time to think about whether or not they wanted to answer.  It was the “sneak attack” approach that journalists lived by.  Finally, on my fourth attempt, I had made up my mind that I would leave a message, and someone actually answered.  The fruitless exchange went something like this:

“Hello, I'm calling from the Big Clock Chronicle, regarding the robbery that occurred last week.  I wondered if I could ask you a few questions, to follow up—” 

“No, no,” the woman all but barked.  She sounded like she was in a hurry.  “There was no—it was a misunderstanding.  We have no further comment on it.”

“But—I'm sorry, and you are?”

“I'm the office manager.  It was all a misunderstanding.  We have nothing more to say about it.”  Click. 

When I called back, it went to voicemail again.

During my ten-minute ride home from work, I kept thinking about where I could go from there.  I don't know why I had assumed it would be easy to play the reporter card and get some salient information.  Obviously it wouldn't be that simple—and I surely didn't believe the over-defensive posturing of the office manager when she'd insisted everything was a “misunderstanding” and then slammed the phone in my ear. 

What about what the receptionist had seen? The items missing, the lock smashed?  And speaking of the receptionist, where was she?  Why hadn't she answered the phone all of the times I had tried the main line?

“Wow, your tree looks incredible!” Lucy enthused now, as I hit the wall switch and set my apartment aglow with Christmas lights. 

Immediately, we were greeted by Cappy Blackburn, Ace Reporter.  The two-year-old Bichon dog jumped off the lime, silk-covered window seat and bounded right to me.  She outstretched her short fluffy arms as high as they could go, which was about up to my knees.  “Hi, baby!” I said, scooping her right up in my arms.  “How are you, sweetie muffin face...” I cooed as I snuggled her.

“Like my socks?” Lucy said then.  She lifted the hem of her baggy skirt and tilted her ankle toward me, revealing a light blue sock with penguins printed on it. 

“Oh my gosh, those are so cute,” I said.  “Lucy, you have more Christmas socks than anyone I've ever known,” I added sincerely, and with a certain amount of awe.  Really, what kind of scrooge didn't love Christmas socks?  Since Thanksgiving, Lucy had been displaying a different pair each day. 

“It's my thing,” she said proudly.  “Did I ever tell you that they used to call me 'The Bobby Soxer' in high school?” 

“Um, no,” I lied, as I set Cappy down.  “I don't think you mentioned that.  By the way, do you want anything to drink?  Or eat?  I think I still have some sugar cookies...”  My voice drifted off as I headed toward the kitchen.  I unloaded my winter coat and bag on the floor as I went, and set the box from my mom on the table. 

“No, I'm fine.  By the way, did you have a party or something last night?  It sounded like there was a lot of dancing going on,” Lucy said.  Though she wore a pleasant smile, I knew that if I'd had a party and hadn't invited her, she would be crushed.

I should probably warn you now that Lucy is a bit, well, oversensitive.  The type who thinks you are “in a bad mood” or “mad at her” if you dare to say hello with any less enthusiasm than a game show host. 

For some reason, she also possessed the outlandish belief that I had a full social calendar.  At first I was flattered by her inaccurate picture of my life—but then I started to know Lucy better, and I saw a kind of fragility and pervasive insecurity about her.  She tended to take even the most innocuous things to heart.  This is why I always tried to tread lightly with her. 

Fortunately, I could not even remember the last time I threw a party.  “No,” I told her.  “No one was over last night.”   

Confused, she drew her head back, a little like a chicken, and squinted at me.  “Must have been,” she insisted.  “It sounded like you had a herd of elephants up here.”

I tried to think why she would get that impression. 

“Oh, you know what it must have been?” I said, realizing.  “I got Cappy a new toy—a gingerbread doll—and yesterday we were playing with it.  I was chasing her around the apartment.”  As I explained it, I felt somewhere between embarrassed and annoyed; I wasn't particularly heavy, but no woman wanted to be compared to one elephant, much less the whole herd.   

“Ohhh.  That makes sense,” Lucy said brightly.  “Aren't you going to open your package?”

“Oh, yeah, good idea,” I said and tore the box open.  Styrofoam peanuts flew out and scattered around my feet; Cappy eagerly ran up to one, thinking it was food.  Once she sniffed it, she slumped down on the hardwood floor and let out a whine.  “I know, I know,” I told her.  Then I pulled out a heavy picture frame that was in the shape of a Christmas tree.  “It's a family photo,” I said, smiling, and showed it to Lucy, “minus me, of course.”

Lucy took it and, holding it with both hands, she seemed to study it.  “Wow, this is your family?”

“Yes, that's my mom and dad, and my brothers, Matt and Kevin.”

“They don't look anything like you,” Lucy pointed out.  “What are your parents' names?”

“Alys and Matthew.”

“That's an unusual name—how does your mom spell that?”  I told her and she asked, “Do any of them speak French like you?”

“No...but I really can't speak French,” I reminded her.  “I can read and write it pretty well, but I wouldn't call myself fluent.”  I had shared this detail with Lucy during the linguistics class we had taken together at Westcott.  When it came to studying a foreign language back in college, French had come almost automatically to me.  I'm not sure why.  At this point, my experience with it had only been academic, which was why I couldn't speak it well.

Thoughtfully, now, Lucy roved her eyes over the photo.  “Wow, no one looks like you.  Huh.  That's funny.   Your brothers have a similar face to your dad, and blond hair like your mom.”

Nodding, I said, “I know, I'm the only one who has brown hair.”  My dad, who for some reason preferred his hair to be a crew-cut full of bristles, had gone gray years ago.  Matt, who was twenty-one, had a clean-cut, executive-in-training look—ironic since he planned to make football his profession.  And Kevin, who was eighteen, was more haphazard looking, his golden locks just long enough to stick out of his football helmet.  (Now might be a good time to mention that my entire family is obsessed with football except for me—but more on that later.)    

Lightheartedly, I added, “And get this: I'm left-handed and the whole family is right-handed.  And I'm the only one with green eyes.” 

“Hmm...funny,” Lucy said again, but didn't sound amused.  “Strange,” she added. 

I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but there was something kind of troubling about how she'd said it.

Chapter 4

 

The next morning, after a bowl of Lucky Charms and a handful of salted peanuts, I bundled up, kissed a sleepy Cappy Blackburn goodbye and headed out. 

I paused when I got to my car in the driveway and looked up.  As always, Cappy was standing on the window seat, watching me go.  Enthusiastically, I waved to her, and then set about the task of warming up my car.

As I headed toward the Chronicle, I drove past storefront windows that were dressed with evergreen garland, and lampposts that were tied with red bows.  The ribbons fluttered in the shivery breeze like festive little flags.  Nearing the town square, I spotted Mayor Leonard Krepp, who was wearing a Santa hat, smiling and shaking some hands.  With his dark skin and persona that exuded positivity and paternal warmth, you could easily imagine Krepp as a Baptist minister or beloved youth group counselor.  I had never actually met the mayor, but it wasn't unusual to see him around town.

Once I'd parked my car, I decided to run into the drugstore first; it was only two doors down from the Chronicle.

I would be lying if I said that I wasn't still thoroughly stumped about how I was going to get anywhere with the Metropolax Company.  I prided myself on being a smart person, but I didn't feel particularly intelligent right now—especially as I roamed the store cluelessly, unable to find what I was looking for.  If I couldn't even navigate the simple aisles of a pharmacy, what hope did I have to solve a robbery (and possibly, its subsequent cover-up)?

“Excuse me,” I said, approaching the pharmacist.  The woman in the long white coat, holding a notepad, wearing glasses, turned to face me.  “Hi, can you tell me where the eye drops are?  And also—do the over-the-counter ones really work?  My eyes are so dry, which ones do you recommend?” 

“I'm sorry,” she said, putting her hand up in surrender, “but I don't work here.”

That caught me off-guard and I quickly apologized.  I had just assumed she was the pharmacist because...well, she looked the part.  Plus, the studious way she'd been surveying the shelves.  I guess what I had mistaken for professional concentration was actually just browsing.   

As she turned from me, I let out a tiny gasp of excitement.  Slowly my mouth curved as I thought about my next move with Metropolax.  It wasn't a fully formed idea yet, but an idea nonetheless.   

*  *  *

I was ecstatically surprised to step into the Chronicle and smell coffee already brewing.  As soon as I reached my desk, I was accosted by Ian.  “Oh, good, Rocket, there you are.  Here.”  He handed me a paper-clipped special delivery that was wearily familiar by now.  “This is still unprintable.”

“For real?” I said on a sigh.  “Can't I even get my two-ton parka off first?”

He ignored my sarcasm.  “Everything's great until the end.  You can't make a blatantly judgmental comment and then write 'no judgments' next to it in parentheses.”

I quirked a grin.  “Why not?  It's funny.”

“Fix it, please.”  On his way to his office, he turned back.  “By the way, have you heard from Bart?” 

I shook my head.  “Am I late?”

“No, why?”

“You made the coffee.”

“Oh.  Well.”  Ian shrugged.  “You weren't here yet so I just made it.  No big deal.  Do me a favor, turn that movie review around to me this morning before you go to the printer's.”

Several minutes later Monica entered.  When she walked in, she was tipping sideways, obviously burdened by her laptop, and also juggling her purse, water bottle and a white paper sack that I assumed to be her breakfast.  We exchanged hellos and she continued to her office. 

Before I got swept up in my daily grind, I dialed the phone number of our printing company, which was located on the first floor of the clock building.  The phone rang once before a familiar voice picked up.  “Big Clock Print & Copy,” he said. 

“Hi, Danny.  It's Caitlyn at the Chronicle.”

“Oh, hey you, are you dropping off a disk this morning?”

“Yes, but I have to finish a few things first,” I told him, then lowered my voice.  “Listen, I had a random question for you...”

“What's that?”

“What is the name of your property management company?” 

“Femford,” he replied.  “Used to be Silverweather, but they sold the building in 2007.” 

“Thanks!” I said, jotting the name down.  “I appreciate it.  By the way...what do you know about the Metropolax Company?  On the eighth floor of your building?”

“Nothing,” he stated.  “Not a damn thing.”

Well, at least he didn't sugarcoat his ignorance.  “Okay, thanks, Danny.  I'll see you later today, okay?”

“Yep, looking forward to it.”  Once he disconnected, I did a quick online search and found the number for Femford Properties, Inc.  Furtively, I ducked my head out of the corner cubby hole that my desk was wedged in, to make sure that Ian was nowhere around. 

All of a sudden, the front door to the Chronicle flew open, startling me. 

“Hey everyone!”

Oh brother, was it that time already...I glanced at my monitor.  Yes, I supposed it was.  Bud, the unappealing mailman, came about 9:30 each day.  Unfortunately, he didn't believe in dropping off the mail without subjecting the room to forced, uncomfortable conversation first.  And to make it worse, I was the only “everyone” in the main area today, because Gary hadn't waltzed in yet, and Monica and Ian were both in their offices. 

“Hi, Walter,” I said, “how's it going?” 

The welcome mat must have curled up again, because it made a flapping sound as the door shut.  “Looks like you've got to get that mat fixed!” he recommended with a huge smile.  I didn't point out that one doesn't get mats fixed; one just buys new mats.  If I had, then I would be soliciting a conversation with him, and I refuse to do that because our mailman's a creep. 

Now, before you think I'm a total witch, snubbing a fifty-five year old civil service worker with a wife and family, let me plead my case:  Every morning that Bud entered the Chronicle, he insisted on interrupting each one of us by name, no matter how busy we appeared.  Then he engaged us in “conversation” that consisted of various passive-aggressive remarks, which he delivered with an unfaltering, almost maniacal grin.  His shtick was to act like Mr. Friendly—but I just wasn't buying it.  If you asked me, Bud used amiability as an excuse to be an annoying jerk.

I paid him little mind, but unfortunately, like a cat, Bud clearly sensed dislike, and so he pursued me harder just to torture and torment me.

“Call me Bud,” he said now.  “I told you, Caitlyn, Walter was my father.”  Heh, heh, he added through a demented smile that bared all his teeth.  “To my friends, I'm Bud.”

“Oh, that's right,” I said pleasantly, feigning dumbness, and focused on my screen.  His name, Walter, was clearly printed on his uniform.  Yet he insisted on contriving an affectionate nickname and forcing us to play along.  The rest of the staff did go along with it, but silently, I vowed never to play ball. 

Just then Ian came out of his office.  “Hi there, Ian!  Happy day to you,” Bud said cheerily.  He reminded me a little bit of a dummy or the ventriloquist, not sure which one of the two, did it really matter?  Both were creepy.

“Hey there, Bud, how are you doing,” Ian muttered with generic friendliness as he moved across the room to get some folders.  He was obviously focused on something else.  Ian stopped outside Monica's office and rapped on her half open door.  “Monica, have you heard from Bart?”

“Yes,” I heard her say.  “Actually he just called and said he'd have the piece on the hockey tournament emailed to you by this afternoon.”

Ian nodded.  “Okay.  Excellent.  Thank you.”

“Oh!  And also, Amber is on the phone,” Monica said.  “The call bounced to my line.”

Amber was Ian's wife—soon-to-be his ex, from my understanding.  According to Gary, the two had split up months ago, but the divorce wasn't final yet.  Apparently Amber Beller still lived in their house in Seattle. 

I peered over to gauge Ian's reaction, but it was unreadable.  You couldn't tell if he was happy to hear it, annoyed, concerned, or completely apathetic.  He simply nodded, and said, “Okay, you can bounce her back to me.”  With that, he went into his office and shut the door. 

