The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle Read online

  “I suppose it's all part of the job, though,” she went on. “Working in Human Resources, you get used to seeing people come and go.”

  “It sounds like it was kind of a surprise that Suzie left?” I said, then realized I might be pushing my luck. Especially since Dede hadn't even told me the accountant's name was Suzie. “Bill mentioned that he was pretty shocked,” I added quickly (and untruthfully) to justify my curiosity.

  “It was a shame,” Dede admitted. Just then Dede's door opened and John Black— Metropolax's tall, skinny Tax Specialist—entered and abruptly apologized for interrupting.

  “I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had in interview in progress,” he told Dede in a voice that was both hoarse and high-pitched at the same time. It occurred to me then that I hadn't heard John speak until now. Which meant, I supposed, that it was just as possible he had a cold right now, as it was that this was his normal voice. Either way, he avoided my gaze, ducked his head down rather shyly, and set a paper in Dede's inbox.

  “Thanks, John,” she told him with a smile. “John—do you remember Caitlyn? Bill's friend from the party?”

  He mumbled something along the lines of “mmm-hmm, uh-huh” and still avoided eye contact with me as he said, “Sorry again to intrude, Dede. Bye now.” And just like that, he kind of evaporated from the room in a polyester fog.

  When the door shut behind him, Dede smiled warmly and remarked, “He's so nice.”

  I recalled what Bill had said the night of the party—how all the women thought John Black was “so nice,” yet there was something Bill didn't trust about the guy. Before I could mull that over, Dede's door snapped open again.

  “Oh! I didn't know anyone was in here with you,” Kendall Wallingham said. Then her eyes focused on me. With reluctant recognition she said, “Hey...hi...what's up?”

  “Is there something I can help you with, honey?” Dede said.

  Kendall shook her head. I noticed that her orange hair didn't move with the motion; the curly locks appeared gelled to a crisp. “No, I'll wait till you're alone. I have a complaint about something—but it's private.”

  “Okay, no problem. It's almost five o'clock now. Do you want to come see me first thing tomorrow morning?”

  “Yeah, that's fine.” Kendall turned to leave, then paused and looked back. “By the way, have you found anyone to replace Suzie yet? It's kind of getting annoying doing everything myself. Not that Suzie was much help, of course.”

  “I'm working on it, honey, I promise,” Dede said, then gave a hapless look across her crowded desk. “I'm just really in the weeds here. I'll let you know as soon as I can.” Once Kendall stepped out, Dede must have felt compelled to elaborate. “Suzie was only here a few months and we thought she was happy, but...well, I always hope people will give at least a year to a job before they decide to quit. But I guess it just wasn't the right fit,” she said, slipping back into interview-speak.

  I scrapped for a way to keep this line of dialogue going. “Yes, I have a friend who works in HR for another company,” I lied, “and she tells me all the time how she wishes people would come to her as soon as they begin to feel dissatisfied. Because maybe she could help resolve whatever their issues are.”

  Dede smacked her palm on the desk. “That is so true!” she agreed with feeling, then leaned her head in closer. “Caitlyn, I can't tell you how frustrating it can be—because I'm here to help and yet people don't take advantage of that resource. They keep too much inside, you know?”

  I nodded, even though I didn't know—yet. But I could tell by the way Dede kept allowing the interview to wander off course, that the woman was indeed prone to gossip. And usually gossipy people were dying to blab everything, but just needed a little push.

  “That's a beautiful ring, by the way,” I said, motioning toward the large, glassy blue stone that glittered on her pudgy hand.

  “Oh thank you!” she said, glancing at it herself.

  “It's gorgeous,” I added.

  “Actually I got it at Macy's for only thirty dollars!” she said, smiling, clearly pleased with the deal she'd gotten.

  “Wow!” Okay—so now that we were friends—“You mentioned that Suzie was keeping something inside? Bill had the same feeling,” I lied. (Poor Bill, I know—but I needed a scapegoat for my otherwise inexplicable behavior. And I figured referencing him like this would be harmless.) “Didn't she come to you at all before she resigned?”