I had to give him credit for being that professional.  You weren't supposed to bring your personal life into the office, but most of us did anyway.  Through the window on his door, I watched Ian sit at his desk and reach for the phone with the same matter-of-fact efficiency that he did everything else.  Then I tugged the wheels of my chair closer to my desk and started to dial again.

“And how's Caitlyn today?” Bud interrupted, still holding our mail for ransom.  How I wished someone would come into the office right now.  Then Bud would have another person to focus on—and I could finish making that call to Femford Properties.

I pressed the button to disconnect and tried to decide whether to make the call with Bud standing there, or to pretend I was making a call and hope Bud would go away.  If I went with option B, I knew I was running the risk that Bud would still linger and I'd have to carry through my bluff by faking a conversation with a dial tone like some psychopath.   

Suddenly my hope came true.  Monica decided to step out of her office and go fill her water bottle.  “Hey there, Monica!” Bud said.  “Oh—looks like you spilled some breakfast on your shirt this morning.” 

“Oh...” Monica began, looking down at her shirt and appearing flustered and embarrassed.

“A little club soda, isn't that trick?” Bud said.

I just shook my head.  “You catching this, Charlotte?” I muttered under my breath, as I picked up the receiver again. 

Just then, Gary Netland came in.  As usual, he entered with his phone tucked under his ear and his mirrored sunglasses over his eyes.  “Hey, Gary, it's almost ten o'clock—working a half day today?” Bud joked.  Not bothering to acknowledge the issue of his punctuality, Gary stayed absorbed in his phone conversation all the way to his desk.  Finally Bud said, “Well...here's the mail.”  He waved it in the air for a few seconds of grandstanding, before finally setting it down on the table and leaving. 

Relieved, I set about to finish what I'd started.  Once I heard the line ringing, I began tensely tapping my pen on the edge of my desk.   I had to move quickly before Ian noticed that I hadn't been getting any work done. 

“Femford Properties,” a receptionist finally answered.

“Hi, I'm calling from...um...Blackburn Cleaning Company,” I improvised.  “I wondered if you are in need of a fully-equipped cleaning service for any of your properties.  Particularly properties in the town of Big Clock?”

“Thank you, but we're not interested in hiring a new cleaning service at this time.”

It sounded as though she were about to hang up so I panicked.  “Wait!  Um...you use the Ever Clean Company, right?”  I bit my lower lip, hoping she'd buy into my act.

“No, we use Spotless Find,” she corrected me. 

“Spotless Find, that's right!  Okay, well thank you,” I said and hung up.

When I found Spotless Find Cleaners online, I scoured their website for as much information as I could find.  It was a high-end website, but an all too brief one.  I clicked on the link that read: Clients. 

Sure enough, Femford Properties was listed, along with several other businesses in the greater Minneapolis area.  When I saw R&D Labs listed, my enthusiasm soared.  My friend, Amy Laraby, not only worked at R&D Labs, which was located on the other side of town, but her parents were two of the founding partners.  Quickly, I pulled my cell out of my bag and pressed speed dial #5.

Typical Amy, the call went straight to voicemail.  I say “typical” because Amy was probably the only research scientist at R&D who was responsible and focused enough to actually turn off her phone at work. 

“Hi Amy, it's me,” I began hastily.  “Sorry for whispering, it's a long story.  Listen, when you get a chance, please call me back. ”  I paused and glanced around; Gary was glued to email, Monica was caught up in a cruller, and Ian was still in his office with the door shut.  “I think I'm about to do something crazy, and I'm going to need your help.”

Chapter 5

 

There was a time in a girl's life when she needed to go against the crowd—to blaze her own trail, to be an individual.  And then there was a time when she needed desperately to fit in.  They key word tonight, I reminded myself as I waited in my car across the street from the clock building, was: blend.

Amy, who spent many of her evenings working late at R&D, had filled me in on the basic attire of the Spotless Find cleaning crew.  White or light-colored khaki pants and white shirts.  I figured the uniform tied into the imagery of the company name—whereas a more practical and less symbolic Amy speculated that it had to do with the bleaching effect of the cleaning agents they used.  Amy explained that a white uniform would be the most cost-effective option, because it would camouflage any spots caused by cleaning agents splashing on the clothes. 

Either way, beneath my parka, I was decked out in white—waiting for the Spotless Find van to arrive.  I had spoken to Amy only yesterday, so I hadn't exactly had weeks to plan this.  But I wanted to seize the momentum of my investigation, and if there was a trail at all, I didn't want it getting cold.

After work today, I hurried home along the salted roads.  Hastily, I changed my clothes, took Cappy out, then set down a bowl of “multi-grain dog crunchies.”  If you asked me, they smelled pretty putrid, but Cappy lunged on the offering like it was pizza, then curled up in front of the Christmas tree.  Luckily, I hadn't run into Lucy on my way out.  Knowing her, she probably would have wanted to chat—and then had thoroughly hurt feelings when I'd been unable to do so. 

You might be wondering why I was in such a rush.  Well, since I didn't know Spotless Find's daily route, I had no idea what time they typically arrived at the clock building.  According to Amy, R&D Labs got cleaned at about seven o'clock each night—but since R&D was on the opposite side of town, and by all accounts on their website, Spotless Find was a large company, it was unlikely that the same crew would do both buildings.

So I had parked across the street, watching people leaving work, getting in their cars—seeing the building slowly but steadily empty for the evening. 

I had heard the clock gong six times on the hour, and I kept waiting.  Alternately I would shut my engine off to conserve gas, and then on again for the heater.  By the time the big clock was about to announce seven o'clock, I sighed.  I was cold, impatient and anxious.  At this point, I just wanted to get this over with.  Again, I revved up my car. 

And then I saw it.  Like a beacon of light in the darkness, a pale yellow van appeared on the cross street ahead of me.  It was stopped right below a street lamp so I was able to read the name printed across the side.  This was it.  I shifted my car into “Drive.”  Sucking in a breath, I channeled all the determination I had—then followed at what I hoped was an inconspicuous distance as the van turned into the lot that wrapped around the clock building.  Once I was parked, I quietly got out and lingered beside my car, waiting for my moment.     

I watched as five people in winter jackets and white pants departed from the van.  Carrying buckets, mops, and a vacuum, they walked past the main revolving doors, over to a side door.  I sidled up closer and saw one of the men take out some kind of card key.  Then they went through the door, one by one.  I hurried over until I was only a few feet behind the last person entering.  I was able to catch the door with my hand just before it shut.

This side door opened right into the lobby of the building.  So I wouldn't have to trail them too long before I came out of nowhere—which was now. 

“Hold the elevator, please!” I said, darting across the caramel-swirled marble floor.  In my desperation to blend, I nearly collided with a potted ficus tree.

Clearly surprised, the Spotless Find crew watched me jump into the elevator alongside them.  Conversation came to a halt.  I reminded myself of the woman at the pharmacy, how because she had looked and acted the part of the pharmacist, I had been completely convinced, and I mentally repeated the trite mantra: it was all attitude.

“Hi, I'm Caitlyn,” I said.  “Normally I'm at R&D Labs, but tonight I was sent here,” I explained vaguely.  “Um, I hope you don't mind,” I threw in lightly at the end and gave an eager-to-please smile.

The crew, which consisted of three women and two men, all just exchanged looks with each other and said nothing to me.  Literally, nothing.  One of the men shrugged, and that was it.  Understandably, I was concerned and cautious.  I hadn't thought it would be that easy.  What was the catch? 

Maybe they had misunderstood and assumed that I was working late for one of the companies here—that I had legitimate access to the building? 

The elevator doors sealed us inside, and we started going up.

The crew began speaking to each other in Spanish.  Two cleaners got off on the third floor.  One on the fifth.  There was only one remaining with me by the time I reached the top floor.  She was a short Hispanic woman around thirty, who was giving me a side-eyed look that was hard to pinpoint—though I'd venture to guess it wasn't ebullience.  “Hello,” I said merrily.  “As I mentioned, my name's Caitlyn, and I'll be helping you with this floor...” 

We stepped out of the elevator in tandem.  Being only 5'3 myself, this compact little woman had to be the first adult I had ever towered over.

There were two sets of glass doors, one on each side of the elevator.  The doors to the right had the words “Metropolax Company” printed across them in gold.  The glass to the left was unmarked.  Therefore, it seemed logical to assume that Metropolax was the only company located on this floor.  “Uh, do you always clean the Metropolax Company?” I asked casually, motioning to the name printed on the glass.

Finally she spoke to me.  “I clean the eighth floor.  I don't need any help.”  Her voice was flat.  “I always do it myself.”

So this was going to be the catch—a 4 foot, 10 inch woman with a bucket in one hand, and a mop that was taller than her in the other.  There was something fiercely stubborn about her, I could just tell. 

Quickly, I tried to win her over.  “What's your name?”

“Maria.  I don't need help cleaning,” she said again.  She didn't sound mad as much as insistent.

“I know, but...it's just for tonight...”  When she didn't acquiesce, I improvised, providing a more expansive lie.  “Like I said, I'm normally over at R&D Labs, but they had a cancellation, uh, some kind of experiment gone wrong...I think a Bunsen burner blew up or something,” I added, hoping that vague jargon from junior high chemistry class would add authenticity to the moment.

Maria paused and looked off to the side, obviously still displeased.  Without waiting for her,  I pulled on the handle, but the glass door to the Metropolax office was locked.  When Maria glared at me, I switched to a more pleading approach.  “Please, I promise I won't get in your way.  I just...I really need the hours,” I told her, trying to look as pathetic as possible. 

That seemed to strike a sympathetic chord.  “You have kids?” she asked.

“Yes,” I agreed quickly.  “Just one...my daughter, uh, Blackburn.  It's a family name, on my mother's side...I call her 'Cappy' for short,” I rambled.  Maria's dark brow became more furrowed, as I prattled on, “So shall we get started?  Like I said, I promise not to get in your way.  And I'll clean whatever you want.  Think about it, it will go twice as fast!”

“We all leave together anyway,” Maria countered.

“Well, okay, you won't actually get to leave early—but you'll be done sooner and get paid for the same time, even though you'll have an extra set of hands.” 

That seemed to clinch it.  With an acquiescent shrug, she took some sort of badge out of her coat pocket.  Then she told me, “We leave our coats in that closet,” pointing to a door that was across from the elevator.  “There's a mat to wipe your shoes over there, too.  So we don't bring snow and salt from outside.” 

Once our jackets were put away, Maria waved her badge across the black pad that was mounted on the wall beside the door.  There was an audible click.  Finally I was pushing past the glass door and stepping into Metropolax.

We paused, while Maria rustled through some plastic bags in her bucket.  I ran my eyes all around.  I noticed another one of those black pads on the wall, also no larger than a deck of cards.  I had to infer from this that the doors locked automatically, regardless if you were coming or going.  So, one would need a badge not only to get in the office, but also to leave.  

“You do all the usual things,” Maria said now.  “Clean the sink, wipe down the counters, mop up any spills on the floor...”  I have to confess that while Maria listed all the chores I was supposed to do, my mind drifted.  I was consumed by my surroundings, taking in the ambiance of the Metropolax Company and whatever details I noticed as I went.  It was a fairly generic, but still attractive office, with spacious cubicles and a cream colored carpet.  The walls were a pale sage color and textured, as if papered with fabric.  “Dust the plants,” Maria continued, “and the window sills, empty the trash cans...” 

It didn't appear to be a large company; in fact, Metropolax only took up half of the eighth floor.  It didn't wrap around to the other side, as I was expecting, but rather was a horseshoe shape, with the only access being that one set of glass doors.  It made me wonder what, if anything, was occupying the space to the left of the elevator. 

“And that's it,” she finished. 

“Listen, Maria...” I began, as she stopped short to get her supplies in order.  “Did you read about that robbery that happened in this office last week?”

“What about it?” she said, sounding defensive. 

“Nothing, I just read about it.  Did it freak you out—I mean, just that you were here, and then soon after you left, someone broke in to rob the place?”  Maria's shoulders seemed to tense, and I knew I'd misstepped.  My intention was to make sure that she didn't feel I was accusing her, but my approach had flopped anyway. 

“I don't know nothing about anything,” she declared.  “We didn't even work that night.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked curiously.  “It was a Tuesday night, right?”

“We come here Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday.  We don't come on Tuesday,” she said, then thrust some garbage bags, a rag, and a bottle of Windex into my arms.  “You can start in the kitchen,” she said. 

“So you didn't even have to talk to the police?” I asked, trailing behind her.  “Make a statement or answer questions...?”

Clearly annoyed, Maria spun around and put her hand on her hip.  “I told you: I don't know anything.  Ingmar told the police we didn't come that night.  And that's that.”

“And Ingmar is...?”

Skeptically, Maria cocked her head and gave me more of her side-eye action.  “Ingmar—our manager?”

“Oh!  Right, Ingmar, our manager,” I fumbled.  “I know a few Ingmars, that's why I was confused.” 

Looking doubtful, Maria raised one of her arms and motioned to the left.  “The kitchen is over there.  Just follow the loop around and you'll find it.”  With that, she added the mop to my armful of goodies, and continued on her way. 

Like Maria instructed, I followed the natural path around the cubicles until I came to a wide, open archway that led to the kitchen.   Once I was there, I dropped off all my stuff, and left—continuing on my primary quest to find the supply closet. 

Please don't worry— I had every intention of tidying up the kitchen before I left tonight.  After all, I didn't want Maria to get in trouble on my account.  But first things first.  I couldn't afford to waste this time; with Maria on the other side of the office, it was my only guaranteed opportunity to snoop around. 

I knew I was flying blind, but I had to start somewhere.  At this point, I was just hoping to find even a semblance of a clue—maybe something left behind in the supply closet that would point to the identity of the thief, or reveal an inkling as to why the police hadn't seemed to pursue the case.

I had to admit that it seemed a little convenient for a random thief to strike on a night the cleaning crew was not scheduled.  It was far more likely that the robbery had been an inside job.  If not for the fact that, according to the receptionist, the lock had been smashed, I would have felt certain of it.

I walked the periphery of the office, looking for the door to the supply closet. 

Along the way, I passed several smaller offices and a circular receptionist station.  When I reached an emergency exit that led to a stairwell, I bared to my left, completing my horseshoe path around the office.  I passed the men's and ladies' rooms, and then—I found it!  The closed door to my right had faint gold lettering across it: Supplies.

I tried the knob, but it wouldn't budge.  Disappointed, I sighed.  I supposed I had been hoping that no one had gotten around to fixing the smashed lock yet.  If I wanted to get in there, I had to find the key.

Chapter 6

 

Ian often said: “Go back to the beginning.”

Now, as I stood outside the locked door, I thought back to the beginning of all this: the blurb in the Ledger.  Receptionist, Jennifer Agnor, had gone to the supply closet, surprised to find it unlocked. 

Which meant that she had been prepared to unlock it—which meant that she'd had the key on her. 

Quickly, I cut back toward the circular receptionist desk I had seen earlier. 

I searched everywhere I could think of for a key—on and around the desk, under the keyboard, beneath some folders that were stacked beside the monitor.  I opened the top drawer and found pens, highlighters, White Out, and a stapler.  A yellow legal pad was also stuffed in there, which made the drawer get stuck as I closed it. 

Frustrated, I considered my next move.  But something compelled me not to move from that spot.  I opened the drawer again.  This time, I pulled out the long yellow pad that was jammed into the drawer and as I wrestled it free, I heard the jingling of keys.  I reached deep inside the drawer and pulled out a ring with two keys on it.  Both labeled with an 'S'. 

It was only then that I actually looked at the legal pad in my hand and realized its purpose.  It served as a handwritten sign-out sheet for Metropolax employees who borrowed the key to the supply closet.  There were only four fields of information: employee name, date, and time the key was borrowed and then returned.

Now I could see how it had worked.  The supply closet was normally locked and the receptionist was keeper of the key.  This made for a kind of monitored honor system.  Clearly the signing out of the key wasn't intended as a rigid or particularly paranoid security measure—because nowhere on the sheet were people required to detail which supplies they were taking.  Rather, it had been a loosely organized way to keep people honest—by giving them some accountability—and also a way to keep track of where the key was.  According to the signout sheet, the last person to borrow the key was James Williams, last Thursday.  “What are you doing?”

I jumped at the sound of Maria's voice, and guiltily dropped the keys back in the top drawer.  The formidable little woman had just rounded the corner and was approaching me with one of her questioning looks.

“Hi!” I chirped, as I surreptitiously closed the drawer with my hip.  “I was just dusting,” I lied, then realized I had no prop to support my claim.  Damn, that was stupid of me.  I should have carried a rag around with me in case of this very thing—why hadn't I thought of that sooner? 

Fortunately, Maria didn't come close enough to scrutinize me, but rather hooked a right into one of the spacious cubicles, about fifteen feet away from me.  “Don't worry about that desk,” she told me, but didn't explain why.  “I already did the bathrooms.  You need to dust the offices on that side,” she said, motioning impatiently with her arm.

“Oh, okay,” I agreed.

Once I was out of Maria's field of vision, I realized that I had to dart back to the kitchen first to get the dust rag I'd left there.  While I was there, I'd better clean the counters and sink fast, or Maria would wonder what I'd been doing all this time.  I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check the time.  It was nearly 7:45 already.  My nerves began t0 jump around, as I tried to figure out how I was going to get in that supply closet before it was time to leave.  Even if I managed to get inside, would I be able to look around in detail?

On my way to the kitchen,  I took stock of the offices I was going to have to dust tonight—because however futile, I was still desperate to maximize whatever time I did have.  There appeared to be four on this side, one large office and three smaller ones.  I noticed that the large office was pretty much empty; the desk was clear except for a blotter and computer equipment.  Happily I realized that I could skip this particular office, which would save time.  A nameplate still hung on the door.  It read: Suzie Diamanti.

Just then I heard a voice say, “Caitlyn Rocket?”

Suddenly caught by fear, I froze.

“Hey, Caitlyn—it is you.”  When I turned I saw a familiar guy with sunny blond hair walking toward me.  It took me a minute to place the face.  “Wow—how have you been?” he went on.  “Bill Christopher, from Boston College?”

“Right, hi...”  I tried to smile brightly, even as conflicting emotions churned in my belly like battery acid. 

Maybe that was too dramatic, but I'm sure you see my point.  When I had infiltrated Metropolax tonight, visions of anonymity had danced in my head.  Not to mention progress.  Right now, standing there face-to-face with a college acquaintance, I realized both those dreams were crushed.  Considering the time, the Spotless Find crew would be leaving soon, and now I had to sort out this whole moment with Bill Christopher.  How was I going to get into that supply closet tonight?

“It's great to see you,” I lied.  “What are you doing here?”

“I work here.  Working late tonight, cleaning up a few things on my desk.”  Shaking his head, he smiled so warmly at me, I felt a little guilty for wishing I'd never run into him.    Of course it wasn't personal—though I didn't know Bill all that well.  He'd been friends with my college boyfriend, Sean, whom I also hadn't seen in years.  “What in the world are you doing here?  In Big Clock, Minnesota of all places?” he asked then with an awestruck laugh.   

Just then Maria charged up to me.  “Did you finish?  We're leaving soon.”

“Oh, I was just finishing up,” I replied quickly.  “A few more touchups in the kitchen, and then dust these offices and...we're good.”

Maria nodded, eyed Bill a little suspiciously, and walked away.  “You're cleaning?” Bill said then—either unwilling or unable to hide his elitist distaste for the profession. 

I nodded and tried to act proud of my cover.  “Yes, just a temporary gig,” I explained.  “I'm actually a grad student at Westcott College in Minneapolis.  But school's on winter break now, so...” 

Of course I omitted my job at the newspaper and my real purpose for being there, because, as I said, I really didn't know Bill that well.  He was a familiar face—an echo of the quixotically beautiful New England school that was a treasured part of my past—but he wasn't a close personal friend and therefore wasn't going to be my confidant on this.

Meanwhile there was no denying the concerned look that wrinkled Bill's otherwise handsome face.  “Wow, Caitlyn...I never would have figured you for a cleaning woman.  Or what's the politically correct term these days?” he threw in lightly.  “I mean, there's nothing wrong with it or anything, but...is that really all you could find?”

“Well, I kind of stumbled into this gig,” I told him.  “To be honest, I don't know how long I'll last at it.” 

“Listen, if you're just looking for a side job, I could probably hook you up with some temp work here,” he offered.  “In the office, I mean, not cleaning.” 

At this point, it was clear the man had never held a toilet brush in his life.  Though I'd be lying if I told you I was particularly thrilled to know that my ex-boyfriend, Sean, was probably going to hear all about this.  “Well, maybe...” I began vaguely.

“A woman actually just left last week,” Bill said encouragingly. 

“Oh—do you mean her?”  I motioned to the large, mostly vacant office beside us.  “Suzie Diamanti?” I said, reading the nameplate.

“No—I mean, yes, Suzie quit last week, too, but I was talking about someone else,” Bill explained.  “Our receptionist, Jennifer.  She just kind of split on us.  Went to lunch last Wednesday and never came back.  We haven't filled her spot yet.”

“Jennifer Agnor?”

“Yeah, you know her?”

Then it hit me: knowing someone who worked at Metropolax would be even better than anonymity.  Through friendly conversation, I could try to learn more about the inner workings of the company and its employees—and considering that the robbery was probably, at least to some degree, an inside job, Bill's input could be invaluable.

You might be wondering why I didn't seem more shocked to run into Bill, more bowled over by the coincidence—that a schoolmate from Boston would end up being an employee at the Minnesota company I was investigating—but honestly?  Things like this had happened to me before.  Like the vacation I took to Key West, when I ran into my third grade homeroom teacher who was staying in the same hotel.  Like the time I went out for a discreet ice cream run and bumped into the professor whose class I'd skipped that day. 

I had come to realize that life was not only a playbook of our choices, but also a series of random coincidences that all reiterated the same theme: the world was indeed a very small place.

Now I decided to work this little reunion to my advantage.  “No, I didn't know her,” I told Bill, “but I read about that break-in here last week.  I remember her name from the paper.  What exactly happened?”

Vaguely, he shrugged and glanced around.  “Who knows?  Kind of a crappy week around here—first we get Suzie's resignation, then a few hours later, another employee has jumped ship.” 

“What does this company do anyway?” I asked.  “Have you been here long?”

“No, only about six months.  I work in Sales & Marketing.  We design ultra modern pillows and back cushions.  That's where the name comes from—it's supposed to be a mix of 'metropolis' and 'relax.'  It's actually a partnership with a warehouse in Donnersville.  We don't manufacture anything here,” he finished.

Bill's phone buzzed.  He pulled it out of his pocket, looked at the screen, then put it right back.  “What time is it?” I asked suddenly.  He checked his phone again. 

“7:58.”

“Shoot!  I actually have to finish up.  Want to walk to the kitchen with me?”

“Sure,” he said.  After a few steps, Bill spoke.  “Seriously, Caitlyn—do you want me to talk to our HR woman about hooking you up with the receptionist spot?”

“Um, maybe... let me think about it, okay?” 

Bill's cell phone buzzed again.  Now with obvious annoyance, he pulled it out, turned the sound off and shoved it back in his pocket.  Even though I didn't ask, he must have felt obliged to explain.  “Just this woman who keeps texting me,” he said.  “Here, let me get your number while I have my phone out.” 

“Sure.”  I pulled my own phone out and we traded contact information.

“By the way, do you still talk to Sean?”

“No, not since college.”

“Oh, I still keep in touch with him.  Hey, I'll tell him I saw you.”

“Great!” I said.  (Before tonight I never realized how fake I could be.)  “So is the receptionist position a bad job?” I fished.  “Is that why Jennifer just left?  Was she here a long time?”

Bill shook his head.  “A couple months, tops.  She was really immature, though.  None of us thought she'd last.  Wanted to be an actress,” he threw in with a roll of his eyes. 

Once we got to the kitchen, Maria was there waiting for me with one hand on her hip and the other holding a Windex bottle. 

“Well I'd better let you get back to work,” Bill said, his voice tinged with pity.  “I'm heading home myself.  Goodnight, Caitlyn—great seeing you.”

Suddenly the big clock gonged.  The majestic sound reverberated eight distinct times, to indicate the hour.  Pleadingly, I said, “Maria, give me five minutes, I promise I will have everything finished!”

“I'll help you,” she said begrudgingly.  “You didn't do those offices yet, did you?”

“Um...” 

She sighed and took a dust rag with her; on her way out of the kitchen, she said, “I already did the sink and counter.  Just clean the smudges on the fridge and microwave, and sweep up any crumbs on the floor.” 

I grabbed the small broom and dust pan set that were among the supplies in my bucket.  The broom was no larger than a ping pong paddle.  Once I had swept along the base of the cabinets and sink, I turned to sweep around the fridge.  That was when I noticed several plaques mounted up on the wall, above the archway. 

Above them was a sign that read: Our Metropolax Family! Each plaque, except for one, had a photograph framed within it.     

The plaques listed employee names and job titles.  I had to assume these were fairly up-to-date since Jennifer's photo was up there, and Bill had said she'd only been with the company for two months.  Coming closer, I read each employee name and title:

DIANA JAMES, Human Resource Administrator

JAMES WILLIAMS, Sales & Marketing Associate

WILLIAM CHRISTOPHER, Sales & Marketing Senior Associate

JOHN BLACK, Tax Specialist

SUZIE DIAMANTI, Senior Accountant

KENDALL WALLINGHAM, Accountant

JENNIFER AGNOR, Receptionist

DIANA DUPONT, Office Manager

FRITZ SACHS, President

 

Surprisingly, the only employee not pictured on his own plaque was the president, Fritz Sachs. 

Office manager Diana Dupont—a sour-faced woman in her mid-forties—must have been the one who'd hung up on me the day before yesterday.  With her spiky dark hair and pursed lips, she didn't exactly look like a Christmas stocking full of marshmallow Peeps.

Suzie Diamanti, meanwhile, was a glowing glamorous blond—surely the kind of accountant that male math majors dreamed of.  She looked like she was in her early to mid-thirties.  She was also familiar. 

Wait, I knew her.  But how did I know her...?

Searching my mind, I continued to scan the plaques.  Jennifer Agnor—the former receptionist, aspiring actress, and one employee who seemed willing to talk about the robbery—was also blond, but there was a brassy quality to her, from her platinum hair to the expression on her face that could only be described as smug.  So far, only one thing was clear: if the break-in had been an inside job, I was looking at my prime suspects.

Chapter 7

 

It turns out that this story actually begins earlier.  Five months earlier, on the day I met my friend, Amy Laraby.  Which, as I remembered on my ride home from Metropolax, was also the afternoon I'd encountered Suzie Diamanti. 

This was back when Tanya Smith was the managing editor of the Chronicle, and I was still new to the paper.  Monica Fong and I had been sent to cover the town's annual 4th of July luncheon.  I was really there to assist Monica, who would be writing up the piece, of course.  I hadn't realized that assisting Monica meant holding her purse while she raided the buffet table and kind of stomped around awkwardly. 