  “Not exactly...” Dede began reluctantly. Maybe it was the wide-eyed way I blinked at her, or my innocuous demeanor, or my friendship with Bill. Whatever it was, Dede leaned in more, until her bosom was resting fully on the desktop, and lowered her voice. “Between you and me...about a week before she left, Suzie approached me in the kitchen and told me she needed to talk to me. She seemed concerned about something, but she was secretive about what it was. You know, like she wasn't comfortable talking about it right there in the kitchen. So I told her to stop in my office when she had time.”

  “And what happened?” I asked.

  Again, Dede shrugged. “I guess she got cold feet. Or maybe the problem went away? All I know is that she never came to talk. I never found out what was bothering her that day. And then, suddenly, I come in to work and find her resignation in my email.”

  “Hmm, that's really strange...” I said sympathetically.

  “Of course I went right to her office to talk once I read the note, but she was gone,” Dede told me. “Her desk was cleared out, and she didn't answer her cell phone when I called. I guess her letter made it pretty clear that she was ready to move on, but still, I wish I could have done more.” As she sat up straighter, she mumbled, “But at least she gave a note. Unlike Jennifer, who left without any consideration whatsoever.”

  At that point Dede focused on my resume and the interview officially began. She asked the usual questions, to which I provided some unimaginative stock answers. Ultimately we came around to what I already suspected. “You seem to be overqualified for this position, honey,” Dede told me with a gentle tone. “Don't get me wrong, Caitlyn. I'm sure you'd be wonderful at the job. I see here that you temped quite a bit after college, so you obviously have office experience. But considering your education level...well, the truth is, Fritz wants me to hire someone who's really going to stay.” She lowered her voice again. “I guess he learned his lesson with Jennifer.”

  “Oh. She wasn't the type to stay?”

  “Please! Her resume was a string of short-term temp assignments and a waitress job. She wanted to be an actress, for goodness sake. But Fritz had a soft spot for her, I suppose. I'm sure the low-cut tops didn't hurt,” she added dryly.

  I offered an agreeable laugh. And recalled that Bill had used those exact words “soft spot” to describe Fritz's favoritism for Jennifer. It could have been a coincidence. Or, it could have indicated that the staff had gossiped about this topic at length before. Either way, I wasn't about to promise Dede that if hired, I would stay at Metropolax. This was one of those quit-while-I-was-ahead moments. So I said nothing, and let Dede bring the interview to a close.

  “Well, listen, I'll pass your resume along to Fritz and we'll see what he says. Okay, honey? I just wanted to be honest with you, in case he decides to go with someone else.”

  “I understand. Thanks very much.” I stood up and shook her hand. Before I turned to go, I smiled and said, “Bill was right—you're really good at your job.” Dede lit up then, clearly pleased, and I felt like maybe I had made up for the other times I'd misappropriated Bill's name. “If I don't see you, Merry Christmas!”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too!” she replied.

  As the door closed, I realized that I wasn't ready to leave Metropolax yet. It was nearly five o'clock; people would be leaving for the day, not likely to notice me slipping into one of the offices.

  My conversation with Dede had put some doubt in my mind as to the authenticity of Suzie Diamanti's resignation letter. While the handwriting on the letter and the m
irror seemed to be a match, I needed a writing sample that was definitively Suzie's, so I could compare it against the others. The two times I had snooped in her office, I hadn't had a chance to look inside her desk drawers. Perhaps there was still something useful inside—a notebook, a message pad, an old sticky note, any handwritten remnant that Suzie had left behind.

  What had Suzie wanted to talk to Human Resources about, and why hadn't she made it over there? And how far would someone go to stop Suzie from talking? The words “Sox killed me” continued to haunt me. What if Suzie had planned to quit to escape whatever the issue was—but the person she cryptically referred to as “Sox” had killed her anyway?

  Chapter 19

  Once I slipped inside her office, I had to turn the light on. I hated to draw attention to myself, but the sun had gone down and it was too dark to have a productive search otherwise. I opened each desk drawer. Empty...empty...two pens, a tangled pile of rubber bands...empty. With a sigh, I shut the fifth drawer with defeat. On a lark, I lifted up the desk blotter, but there were no papers tucked underneath.

  As I set it back down, I noticed a phone number etched in the cardboard. It was an imprint, probably of a number written on the December calendar sheet that was no longer there. I didn't know if it meant anything, but I was at a point of taking any lead I could get. I reached inside my bag and recorded the number in my cell phone.

  “Caitlyn?”