It was raining that day, which was why the event had been moved inside.  Normally the 4th of July luncheon was held at Oak Tree Park, but that day, a respectable percentage of the town's 4,300 citizens were gathered in the ballroom of the Marriott.  Everyone was still waiting for Mayor Leonard Krepp to arrive and make his speech. 

At one point, I got tired of standing around (holding two purses), and so I looked for a seat somewhere.  I ambled around the periphery of the ballroom until I finally spotted one free chair.  It was a paisley armchair with a high back, nestled beside a potted plant. 

I plopped down and was somehow able to tune out much of the background noise that filled the crowded ballroom—chattering, laughing, raffle drawings, and games.  Then I heard a woman's voice close to me.  It sounded like she was right behind me. 

“Hello there,” she said.  “It's Suzie.  Remember me?”  When she paused and added, “What do you think I want?” I knew that she was on the phone.  And she probably couldn't see me sitting right there, because of the high back of my chair.  Nevertheless, I wasn't about to get up and leave so she could have privacy for her phone call.  She could walk anywhere with her cell phone; this was the only seat I'd been able to find.  Besides, it wasn't like I cared about some random woman's telephone conversation.

“Where do you think I am?” she continued.  She was obviously into rhetorical questions.  “I'm in the one place I knew you would be today.  So where are you?  Let's not drag this out, okay?”

Guiltily, I squirmed a little lower in my chair.  I knew that, technically, I didn't have anything to feel guilty about, but I guess it was just one of those weird moments.  Maybe it was the taunting tone of the woman's voice that made me feel like I was somehow a party to whatever bad thing was unfolding.

“Well you certainly picked a great place for your facade of respectability—I love it!” the woman said cheerfully.  “It's really too much.  Big Clock, how quaint, just perfect.  Look, calm down.  All I want is your help.  You're not the victim here; we both know what went down.”  I was starting to wish that I had left.  If she saw me sitting here now, it would be beyond awkward.

After several moments, this woman, Suzie, said, “Nevertheless, I am here.  And, for the time being, I'm here to stay.  Now tell me where we can meet.   Wait—don't hang up on me—damn!”

She let out an infuriated sigh—just as a loud crash toppled all around me. 

My mouth dropped open in a startled gasp.  I peered over the arm of my chair to see what had happened. 

“Oh, I'm sorry,” a woman with long red hair and glasses was saying, “I'm so sorry.”  Tentatively, she offered some napkins. 

“It's okay, it was my fault,” Suzie said and went about blotting the soda that the redhead had spilled on her.  “Really...I wasn't looking.”

“I never should have tried to balance all that,” the woman muttered.  I glanced down at the carpet near their feet and saw two spilled cups of soda, along with a toppled-over plate of the red velvet cake with white icing.  It appeared that, in the collision,  a cell phone had also skidded to the floor.

The redhead, who was clearly flustered, straightened her glasses and knelt down to gather up the mess she had made.  “Did I ruin your skirt?” 

“Sweetie, it's all right—I used to be a waitress, too,” Suzie added with a brief, sympathetic smile.  “Don't worry about it.”  Until then, I hadn't noticed the redhead's attire, but like the other servers with the catering company, she wore the standard uniform of black slacks and a white shirt buttoned all the way up. 

Suddenly, Suzie's phone let out a loud trill that sounded a bit like a jungle mating call.  I was still watching discreetly, peering over the side of my armchair.  A smile played at Suzie's lips as she read the text screen.  “Uh, listen, can you tell me how to get to Donovan's Hardware store?”

The redhead's forehead pinched as she replied, “Yes, but I should tell you that Donovan's Hardware has been closed for months.  It's just an abandoned building now.”

“That's okay, that's okay,” Suzie said impatiently, and nodded with interest as the waitress gave her directions.  I had to extrapolate that whomever had hung up on Suzie a moment ago, had texted her back with the meeting place.  The curious, budding journalist in me yearned to trail behind, and to see who this mysterious person was—this Big Clock citizen hiding behind a “facade of respectability.” 

But I couldn't bring myself to do it.  First of all, it was none of my business (an attitude that was probably a red flag; if I only minded my own business, journalism was going to be an uphill climb for me ).  Secondly, I felt sorry for the poor waitress, who was on her hands and knees, trying to wipe cake frosting off the carpet, which was pretty much impossible to do when all you had were those annoying coarse brown paper napkins.

When Suzie hurried off, I jumped to my feet.  The waitress looked up, momentarily alarmed.  “Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you,” I said.  “Here, let me help.” 

I took some tissues out of my purse and knelt down to do what I could with them.  “Thanks a lot,” she said with a half-smile.  “I don't know why I thought I'd be able to juggle two cups and a plate, and update my planner at the same time.”

“Is this your first waitressing job?” I asked.

“No...it's not.”  With the whole mess in hand, we rose to our feet.  The woman stood a couple of inches taller than me, and was definitely a few inches narrower.  She pushed up her glasses on her nose, adding, “I'm actually not a waitress.  I just wore black pants and a white shirt today.”

“Oh...” I began, “I'm sorry, I...”

“That's all right, people have been asking me for more root beer all afternoon.  It's been driving me crazy.  I just hope that my mother doesn't find out.  She wanted me to wear a dress.  I'm Amy.  Amy Laraby.”

“Caitlyn Rocket.  We can shake later,” I said, because our hands were full, and she laughed.   

Not long after, I learned that Amy was twenty-seven-years-old and had lived in Big Clock most of her life.  She still lived with her parents, but I should probably mention that their home was a huge mansion.  Growing up, many of us got a bedroom.  If we were really lucky, we got our own bathroom.  Amy Laraby got an entire floor.  And since Amy wasn't a believer in living with a man before marriage, she would probably be there awhile.  She had been dating her boyfriend, Bradley, for less than a year.  If I knew Amy, she would need to ascertain more data and be sure the relationship was methodically “proven” before she took the big next step.  Considering that Bradley lived in Minneapolis and not a Petri dish, irrefutable results like that could take another year or two at least. 

Her parents were among the founding partners of R&D Labs, a large pharmaceutical research facility on the other side of town.  Apparently R&D had been a major player in the development of a new pain medicine.   Amy, who took after her physicist father, worked as a research scientist for R&D.  Her mother stayed out of the lab, and in the spotlight—focusing on press releases, patronage, and various promotional aspects of the company. 

I'd always remembered that day at the Marriott as the day I had met my sweet, practical best friend, Amy.  What I had forgotten until now was Suzie Diamanti and her mysterious—possibly ominous—phone conversation.  That had been five months ago.  According to what Suzie had said at the time, she had just arrived in town.

The plaque hanging in the Metropolax kitchen listed Suzie as a senior accountant—but, according to Bill, Suzie had left the company last week.

Along with Jennifer Agnor...

Last week must have been a very busy week at the Metropolax Company: first the robbery is reported, then it's denied, then the receptionist who reported it and the senior accountant both leave the company.   Was there any connection between the two women and their departures from Metropolax?  Right now the only commonality I could see between Suzie Diamanti and Jennifer Agnor was that they were both blond. 

That strange, vaguely threatening phone call I had overheard five months ago continued to haunt me.  Something I'd long-forgotten was suddenly playing and replaying in my mind.  I wondered why Suzie had come to Big Clock, and who was on the other end of that phone conversation.  What had prompted Suzie to leave her job last week?  And what was she doing at Metropolax in the first place?

Chapter 8

 

Once I was back home, I showered, poured a glass of wine, and bundled under an afghan with Cappy Blackburn.  I watched the flickering lights on the Christmas tree for a few moments, just enjoying the exquisite silence.  Winter nights in Big Clock were so  peacefully quiet, it had taken some time getting used to when I had first moved here.  Now it was another thing I liked about the place. 

When I'd accepted the graduate fellowship at Westcott, I had celebrated myself as a kind of academic martyr—a woman who would walk willingly into desolation, frostbite and despair—in a tireless pursuit of higher learning.  It had not taken long to discover that my bleak Dostoevskyan portrait of Minnesota—while sufficiently self-aggrandizing—had little basis in reality.  Instead of feeling desolate or alone, the snowy little pocket of Big Clock made me feel safe.  Insulated.

Now Cappy Blackburn began to snore against my elbow.  That kind of broke my trance and I went back to speculating about Metropolax.  The few facts I'd gleaned so far:

#1. Sometime between last week—i.e. the morning that Jennifer Agnor reported the robbery to the police—and present day, Jennifer had “gone to lunch and never came back.”  Wasn't that what Bill had said?  Something must have prompted her abrupt exit.

#2. A person needed an employee card key to access the clock building after hours, as well as to get in and out of the Metropolax office.  So whoever had broken into the supply closet last Tuesday night must have had one, whether it was his own or someone else's who worked there.

#3.  Based on what the office manager had said, the company decided not to pursue the matter with the police.  The question was why.

There was possibly a way to find the answer to #3—but it felt a little like cheating.  How would it look to Ian if I wagered that I could do a better job than the police, and then called Ian's contact at the police department for help? 

That settled it then: best not to tell Ian. 

I reached for my phone and selected “Detective T. Frandsen” from my contacts list.  The phone rang twice before he picked up.  “Frandsen.”

“Hi, Detective.  This is Caitlyn Rocket.  I work with Ian Beller over at the Chronicle?” 

“Hey,” he said, sounding guarded.  “This isn't about any ongoing investigations, is it?  Because Ian usually calls me directly if he wants information.  I'd feel more comfortable that way.”   (Sounded a little squeamish to be a police detective, but what did I know?) 

“Oh, I know,” I assured him.  “I'm pretty low on the totem pole,” I added lightly,  trying to endear myself to him.  “And this isn't actually a high profile case or anything.  It might not even be an ongoing investigation.”

“Okay...”

Eagerly, I sat up straighter, which sent my temperamental Bichon into a tailspin.  She jumped up, startled—then shook off, sneezed, trotted to the other end of the sofa and finally, plopped down with a dramatic sigh.  I shook my head; what a production.

“I really just had a couple simple follow-up questions about that robbery at the Metropolax Company,” I began. 

“Oh, that.  That's nothing.  The department's not on that.” 

A-ha!  I knew it! 

Except I wasn't sure why I was celebrating.  I already knew that the local police force was not a cult of overachievers.  That had been the whole basis for this wager in the first place.  Soon I was on my feet, walking restlessly around my apartment, as I often did when I was on the phone.  “Detective, were there any leads at all?” I asked.  “Anything I could include in a brief follow up piece...?” 

“Not really.  The president of the company was the one who said he wasn't pursuing criminal charges and that he just wanted to drop the whole matter,” Frandsen told me.  “Said it was 'an internal misunderstanding.'  That was how he put it.  So we backed off.  I mean, if the owner's telling us he wasn't robbed, then that's on him and the IRS, as far as I'm concerned.” 

He had me with him, right up until the end—when he implied he would happily turn a blind eye to tax fraud.  But the part about not having a reason to investigate further—I have to admit, in this case, Frandsen was right.  “So then, Fritz Sachs is not only the president of Metropolax, he's also the owner of the company?”

“That's what he said.”

I tried to keep him talking, but it was to no avail.  “Did you find it strange that the owner of the company would take that position?” I asked. 

“Nope.  Didn't really think it about one or the other,” Frandsen said.  “Listen, Ms. Rocket, it's getting really late.”  I rolled my eyes; 9:15 was “really late”? 

“Okay, well, goodnight.  Thanks, Detective.”  I had just set the phone on the coffee table when there was a knock on my door. 

“Hi, Lucy, what's up?”

“Hi—this came for you today,” Lucy said brightly and handed me a small box. 

“Oh, thanks...”

“I heard you walking around so I knew you were home.  I stopped by earlier, but you weren't here,” she explained as she stepped inside.  Then she wiggled her eyebrows.  “Did you have a hot date or something?”

With a scoff, I said, “No, not even close, just...work-related stuff.” 

“Is that another package from your mom?” she asked. 

“Yes.  Shoot, I never thanked her for the last one,” I said, just realizing.  “I've been so preoccupied with other things.  I definitely need to call her.”

“Wow, it must be nice...to have a mom who actually cares about you.  My mother doesn't give a damn about me.”

“Oh Lucy, I'm sure that's not true.”

“Trust me,” she said bitterly, “it's true.”

“Maybe she just has trouble showing her emotions,” I offered. 

“Are you taking her side?” Lucy snapped.

“No, no...” I fumbled.  “I just meant...I'm sure that your mom loves you.  I mean!  I think,” I amended quickly.  “I have to assume...” I added, feeling awkward.  Just then I was saved by the bell—or in this case, the theme song to Love Boat.

“Oh, that's my phone!” I said, grateful for the interruption.  I picked it up from the coffee table.  “It's my mom.”  Then, to prove it, I showed the phone to Lucy.  I didn't want her to get it in her oversensitive head that the call was really from a friend I liked better than her, or one of my many nonexistent suitors.   “I'd better take this, so I can thank her for the gifts.”  I didn't give Lucy a chance to protest, but immediately put the phone to my ear.  “Good evening, Mother...”

Of course normally I wouldn’t be so formal, but I didn't want to pour salt in Lucy’s obviously gaping wounds on the mother front.  With a smile and a wave, Lucy turned and left.  I breathed a slight sigh of relief once she had gone.  I just had too much on my mind to cater to my neighbor’s delicate nature tonight.

“'Good evening, Mother'?” my mom said.  “Are you mad at me for something?”

“No, no, of course not—oh, and thanks for the packages!  Sorry, I meant to call, but I've been so busy,” I said.

“With what?”

A valid question to ask since my grad school was on winter break until January 2nd.  Yet, I could hardly explain the Metropolax thing to my mom.  And even if I could, she probably wouldn't approve of my involvement so far.  So I gave her a vague answer she could live with: “Chronicle stuff; you know how crazy everything gets at Christmas time.”

“Now you'll definitely be back in New Jersey for Christmas Eve, right?”

“Definitely, don't worry,” I assured her.  “So what's new at home?” 

At this point, my mom filled me in on what my brothers and father were up to, which could've been summed up in one word.  But there was a legitimate reason that football ruled their lives.  High school quarterback Kevin was deciding between three universities that had offered him scholarships to play, and Matt, who was a senior at Notre Dame, was currently being courted by two NFL teams.  Meanwhile my dad, who had been a high school coach, was now coaching football for a small college outside of Pennsylvania.

“...And now everyone is communicating through the Internet, even with this whole draft thing...” my mom continued. 

“Uh-huh...” I murmured, mostly listening, as I opened my fridge and set my sights on a plate of leftover spaghetti.  I hadn't eaten in hours and my stomach was churning with hunger. 

“...At first, I was nervous about your brother's profile being so detailed, right down to the neighborhood he was from, but then your father said...”

I made more sounds of comprehension as she continued, though I must confess that somewhere during the thread, I lost track of which brother we were talking about. 

“...but apparently these scouts have been to your brother's media page often...and I don't mean one or two, but several on any given day...everyone's on PretendR now...” 

At this point, I was pretty distracted by the pile of cold spaghetti twirled on my fork. 

“...and of course your brother updates his media page at least once a day, and through his page, he's always reachable by anyone in the industry...  Your father thinks it might be time for Matt to get an agent, but I just don't know...”

My mother continued on, and I have to admit that I found myself not really hearing every detail she said.  However, it was later that I realized I'd heard more than I thought—and my mother, unwittingly, had given me an idea.

Chapter 9

 

I had told Maria that I would only be “helping” her that one time.  So naturally she wasn't thrilled to see me show up the next night.  To soften her up, I brought my A-game: the no-fail strategy of doughnut bribery.

“Hi!” I said cheerfully, hopping on the elevator right behind her.  “Hi everyone,” I added, smiling at the crew.  Like the other night, they didn't pay much attention to me.  Muttered a generic greeting and went back to talking to each other in Spanish.  Since I wasn't really getting in their way, they probably didn't give much thought to my presence there.  Maria, on the other hand, sighed. 

Then, she seemed to feel guilty for showing her obvious disappointment, and managed to say, “Hi, Caitlyn.  You were sent here again?”

I dodged the question by pushing a cup of coffee forward, hoping the aroma would drift right to her nose.  “I got you a latte.  Do you like lattes?”

“For me?”  I could tell she was genuinely taken aback by the gesture.

“Yes—to go with the doughnuts I brought us,” I said brightly and lifted the box of twelve that I had in my other hand. 

My bag was slung over my shoulder and it contained my cell phone, notebook and digital camera.  I was definitely learning as I went; tonight I came more prepared.  Of course my phone could take pictures, but they always came out grainier.  Anyway, all this was assuming there would be anything of note to capture on film.

Suddenly the rest of the unsociable crew decided to turn and pay attention to me.  The lure of free food was the best ice breaker in the world.  I popped open the carton and offered it all around.  They all smiled and thanked me as their hands dove in.  “Gracias,” they told me, “muchas gracias.” 

Let's be honest.  Sugary fried dough was the common language that could cross any social or cultural barrier, and the UN needed to start getting in on this action.

Her initial reluctance set aside, Maria accepted the latte.  We rode the elevator, dropping off people until only Maria and I were left, and we reached the eighth floor.  As we stepped out, I said, “I promise not to make crumbs,” and Maria smiled.

“Mmm.  It's good,” she said after taking a sip.  “It's like Cafe Con Leche.  No coffee for you?”

“I drank mine on the way over,” I explained.

Once we entered Metropolax, we separated, as we had done last night.  When Maria disappeared around the bend, carrying the vacuum and some dust rags, I made a beeline for the receptionist station. 

I took the supply keys out of the top drawer, in the exact spot I had dropped them yesterday—indicating that no one had borrowed them today during work hours.  Then I set down my bucket, taking only the dust rag out as a decoy, and headed to the supply closet. 

Cautiously, I checked over my shoulder as I turned the lock.  I found the wall switch, which turned on the fluorescents that stretched across the ceiling.  Metropolax's supply closet comprised a sizable space—with dimensions of approximately 9'x12'.  Metal shelves lined the periphery of the room.  The center was open, except for the spilling over of cumbersome items like two large cardboard boxes and an old slide projector. 

The door closed automatically behind me, but it didn't shut all the way.  I didn't click it into place, because, even though I assumed it wouldn't lock from the inside, there was no point chancing it.

As I walked around inspecting the shelves, I found them filled with the kinds of things you'd expect: sticky pads, notebooks, boxes of staples, tape and binder clips.  A fat, knotted ball of rubber bands sat on a back shelf, with several loose bands flopping between the wire racks. 

At first I was disappointed, because everything appeared “in place.”  I guess, naively, I'd been hoping for some obvious clue to be sitting in the middle of the room.  I made a second lap around, this time more methodically, scrutinizing each item I saw. 

Abruptly, I came to a halt.  I took my camera out of my bag.  It might not mean anything, but just in case, I snapped a picture of the dark brownish streak on one of the yellow sticky pads.  It could have been as innocuous as a coffee spill.  But technically, it also could have been dried blood.  Squeamishly, I couldn't help wincing at the thought and made sure not to touch it.  Even if it was blood, though, it could have come from a simple office mishap—a bad paper cut, an employee nicking his finger on a box, etc.

I kept walking, scanning the shelves, squinting with determined concentration.  There was an old monitor on the floor, beige with age, sitting abandoned like a well-meaning monstrosity.  Then I caught the glint of something shiny.  I ducked down and pulled out a gold necklace that was beneath the bottom shelf, as though it had fallen and skidded over.  When I ran the slim chain through my fingers, I noticed the clasp end was broken.  The heart charm in the center was engraved on both sides.  The back read: S, With love, X.  The other side read: Y2K.

Impulsively, I slipped the necklace into my bag.  It could have been laying on the floor there for months and have nothing to do with the break-in here last week.  But it could also be a lead. 

I suddenly became aware of a commotion nearby.  Panicked, I froze in place and listened closely.  It sounded like a burst of laughter had just erupted somewhere.  Followed by clapping and more laughter.  Nervously, I checked my phone.  It was only 7:30.  What on hell—? 

Then I heard music. 

Confused, I crept out of the supply closet and made my way back to the receptionist station to return the key.  When I turned the corner, I saw several people standing outside the archway to the kitchen, eating cupcakes and listening to “Holly Jolly Christmas.”  Winter coats were piled up in a nearby cubicle.  Among the group was my college classmate, Bill Christopher, holding a cup and chatting with his coworkers.

Instinctively, I did an about-face, hoping to escape their notice.  I couldn't get any good snooping done if the staff was here having some sort of Christmas party.  I also failed to see how I could clean the kitchen when they were obviously using it.  And no, I wasn't just trying to find an excuse not to clean the kitchen.  (Fine, I was.)

Just as I was ducking behind a partition wall for cover, I heard Bill's voice.  “Hey—Caitlyn!  Hey, wait up!” 

I sighed and looked to the ceiling for answers.  Then I pulled myself together.  Turned and faced him—faced everyone.

“Hi, don't mind me,” I said with a casual wave of my hand. 

“No, come join us,” he insisted.  “Come on, you've got time.” 

By this point, the whole staff was staring at me.  I heard someone say, “William, who's this?” as I meandered closer.  One thing this investigation had taught me so far: covert ops just weren't my calling.

Chapter 10

 

You might be wondering why I didn't jump at the chance to meet the Metropolax staff; why I didn't automatically see it as an opportunity to question the employees about the robbery, and decipher which ones made viable suspects. 

Truthfully, I was still so new at this, I suppose I didn't really see myself as a true investigator—one who would know exactly what questions to ask and how to maintain a convincing cover.  By nature, I wasn't a particularly good liar.  Besides that, I hadn't yet earned the confidence that came with experience. 

But now that I was thrown into the fire, I would blaze ahead.

First off, everyone looked remarkably like their photos.  I just couldn't recall which face went with which name, so luckily Bill connected the dots for me.  “Caitlyn, this is our office manager, Diana.”  He motioned to the middle-aged sourpuss with the short dark hair and glasses, who nodded an aloof greeting and continued talking to a tall, skinny man whom Bill introduced as John Black. 

“That's our other Diana,” Bill continued, pointing out a hefty, smiling woman, “but we call her Dede.”

“Hi, Caitlyn, is it?  Nice to meet you, honey!  Any friend of William's...” Dede said.  “Here, grab a cupcake.”  With her prominent nose, there was nothing pretty or delicate about the woman's face.  But there was a sweetness to her voice that made her more feminine, and a spilling, voluptuous bosom that was impossible to miss.

Bill continued, “That's James, pouring a cup of wine by the copier.  And the girl channeling Billy Idol over there is Kendall.”  He spoke affably, within earshot of everyone.  The only person who seemed not to hear was Kendall, a slim woman with long, curly orange hair, who was dancing by herself, a few yards away from the group. 

After we all exchanged hellos, Bill explained, “We're having an informal Christmas party tonight.  We went for dinner and drinks after work, and decided to come back here and continue the festivities.  Dede brought the cupcakes and wine, and there should be cookies in the kitchen, too.  Help yourself.”

“Oh, thanks, that's so nice to include me,” I said, then contrived a moment alone with Bill.  “Actually, let's get a drink of water first...” 

“Sure,” he said, walking alongside me into the kitchen, then pointed to the machine beside the fridge.  “Water cooler's right there—oh!  But then you probably know that already.  So you're still doing this whole cleaning thing, huh?”

I managed a pleasant smile.  “For now,” I said.  Now that we were in the kitchen, apart from the group, I could pry more freely.  “So, your co-workers call you William?”

“Yes, for the most part.  My father told me I should go by William now because it sounds more professional.  But you can still call me Bill.  My friends do.”

I smiled, then looked around for a cup.  “It seems like you get along well with your coworkers,” I mentioned. 

He handed me a paper cup from the dispenser above my head.  “Yeah, everyone's pretty cool.  Some more than others, like at any company.  James and I sit near each other, so we talk a lot.   He's a Red Sox fan like me.  And Dede's great, she's like a mother hen around here.”

Nodding, I added quietly, “The other Diana doesn't seem as friendly...”

Briefly, Bill chuckled.  “Picked up on that, huh?  Yeah, well, let's just say, she takes her job as office manager very seriously.  Tends to freak out about cleaning the coffee pot and wiping up spills on the counter.”

“Gee, sounds like you're a bit of a slob, Bill, and are blaming others for your failure,” I said dryly.  “Come on...you can own it.” 

He laughed at that.  “No comment,” he said.  “Now John Black, the tax guy—see the tall, skinny dude back there?”  I nodded.  “Now he's kind of weird,” Bill explained, lowering his voice to a whisper.  “The women all go on about how 'nice' he is—just because he's quiet and polite.  But if you ask me, there's something off about the dude.” 

I tilted over to get another look at this guy.  He was standing in front of a computer, refreshing the play list.  Elvis's “Blue Christmas” began next.  From what I could see, John Black had the quintessential “socially awkward” look about him.  You know, that fine line between inoffensive-wimp and possible-serial-killer.  I guessed he was in his early forties—but thinning hair and a bony physique were sometimes deceiving, so he might have been younger.  Worst of all, though, were his ugly, cheap-looking clothes.  Believe me, I was no fashionista—and even I could see that the man was hurting.

My eyes surveyed the plaques that hung on the opposite wall.  So far, all of the employees had been accounted for except for three: Jennifer and Suzie, who were no longer at the company, and Metropolax owner, Fritz Sachs.  Because he wasn't at this gathering, nor was his photo on the wall, I still had no idea what he looked like.

“Didn't your boss come to this?” I asked casually.  “The president of the company, I mean?”

“I don't know where Fritz is tonight.  But it's just as well.  He's all business, would probably bring the mood down.”  Bill expelled a breath that sounded halfway like a sigh.  “Between you and me, I kind of miss Suzie.  Suzie Diamanti,” he explained.  “She was an accountant here, but she quit last week.  Right after that robbery—you know, the one you read about in the paper?  But I think I told you that already.”

“Yes, I think you mentioned it...but you never said why, exactly.  Did she get a better job somewhere else?”

He shrugged.  “Beats me.  I guess she must have.  But according to Dede, Suzie's resignation letter left a lot to be desired.”  Again, I glanced up at the plaques on the wall, which gave each employee's job title.  Made sense—Dede was in Human Resources.  “Anyway, it's too bad.  Suzie was fun.” 

“I guess they're dropping like flies, huh?” I kidded.  “Didn't you say that the receptionist left last week, too?”

“Jennifer, yeah,” Bill agreed.  “But that's a whole other story...”  Leaning against the counter, he set his empty cup in the sink.

Meanwhile, I wasn't prepared to let the topic drop.  “What do you mean 'a whole other story'?  You can tell me,” I prodded with a smile. 

After a pause, he said, “Well, totally off the record—ha, listen to me, 'off the record' like you're a reporter or something—ha, ha, ha,” he went on, and I squirmed a little in my shoes.  “But anyway, off the record: it's kind of an open secret around here that Jennifer was the one who stole those supplies.  You know, the robbery you read about in the paper?”

“Right, right,” I agreed.  “Why do people think Jennifer did it?”

“Why else would she go to lunch the day after it happened, and never come back?  Why not pick up the phone any of the times that Diana Dupont or Dede have been trying to call her?  Suddenly bailing like that?  It just seems too coincidental.”

Slowly, I nodded.  “Did she seem like the type?  Not that you can stereotype people, but...did you get the sense that she needed the money?  Or the supplies?”

Again, Bill shrugged.  I noticed that he had this nonplussed, nonchalant air about everything he told me.  “She was only here a month or two, and she was kind of shady.  She was a dating a married man, I know that.  Always a lot of drama.  Always calling in late or calling out with some big crisis.  You know the type.”

“But wasn't she the one who reported it?  Why would she call the police if she was the one who committed the crime?”

“Probably for attention,” he speculated.  “Maybe to get her name in the paper.  Or maybe it was to cover her tracks.  Who knows?  The punch line is really that she was such an airhead, she didn't even take anything that was worth much.”

I nodded, looking again at Jennifer's photo on the wall, which was beside Kendall Wallingham's.  Jennifer was attractive, I supposed, but in a hard kind of way; the squint of her eyes and the mocking curve of her smile made her look mean.  Of course looks could be deceiving—but then again, they could also be dead-on.  Growing up, my dad used to use the line, “Don't judge a book by its cover.”  Still, I often did (and was glad that I had). 

I looked back at Bill.  “Well, if people think she was responsible for the robbery, or at least involved, why isn't the owner of the company pursuing legal action?  I mean—I'm assuming that he's not, of course,” I covered quickly.  I needed my interest in the case to appear casual or Bill might clam up on me.  

Bill made a strange face then.  Kind of like a sneer—but it was fleeting.  “Fritz has always had a soft spot for Jennifer,” was all he said.

“I noticed he doesn't have a photo on the wall,” I remarked, pointing to the plaques.

“Don't worry, you're not missing anything.  Unless you're into paunchy guys in their fifties with bad toupees,” Bill joked.  The description of Fritz, which reminded me a bit of Mr. Fredriksen, made me wonder: hadn't they made advancements in toupees yet?

“Well...”  I looked over my shoulder and dipped my voice.  “It's none of my business, but it seems pretty strange that two employees left their jobs immediately after that robbery.  Don't you think?” 

At that, Bill's forehead kind of wrinkled up.  He shook his head and attempted to set me straight.  “No, it wasn't the same thing at all.  Suzie actually resigned.  She gave a resignation letter.  From what I heard, the letter was pretty unprofessional—handwritten, if you could believe it, and she scanned and emailed it to HR, instead of submitting it to Dede in person.  Strange way to go about it, but whatever.  Jennifer just went MIA and vanished on us.” 

“Right, but still,” I insisted, “didn't you say that both of these things happened on that Wednesday, the day following the robbery?  So wouldn't Suzie's abrupt resignation also make her a suspect?  Hey, maybe she and Jennifer were in cahoots.”

Obviously taken aback, Bill let out a laugh.  “Wow, you have a devious mind for a cleaning woman—or should I say 'cleaning girl'?  What's the correct term for a cleaning woman who's young and college-educated, anyway?”

“Annoyed,” I answered him.  Then I smiled sweetly.  “Really, get over the cleaning thing, okay?”

He faltered, his teasing grin collapsing in slow motion.  Then, with his hands in surrender, he said, “I'm sorry—I was only kidding.”

“I know, it's no problem,” I said brightly, because I didn't want him to think I was going to carry an oversensitive grudge about it.  The truth was, Bill's well-meaning, elitist remarks were more distracting to me than offensive; they kept clumsily getting in the way of an otherwise meaningful dialogue about the company.

“Anyway, I can't see Suzie having anything to do with that absurd break-in.  She drove a Mercedes.  Suzie had her shit together.”  He dropped his voice again.  “Of course, a few people around here hated her for somehow finagling one of the big offices—bigger than a senior accountant would typically get.  Nobody wants to take it up with Fritz, of course, so they just whispered and grumbled about it, bitterly.”

From my limited experience with Corporate America, that sounded about right.  Just then a guy around thirty-years-old entered the kitchen.  He was about 5'8” with brown hair and average-looking almost to the point of nondescript.  Quickly I glanced up at his plaque to confirm his name: James Williams.  He was in Sales & Marketing with Bill.  As he meandered towards us, he appeared tipsy.  He said, “Is Bill filling you in on everyone here?”  Guiltily, I froze, wondering how much James had heard.  He came and stood between us.  “I'll tell you all about this crew,” he went on, “but I'll tell you the truth.” 

In the process of throwing his arm around me, he sloshed his drink on the floor.  He didn't seem to notice, but Bill glanced down, then raised his eyebrows at me. 

“I'm not gonna sugarcoat it, like Bill over here,” James slurred.  “Okay, we've got normal people, like Bill and I, of course, and then we've got our cast of clowns...”

“Um, you probably shouldn't talk so loud,” I advised him gently. 

He just scoffed, waved a dismissive hand that sent more of his drink onto the floor.  “They can't hear anything all the way over there, with the music going.  Now where was I?  First up, we've got Diana—now she's a straight-up bitch.  Nooo sense of humor at all.  Then you've got Dede.  Oh, sure, she looks all tubby and jolly, but she's so fake.” 

“Really?” I blurted, intrigued but uncomfortable at the same time.  On the one hand I was thrilled to get an inside look at Metropolax—but also, I felt unclean, anticipating the shame of being implicated in this ridiculously rude conversation.  Academic journalism, I realized, was far more elegant than being out in the field. 

“She's a total gossip,” James explained.  “She'd gossip all day long if she could.  And she's got a mustache!” he blurted, then chuckled.  “In case you're blind and you didn't notice that...”

“All right, buddy, you've had enough, I think...” Bill said, trying to extricate himself from James's “embrace.”

James was undeterred.  “Then there's John, Mr. I-live-in-my-mother's-basement-and-haven't-gotten-laid-since-Bush-was-in-office.  Yeah, he's real normal...”

“How about some coffee?” I offered, noting the coffee maker on the far side of the counter.  “Bill—should I brew some for the whole group, in case people want it?”  It would only take a few minutes, and I wasn't opposed to having a cup myself. 

At that, James barked out a laugh that sent a tiny string of spittle flying.  “I don't want coffee—I want to party!”  As he exited, I found myself reflecting on his odd behavior.  “I want to party”?  What thirty-year-old man really said that?  Especially in a tame venue like this, of all places?  It felt sort of inauthentic, like a script from a bad movie.  Granted, I didn't know James at all—so I was in no position to know when he was being genuine.  Or when he was putting on an act. 

Bill made no further comment on his friend's antics.  “So, Caitlyn, have you given any more thought to temping here?” he asked.  “We still need a receptionist.  I could talk to Dede about it.”

Before I could answer, there was a loud crash, which brought both of us hurrying out of the kitchen.

Chapter 11

 

“Oh my God!” someone yelped. 

“Are you okay?”  Dede hurried over to Kendall Wallingham with concern.  Soon the others followed and it didn't take long for Bill and I to grasp the situation.  Apparently Kendall was a little drunk herself, and had fallen over while dancing.  I couldn't help wondering: what was with this office?  Two out of the six people present were intoxicated.  That was one-third of the staff.  Was it just me or did that seem like an unflattering statistic?  Was there something about the Metropolax Company that drove people to drink? 

The flip-side of that argument, of course, was that this was a party—and festive yuletide abandon only came around once a year.

As Bing Crosby's “Jingle Bells” rang out from the speakers, Kendall Wallingham was unfazed by the fall.  She was singing loudly over the music, “Jingle Bells!  Batman Smells!  Robin laid an Eeeggg!” 

I cringed.  For her sake, I hoped she would stop soon. 

“All right, Kendall, let me help you up,” Dede said.  Bill and I had edged closer to the scene, while John Black assisted Dede in bringing Kendall to her feet. 

Up close I got a better look at Kendall.  I could see that she was young, definitely in her twenties; her face was plain and her curly orange hair looked crispy to the touch.   “Jingle Bells!” she was still shouting, or “singing.” 

Just then Bill's phone buzzed.  I glanced over to see Bill pull the phone out of his pocket, then sigh with annoyance when he saw who was calling.  I recalled that something similar had happened yesterday.

At first, I thought he might ignore whomever was trying to get in touch with him, as he had done last night.  But instead, he paused, then told me, “Um...I've got to take this... excuse me.”  With that he turned and walked away, out of earshot. 

Feeling awkward without Bill validating my presence at this function, I decided to quit while I was ahead.  “Well, thanks for including me everyone,” I announced.  “I really should get going though...” 

Dede smiled and waved.  “Okay.  Well, Merry Christmas to you.”

“Bye...” John Black murmured.  He seemed to be shyly avoiding eye contact.

“You're going already?” James called out, sounding disappointed.

Then Dede said, “By the way, Caitlyn?  Do you live around here?”

“Uh, why?” I said hesitantly.  I didn't mean to be all guarded about where I lived, but sometimes the New Jersey in me just came out.  

“Because I don't think James or Kendall should drive tonight,” Dede explained.  She winced apologetically.  “They could use a lift home.  I mean, if it's on your way.”

“Oh...well...”

“I don't feel so gooood....” Kendall moaned and slumped her head on a cubicle wall. 

“I would drive them myself,” Dede added, “but I live about forty minutes away.  Do you live right here in town?”

“Yes,” I admitted begrudgingly.  Wishing I'd known to lie ahead of time.  If I fibbed now, it would be too obvious.  I glanced over.  Kendall was glassy-eyed and possibly close to puking (not sweetening the pot), while James was still in the giddy phase.  And he was over at the photocopier.  A drunk and a copy machine were never a good mix.

“Okay, let's go everyone,” I said, managing to put on a pleasant smile.  At that moment, I spotted Maria rounding the corner.  As she approached the kitchen, I noticed that she had my bucket in her hand.  “Hi!  Um, I didn't exactly finish everything tonight, because I ran into someone I know here.  They're having their Christmas party...”

“I know, I saw you talking to them.  So I just took care of everything.”  She didn't even sound mad.  God bless doughnuts and coffee!  “Except for the kitchen,” she added.  Then Maria shrugged.  “But we're leaving now, so let's go.”

“What about the kitchen?” I said.

“We're here from seven to eight; if people use the kitchen when we're here, that's not our problem.  Who knows how long they'll stay?  We can't wait all night for them to leave.”

“That's great!” I said—a little too enthusiastically, based on Maria's side-eyed glance.  “You can go on ahead,” I added, and explained about my designated-driver duty.  “Thank you so much for everything, Maria.” 

She managed a smile.  “Goodnight, Caitlyn.”  

As James, Kendall, and I made our way toward the glass doors, I heard Diana Dupont's voice in the background.  “If they can't hold their liquor and have self control, that's their problem.  They need to be accountable.”

“Yes, I know,” Dede said.  “But it's Christmas.  Where's your Christmas spirit?”

Admittedly, she had a point and I was not without a heart myself.  Who among us has never had too much to drink, made fools of ourselves and deeply regretted it?  Besides, Big Clock was such a small town that dropping off James and Kendall probably wouldn't take me more than ten minutes out of my way. 

I just prayed Kendall did not puke in my car.  Luckily I had left some newspapers in the passenger seat; I would just spread them out on her seat.  She was too drunk to notice the demoralizing significance of sitting on newspapers.

As James and Kendall hopped in the elevator, I realized that I needed my jacket.  The doors were closing, as I called to them, “I'll meet you in the lobby in a minute!”  I crossed to the coat closet and labored into my bulky parka.  Just then I heard a ding and the slide of the elevator door.  When I glanced over my shoulder, I nearly froze.

Luckily, the man who'd stepped off the elevator was so caught up in his phone call that he didn't seem to hear my gasp, or to notice me yet.  Without being able to think it through, I did an about-face and pulled my hood over my head.  Then I angled the open closet door to conceal me more.  If need be, I'd pretend I was on a call, too, and maybe he wouldn't approach me.

For those few seconds, I held my breath and waited.  I couldn't figure out what the man was doing here.  I had only met him a few times, but I recognized that doughy face, pointy nose, and thick chestnut wig instantly.  What I couldn't figure out was: Why would Mr. Fredriksen, the owner of the Chronicle—a.k.a. my boss—be at Metropolax? 

Either way, I knew that I couldn't let him see me.  I had no good explanation for being here.  I hadn't mastered my duplicity skills yet—and I certainly couldn't tell him the truth.  On top of that, if the Metropolax staff found out that I worked for the local newspaper, they might figure out that the whole cleaning crew thing had been a pretense.  I'd never get an ounce of information out of them again.

After I heard the hinges' deflated squeak, I knew that Fredriksen had gone through the door.  I sighed, relieved.  Only later did it dawn on me to question how he'd unlocked it. 

Ten minutes later, I was warming up my frosty car, with Kendall sitting on some newspapers in the back and James having “called shot gun” in the front beside me.  Lucky me.  I'd hoped that Bill would reappear at some point so he could share the designated-driver duty with me, but after he took that phone call, he seemed to be nowhere in sight.

“So where to?” I said, backing my car out.

“Park Street,” James said.  “Kendall?  Where do you live?”

“Oak Street,” she mumbled from the back.  I eyed her through the rear view mirror and thankfully she didn't look as sick as she had earlier.  Just glum.  The depressive effects of a depressant always kind of snuck up on you and made you wonder how you'd just been having fun a few moments ago.  

“How are you feeling back there?” I said.

After a pause, Kendall seemed finally to become more alert; her eyes met mine in the rear view mirror.  “I'm okay,” she replied, then tilted her head.  “Who are you?” 

“She's with Bill,” James said.  “Your name's Caitlyn, right?”

“Right, but Bill's just an old friend of mine.”  I decided not to waste time, but to dive right into the heart of the matter.  “Speaking of Bill, he mentioned that you guys were robbed recently?  Someone broke into your supply room?”

“Oh yeah, some big mystery,” Kendall grumbled.  “We all know who did it.” 

“We don't know for a fact,” James pointed out.  “Caitlyn, you got any gum?  Or mints or anything?” 

“No, sorry.”  Suddenly I wondered if James lived with someone and was trying to mask the smell of alcohol. 

“Why, who do you guys think did it?” I prodded.  “That girl Jennifer?”

“Yeah, did Bill tell you?  It was totally Jennifer,” Kendall asserted.  “Probably she and some of her loser friends were all in on it.  Or a guy—Jennifer's a major 'ho.” 

James snorted a laugh.  “How do you know?”

“Fine, I don't know, but she was dating a married man.  What do you call that?”

“How do you know she was dating a married man?” I asked curiously.  Bill had mentioned it, too—though it wasn't exactly something I would brag about if I were her. 

“She pretty much told us,” Kendall said.  “Well, she claimed he was 'separated' and we all know what that means.  A big crock of crap.  She never said his name though.  Which was weird.  James, didn't you think that was odd?”

“What?” he said, partially tuned out.

“That Jennifer never mentioned the name of her”—Kendall stopped to make derisive quotation marks with her fingers—“boyfriend?” 

James shrugged noncommittally.  He was pretty quiet for someone who couldn't stop running his mouth inappropriately before. 

Still convinced that there was a link between Jennifer's and Suzie's exodus from the company last week, I hoped Kendall or James could make some connections for me.  “Bill told me that another employee left at the same time that Jennifer did.  Suzie Diamanti?”  (Alcohol seemed to have dimmed their senses enough that neither questioned why I was so interested.)

“Uchh, I'm glad Suzie quit,” Kendall muttered.  “She was a horrible accountant.”  

“You just hated her because of Stu,” James remarked.

“Stu?” I asked.

“No way!” Kendall protested fervently.  She sat up straighter.  Much to my chagrin, I heard the crinkling of the newspapers as she moved and then she said, “Hey—what am I sitting on?” 

“Uh, so Suzie was bad at her job, huh?” I said quickly to change her focus. 

“Yeah—her numbers didn't even add up half the time.  And James, I do not like Stu.  Why does everyone think that?  Just because I talk to him sometimes?  It's called being nice.  But I was never interested in him!”

“Okay, okay.”

“I happen to find Stu extremely ugly,” Kendall continued gratuitously.  “He has a weak chin.  And his teeth are yellow.  Plus, he's bald with coffee breath and a weird looking head—have you ever noticed how bumpy his skull is?”

“No,” James admitted.

“Well, I have and it's very off-putting,” Kendall insisted, adding, “It's like—um, the circus called—they want their mutant back.”

“Gee, someone's bitter...”

“How am I bitter?” Kendall snapped at James.

“So which house is yours, Kendall?” I asked, pulling onto Oak Street and bringing the litany of Stu's deformities officially to an end.

“Keep going, it's all the way up.”  After a moment or two of quiet, Kendall said, “Hey, James, did you notice that Fritz didn't show up tonight?”

“Yes, he did,” James said. 

“Your boss was there?” I interrupted, curious.

“Down in the lobby, after we left the party.  Oh, that's right, Kendall, you stopped in the bathroom when I went out for a smoke, remember?  Fritz was just coming in then.”

I tried to make sense of the timing. 

“You can pull up to that white mailbox right there,” Kendall told me. 

“Okay, have a good night,” I said, as she stood up and wrestled with the newspaper that was stuck in the back flap of her coat.  Irritably, she shook and finally tore it free and threw the torn scrap on the ground.

Once we were on our way to Park Street, I gave James a grin.  “So is there anyone you actually like at your company?”

At that, James seemed surprised.  “What do you mean?  I like everyone fine.” 

I didn't know where to go with that one, so I moved on.  “Well, I'm not sure who Kendall dislikes more, Stu or Suzie. Unless it's all reverse psychology, and she actually thinks they're both awesome and good-looking.”  James laughed at that. 

“No—Kendall's just jealous.”

“Why, were Suzie and Stu dating or something?”

James shook his head.  “No, but he liked her.  Don't listen to Kendall; she's got a huge, obvious crush on Stu.  But it's not just that,” he went on.  “She never clicked with Suzie.  I mean, look at them—they were in totally different leagues.”

“How so?” I prodded casually.

He shrugged as if the point were self-evident.  “Well, on the one hand, you've got Suzie—a hot blond with a hot car.  She was confident, fun, had this sexy little tattoo on her ankle...”  His voice drifted off for a moment.  Then he glanced at me.  Shrugged again.  “Then you've got Kendall, who is...well, Kendall.”  I had to extrapolate the meaning: that Kendall was average-looking with an average to below-average car. 

Suddenly something struck me.  “Was?” I said.

“Huh?”

“You said Suzie 'was.'  You're speaking about her in the past tense.  Did something happen to her?”

“No, no...I don't know.  I just meant, 'was' because she's not at Metropolax anymore.  That's my building up there.  Thanks.” 

The effects of the alcohol must have worn off, I though—as I watched James hop up the winding staircase to his apartment building with perfect coordination.

Chapter 12

 

When I arrived at work the next morning, Ian reminded me that Fredriksen was scheduled to stop in for a meeting with the staff.  I pretended that I hadn't forgotten. 

Meanwhile, the meeting gave a certain sensible context to my seeing him at Metropolax last night.  Upon reflection, it wasn't so unusual.  Clearly, Fredriksen was in town on business; he was likely friends with someone at the Metropolax Company, who had invited him to the Christmas party.  In fact, hadn't Ian speculated the other day that the reason Fredriksen hadn't wanted to run the Metropolax robbery story was because he was friendly with the president over there?

As I waited for Fredriksen to arrive, I read a few news sites.  I was already caught up with my morning work, so I was filling my time with mostly depressing global and local updates.  Now I keyed over to the Wells-Web forum called: MIDWEST HEADLINES TODAY.  My eyes scrolled down the index of articles. 

I had just clicked on a link that read: Unidentified body found in river, Police have no records and no idea, when the bell over the door jingled.  Even all the way in my corner I felt the cold air as it burst into the room.  When I saw who had entered, I barely held back a sigh.  It was pretty sad that I'd rather read about a corpse than talk to Bud the mailman.  “Hello all!” Bud enthused.  “Cold enough for ya?” 

“Hi...” I said, staying focused on my monitor. 

“Hey, Bud.  How's it going?” Gary said, slouched low in his desk chair.

“Wow, Gary, it's only 9:45—what are you doing here?” Bud “joked.”  I stole a glance over my shoulder.  If Gary was at all put off by the comment, I couldn't tell because he was swiveled away from me.  Just then his cell phone rang.  It snapped up into his hand like a yoyo.  “Gary Netland,” he said.  “Bob!  How're you doing, brother?  Talk to me...” 

Gary leaned back and put his feet up on his battered wooden desk.  He made loose gesticulations with his hand as he tried to sell a page 2 color ad.

“I see Caitlyn's hard at work over there,” Bud announced loudly.

“Yeah...” I managed with a fake chuckle.  “I try...”  I went to grab something off the printer, figuring that if I continued to avoid eye contact, he might get discouraged.  Even out of the corner of my eye, I could see Bud's megawatt grin, as his head followed me. 

“That's a nice sweater you're wearing,” he said.  “Did you get it at the Discount Shop on Main Street?”

“No...”  I gave a quick glance down at my black sweater that had a few thin gray stripes running across it.  “I bought this at the Saks Outlet off 5th,” I told him. 

Though Bud's frozen grin didn't waver, the skeptical tilting of his head indicated that he didn't believe me.  “No,” he corrected, “I'm sure I saw that exact sweater at the Discount Shop.  On a rack in the front of the store.”

“Well, it's a pretty basic style,” I said.

“The Discount Shop has its own line of clothing, you know.  In fact, I believe my wife tried on that sweater the last time she was there.”

“Maybe we could ask the police to dust the sweater for prints,” I said sarcastically.  “Then you could finally stop wondering.”

“You don't have to get defensive now!” he said.  His smile was downright blissful.  “I can't understand people who shop at the Discount Shop, but feel they have to deny it.  It's just silly in my mind.  Life's too short,” he added pompously.

When I spoke, I tried my best not to sound inexorably irritated by his very existence.  “Look, I don't think there's anything wrong with shopping at the Discount Shop.  If I'd gotten the sweater there, I would admit it to you.  But it just happens that I bought this one at the Outlet off 5th.  Oh, Ian!  Wait up—I need to talk to you about the line-edits for this piece,” I added hastily as soon as I saw my boss step out of his office.  I gave Bud a brief wave.  “See you later, Walter.”

Ian pivoted and followed me back into his office.  I pushed the door closed with a sigh of relief.  Meanwhile Ian was glancing over at the piece of paper in my hand.  “You need to talk about line-edits for an online coupon you printed?” he said.

“Oh well...”

“Let me guess: you were just trying to get away from Bud—or Walter, as you insist on calling him?”

“Why is that so wrong?  Walter is his name,” I protested.  “It's not like I'm going around calling him 'Dipshit.'  Oh, sorry,” I added quickly.  Oh my God, I couldn't believe I'd just cursed in front of my boss!  This was all Bud's fault.

With a somewhat amused grin, Ian said, “You really can't stand that guy, can you?”

“How did you know?  I thought I was being subtle.”

“Grimaces usually are subtle,” Ian said sarcastically.  Then he peered through the blinds for me.  “He's gone.”

“Thanks,” I said.  As I turned the knob, I added, “Let's just hope that he really left and isn't hiding behind the copy machine.” 

By the way my boss was looking at me now, I knew I'd said too much.  “Is this paranoia of yours a New Jersey thing?” he asked.

“No,” I lied.  “But honestly, what do we really know about the guy?”

Ian narrowed his eyes, doubtfully.  “What do you normally know about your mailman?” 

Well he had me there. 

“Let's see, he's married, has two kids in college, and he brings me my mail,” Ian said, then held his hands out.  “I'm satisfied.”

“Fine, fine,” I said and stepped back into the main office.

When Fredriksen finally arrived, everyone gathered around the circular table for a meeting.  In the handful of times I had dealt with him, I'd always found Fredriksen to be affable—but distant.  He had a pleasant persona, but didn't reveal much about himself.  It was just as well, really, because between him and all-business Ian, the meetings moved along pretty briskly.

After Fredriksen reviewed a few changes that were implemented the last time he'd visited, he asked Monica if she had any feature articles planned that hadn't yet been discussed.  “Actually, I do,” she said.  Proudly she recapped the idea she'd put forth the other day—the one about the case of Joe Slock, the CEO with a double-life.  Fredriksen was clearly not as open-minded about the concept as Ian had been.

“No, Monica, that's not really for us,” he said apologetically.  “While it's a unique idea, it's not representative of the direction in which I hope to move the Chronicle.”  Then he addressed the group.  “As you know, I have had considerable success with arts and entertainment as a core theme, and I hope to strengthen those aspects of the Chronicle.  Over time, I'd like us to move away from the really hard-edged news stories.”  I failed to see Joe Slock as “hard-edged,” but Fredriksen was the boss, after all.

“But—” Monica began.

Fredriksen held his hand up.  “Furthermore, everyone already knows the details of the Joe Slock case.  His case is highly unique; we wouldn't to treat what he did as some kind of trend, rather than an anomaly.  And we wouldn't want to tread old ground.”

“Oh, no, I agree, and I wouldn't be,” Monica said.  “What I plan to do is to use Joe Slock as an entrée, if you will, into the broader topic—how what he did reflects a threat that is actually plausible in our increasingly digital world.”

Clearly, Monica Fong hadn't mastered the golden rule of the straight-A student: show up your peers all you want—but always hide from the teacher that you're smarter than him.  Fredriksen straightened his tie, took a meaningful pause.  “As always, Monica, I appreciate your passion,” he said with unmistakable finality in his tone.  And a subtle undercurrent of authority that implied the man didn't appreciate being challenged. 

I darted a glance at Monica, who appeared stunned, like she'd just been slapped in the face or spanked like an insolent child.  Though Fredriksen's tone had been perfectly diplomatic, it was hardly the teacher's-pet encouragement she'd gotten used to with Ian.  In that second, I felt kind of sorry for her.  It seemed like this particular article was very important to her for some reason. 

Everyone knew Fredriksen's passion lay in the arts, and that small newspapers across the country were rolling over left and right.  It also wasn't a secret that the Chronicle was gradually moving in a direction akin to Fredriksen's other publication, Culture & Performance.  So I didn't think that Monica should be quite as shocked as she appeared to be.     

Meanwhile, Ian shifted focus.  “John, as you know, Caitlyn has been writing our new section, the monthly movie spotlight.”  Strangely, it felt weird to hear Ian call me “Caitlyn.”  “She's been doing a fantastic job,” he added. 

Fredriksen nodded emphatically.  “I agree.  Caitlyn, I really like what you've been doing with the column,” he said. 

Don't make fun of me, but inside, I soared with pride.  It felt so great to be praised and set apart at the paper—like this was what I had silently been waiting for all this time.  I'd never been a straight-A student like Monica.  But I was still a very good student, and I was used to doing well.   

Fredriksen continued, “In fact, I'd like to consider expanding the 'movie spotlight' to a weekly column.  I'm not sure how that would fit into your work flow, but I'd be very interested to try that.”

Smiling, I assured him, “I could definitely work that in; I'd love to write a weekly film review.” 

“Good,” Fredriksen said.  “Ian, what do you think is a good starting point?”

Ian met my eyes dead on.  “How about you submit one detailed review per week to me for the next four weeks?  Let's stay in that 500 to 700 word range.  Of course we'll put your reviews in the Sunday paper for maximum readership.  Then we can evaluate how it's going and what needs streamlining.  Eventually, I'd like the Chronicle to transition to a larger film section that includes multiple reviews and a spotlight interview.  But that's down the road.  One thing at a time.  How does that sound?”

“Great,” I agreed, smiling brightly.  “I'll write as many reviews as you want!”  Only after I said it did I realize how ludicrous that offer sounded. 

Fredriksen gave a brief chuckle.  “That's the enthusiasm every editor wants to hear, right, Ian?”  Ian replied with a sort of wry, inscrutable look on his face.  Before turning his attention to another topic, Fredriksen added, “In all seriousness, Caitlyn, I see that Ian was right about your work.  You have a great voice, and this past trial period has definitely convinced me that you're ready to build on it.”

Call me self-involved, but I kind of tuned out the rest of the meeting, and sat there, blissfully stunned.  Ian had said I had a great voice?  Ian had helped convince Fredriksen that I was ready for my own weekly column? 

It took several minutes for it to sink in that my monthly movie spotlight had actually been a test.  Ian had been grooming me for something more, but hadn't told me.  Instead, he'd made me prove myself, and maybe that's why he was so hard on my reviews—because he knew that Fredriksen was, in effect, grading them.

The rest of the meeting careened by.  Monica stayed silent for most of it.  I didn't know her well enough to be sure, but I had a feeling she was sulking.  As usual, Gary won Fredriksen over with a lot of hype-talk about his sales numbers.  Then, conversationally, he asked, “So Mr. P., are you heading into Minneapolis after this, or is it back to La La Land?”

“No, I'll be in town a little while longer,” Fredriksen replied, then checked the time on his thick gold watch.  “I promised to go to my nephew's basketball game.”  This detail, while innocuous, was notable only because Fredriksen rarely spoke about his private life.

After the staff meeting, Fredriksen met with Ian about the budget and a few other complicated spreadsheets.  I returned to my desk and found the article I had clicked on earlier, still opened on my screen.  Automatically, I gave it a quick read before closing the window.  

 

UNIDENTIFIED BODY FOUND IN RIVER, POLICE HAVE NO CLUES

Two fishermen found the body of a woman floating in the North Shore Channel of the Chicago River at approximately seven a.m. this morning. The woman had no identifying marks on her clothes or body, except for a small tattoo. Medical examiner estimates the age of the deceased to be between thirty and forty years old. A physical evaluation will be done to determine the cause of death.  At this time no purse or coat has washed up. Authorities are withholding further information from the press in an effort to secure a positive identification of the body.

 

 

Of course the last line was a tactful way of saying that the police expected to see the usual array of crackpots and liars making false identifications of the body based on details they'd read in the newspaper.  I shook my head at the thought; I would never understand people, as much as I might pretend otherwise.   

When Mr. Fredriksen finally left the Chronicle, I stopped by Ian's office and knocked on the door jamb.  “Hey—I just wanted to say thank you.  I'm really excited about doing more reviews.”

Ian nodded.  “Me, too.”  Then he had to ruin the moment by adding matter-of-factly, “And if you just leave out all the unprintable passages, I'll have an easier job.”

I twisted my lips in sort of a smirk.  “Such an exaggerator.”

He gave me one of his rare smiles, and kept it brief.  “Back to work, Rocket,” he said with a nod toward my desk.  “You've got a full plate in front of you.” 

And for better or worse, he was right.  Of course, little did we realize that the Chronicle was barely the half of it.

Chapter 13

 

“Still nothing—this is so frustrating!”

Amy was focused on her own laptop, but mumbled her agreement.  Meanwhile Cappy lifted her head at my outburst and gave me a mildly chastising look, before burying her fluffy head under a throw pillow.

“How can Jennifer Agnor still be offline?” I persisted.  “It doesn't make sense.”

At that Amy shrugged.  “It's not impossible.  We are, too, for the most part.”

“I know,” I said, setting my laptop aside on the couch.  “But we don't have media pages.  Jennifer Agnor does.  Usually people on PretendR are pretty obsessed with it.” 

PretendR had exploded on the scene a year or two ago, and had recently become the most popular social media website out there.  The site's appeal included its visual design, idiot-proof usability, and strict privacy policy.  These days, if you were the kind of person who enjoyed online friend communities, then you were on PretendR.

My mother had unknowingly given me this idea the other day when she'd talked about my brothers and their media pages.  (“Media page” was PretendR terminology for one's profile, photo slide show, and message board.)  The notion hadn't hit me until well after our conversation: why not look for Jennifer Agnor and Suzie Diamanti on PretendR?   

Maybe I should have thought of it sooner, but PretendR wasn't a website I used.  Neither Amy nor I were inclined toward online profiles or large masses of friends.  If it weren't for the intricacies of the football world, I'm not sure my brothers would bother with it, either.  But I was pretty sure we were in the minority.  Since most people did seem to enjoy updating their personal information on a regular basis, and connecting with people through PretendR, I figured it was a sure bet that Jennifer and Suzie would have media pages of their own. 

Unfortunately, the search wasn't as simple as I'd hoped.  I found no matches for “Suzie Diamanti,” and over twenty matches for “Jennifer Agnor.”  In order to narrow down the latter, I had to join PretendR and set up my own account.  After I went through that whole rigmarole, I finally isolated the Jennifer Agnor I was looking for. 

From the photograph I knew it was the same women who had worked briefly at the Metropolax Company.  I could also see that up to that Wednesday—the day following the robbery—the woman had updated her media page at least once a day.  PretendR logged the history of all updates.  And so it wasn't a stretch to extrapolate that Jennifer suddenly going dark for over a week was definitely unusual, possibly even suspicious.

“The chicken should be done soon.  Want some wine?” I asked on my way to the kitchen.

“No, I'm fine.”  Amy sealed her laptop shut with an efficient click, and let out a sigh.

“What's wrong?” I asked.  I took one of the wineglasses that had arrived from my mom off the drain board.  The package contained a set of four, each with a snowflake pattern etched across the glass.  After filling it halfway with Chianti, I peeked in the oven.  Whenever Amy came for dinner, I tried to make something “healthy.”  Tonight's attempt was baked chicken primavera.  The box claimed it was healthy, anyway.  (Though given the saga that was the ingredient list, I admit I had my doubts.) 

“It's this party we're planning,” Amy said. 

“Are the details not coming together?” I said, leaning against the counter.

Amy, who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, hopped to her feet.  She pushed her glasses higher on her nose.  “It's not that.  It's my mother.  She keeps changing her mind.  Which is making this whole process inefficient.” 

This year was the second annual “Holiday Gala” hosted by R&D Labs.  It was a semi-formal party held on R&D's vast main floor, by invitation only—however nearly every business interest in town received an invitation.  Basically the event was a fund-raiser dressed up for Christmas with seasonal decorations and a live orchestra.  Amy had been dragged onto the planning committee by her mother, but the two women had starkly different personalities.  Also—though I adored  my friend, I had to be honest—she had a much lower threshold for chaos, whimsy, and disorganization than most people.

“I'd rather not even think about it right now.  Let's get back to what you're working on.  Now how do you plan to progress with this?” she said.

I set the bread down on the table and Amy took a seat.  Cappy Blackburn hopped off the couch and scampered over.  Her tail was wagging like a windshield wiper during a storm, as she sat at Amy's feet, waiting for handouts.  “Okay, I've already sent Jennifer two PretendR messages, and still no response.  Granted, she doesn't know me, but still—there's been no activity on her account.  According to the site, she hasn't even logged on since last week.”

“Well, we could conclude that anyway based on her established pattern of daily greeting changes,” Amy pointed out.  “Statistically, it would be improbable that she would suddenly be logging onto her page without changing her greeting.”

“So where does that get us?” I asked, confused.

“Nowhere,” Amy stated simply.  “I'm just agreeing with you.” 

“Oh.  So what should I do now?  Just keep checking for her to update her page, keep sending her messages and wait for a response?”

Amy shrugged.  “What else can you do, really, short of stalking her?  Practically speaking: can you afford to spend hundreds of dollars to hire a private investigator, just to find out everything he can about a person you don't even know?”

“No,” I admitted.  “So I'm at a dead end with Jennifer Agnor for the moment.  What about Suzie Diamanti?  She's not on PretendR—but there's got to be some way to track her down.”

“But to what end?” Amy said.  She blinked at me, her eyes wide behind her glasses, her studious face waiting patiently for a logical explanation—a finite objective wrapped up in a bow made of graph paper.  Well, I'm sorry, but I didn't have that.  

“I'm not sure,” I said honestly.  “I just can't get it out of my mind that both women seemed to vanish from Metropolax right after that break-in was reported.  I can't get it out of my mind that Fritz Sachs, the president of the company, wanted the whole case buried.”  Then I began numbering with my fingers.  “Both women hadn't been at the company long.  Both were not overly liked by their coworkers.  Both were blond.  Fine, that last similarity is a stretch.  And what about that cryptic phone conversation Suzie was having when she first came to Big Clock?  Remember?”  I had already refreshed Amy's memory about the 4th of July event at the Marriott.  “Clearly Suzie knew someone in town, and it sounded like she had deliberately tracked the person down.  Oh, God—Aim, I just thought of something.  What if whomever Suzie tracked to Big Clock actually killed her and then faked her resignation to cover it up?” 

My new theory was met with a skeptical stare.  “Caitlyn.  Your imagination is spiraling out of control now,” she told me. 

“Fine,” I said with a sigh, pretending to relent for a moment.  “But what if it were Jennifer?” I went on.  “It would certainly explain why they both disappeared!  Maybe Jennifer knew Suzie, got her the job at Metropolax, and then ended up killing her.  And she fled because she was afraid of being caught!”

“I thought you said Suzie worked there longer than Jennifer.”

“Oh, right...”  Restlessly, I rapped my fingers on the table.  “I'm so lost with this!”

Ever the calm one, Amy reached a hand down to pet Cappy's head.  “I thought the deal with your boss was that if you came up with some solid leads about the alleged burglary at Metropolax, then you would get a recommendation from him, and the office with the window.  Is that correct?” Amy said.

“Yes.”

“Then as far as I can see, you've accomplished that.  You've infiltrated the company, learned about some possible suspects, and even figured out exactly how the supply room is secured and accessed, on a daily basis.  You don't need to dig any further to present Ian with a few plausible theories—i.e. leads.”

Only Amy Laraby could say “i.e.” in casual conversation and it sounded normal.  And she did have a point.  I was tearing my mind apart, trying to understand all the fragmented pieces of the whole, and technically, I didn't have to...

Yet...I felt close, eerily close.  Like I was on the precipice of discovery.  I couldn't just quit now.  Just then there was a knock at my door.

“Hi, Lucy,” I said, smiling, “come on in.”  She wore a “kiss the cook” apron over her outfit, and one of her purple hats with a big flower in the center. 

“Hi there—oh hi, Amy,” she added brightly, then handed me the round metal tin she was carrying.  “For you.” 

“What is it?”

“Gingersnaps.  I was just getting in the Christmas spirit this afternoon, doing some baking—and look.”  She lifted her billowy linen skirt to flash her latest ankle sock.

“Love it!  Oh, how cute, the reindeer are skiing,” I said. 

“Hey, I see you have that family photo from your mom on display,” Lucy remarked, pointing toward the frame standing on my breakfast bar.  She walked closer to it.  “Your mom sure is pretty,” she said.  “By chance is she a model?”

“No,” I said with a laugh, “but I'll tell her you said that.  She'll be very flattered.”

“Was she ever a model?” Lucy persisted.

“No,” I told her, as I set the tin on the table.  “Thanks a lot for the cookies.”

“Sure.  I just hope you like gingersnaps.”

“Yes, definitely,” I lied.  By the rosy blush of her cheeks and her warm, bright smile, I could see that Lucy was feeling joyful—so there was no way I was going to tell her that gingersnaps were among the few cookies I disliked. 

“Baking is therapeutic,” she added.

“I guess that's true,” I said.  “Why...is anything wrong?”

“No,” she replied unconvincingly, then plopped down in a chair across from Amy.  “Just that the holidays can make you feel lonely, you know?  I don't know...with Christmas coming up, I always just wish I had more things to be excited for.” 

“Oh, Lucy, everyone feels like that,” I began, and joined them at the table.  “You just have to look at all the good things.  Just think: you're doing really well in your master's program.  You've got a great apartment...”  Even though this pep talk was as trite as they came, I still strained for more material.  “...you have lots of cool Christmas socks—the best collection I've ever seen.  Right, Amy?”

“Yes—you certainly do have a variety,” Amy agreed, trying to be helpful.

“You know, they used to call me 'the Bobby Soxer' in high school,” Lucy informed her.

“And hey, you've got your health,” I added, assuming that was true, “plus, you're a sweet, kind person...really, you have lots of things to feel good about, Lucy!”  

“Thanks,” she said.  “Maybe you're right.  I guess it's silly to get depressed.”

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” I said.  “It should be ready soon.”

“Okay, great.”  Lucy was beaming again.  Reaching for a piece of bread, she added, “Caitlyn, I don't know what I'd do without you.  Sometimes I get so tired of eating alone.”

Chapter 14