  Startled, I jumped guiltily in Suzie's chair. “Oh...hi,” I said to James, who was standing in the open doorway.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “Um...I was waiting for Bill,” I lied. “I just figured I'd wait in here since the office is empty. You know, I didn't want to get in anyone's way...”

  “Oh,” he said flatly. Then he furrowed his eyebrows; I couldn't tell if the expression was one of confusion, suspicion, or pity. “Well, Bill's already left for the day,” he told me. “He cut out about fifteen minutes ago. Was he supposed to meet you here?”

  “Um, oh, gosh, maybe I got mixed up. Maybe we were supposed to meet at...later,” I fumbled. “No problem, I'll just text him...” I hopped up from the chair, painted on a smile. “Well, goodnight,” I said brightly.

  He smiled in return, gave a knock on the door jamb. “Okay then, goodnight.”

  “Oh, wait!” I said, hitting the light on my way out. “I just realized—I need a card key to open the main door, don't I? Can you swipe your badge for me?”

  “Sure.” We walked together to the glass doors, and once James had run his ID badge across the magnetic pad on the wall, I thanked him. And sighed with relief as I stepped in the elevator.

  When I reached my car, my phone chimed. It was a text message from Bill.

  Hey-James said u r waiting for me? Did we have plans?

  Really? I thought. James was a squealer like that? I bit my lip as I considered how to field this particular deception.

  No- just stopped by to see if u were free, no big deal.

  oh...

  another time- ttyl

  After I typed that, I put my phone back in my bag, feeling reasonably content with how I'd juggled multiple apples in the air today. I didn't know how pathological liars did it—deception was exhausting! I warmed up my car and had the windshield halfway defrosted when my phone chimed again.

  Want 2 get 2gether tonight?

  Taken off guard, I let Bill's message flash in front of me for several seconds. I hadn't anticipated this. Did he mean get together “as friends”? Or was he asking me for a date? I shook off the thought—surely, I was over-thinking. I was the one who had said I wanted to get together. He was just picking up the ball that I'd dropped. But I already had plans with Amy tonight, so I texted back:

  how about tomorrow?

  We agreed to meet at Hans Christian's, a popular restaurant in town. And finally, I headed home.

  * * *

  A few hours later, Amy and I were sitting in the Starbucks near the Cineplex, with a green tea and cafe mocha, respectively. Steam rose from our cups as fellow moviegoers poured through the doors. “Thanks for coming to see the movie with me,” I told her now.

  “Sure. Did you like it?” Cautiously, Amy sipped her tea.

  “It wasn't bad,” I said, “but there was one or two things that I'll probably be critical of in my review. God, yesterday Ian asked how it was coming. I almost had to tell him that I hadn't even seen the movie yet, much less started my review. And also barely got any of my daily work done on time.” I had to crack up then, as strange as that may sound. Sometimes when life became absurd, I couldn't help but laugh.

  Amy was much more practical, of course. “Well, the important thing is that you can begin working on it now.”

  “True...”

  “I sense that the review still isn't a big priority?” she said, looking carefully at me. I felt a bit like a specimen under her microscope.

  “No, of course it's a priority,” I said. “But I also have this thing with Bill tomorrow. And I have to see where that takes me, in terms of my investigation.”

  “Did you ever hear back from Jennifer Agnor? On PretendR, I mean?”

  I shook my head. “Still nothing. It doesn't make sense! Her account has been 'inactive' since that Wednesday that she went out for lunch and never returned. Amy—what if both she and Suzie Diamanti were murdered?” I said suddenly, eyes wide.

  “Or neither,” Amy pointed out calmly.

  “Come on, you can't deny how ominous and sketchy all this is.”

  “No, that's true. All I'm saying is that you don't know for an empirical fact that a murder has been committed.”

  “What about the note on the mirror?” I insisted. “'Sox killed me'?”

  “If Suzie was alive to write that note then, while her life may have been in danger, we don't really know if this person 'Sox' succeeded or not.”

  “True...”

  “Besides, if both Jennifer and Suzie were killed, then what was the commonality that linked the two? There must have been a shared variable.”

  “Maybe the robbery?” I suggested. “Maybe they were both in on it?”

  “So who disposed of the bodies? And why kill Jennifer after the fact? Didn't you say that she reported the robbery and showed up for work the following morning?”

  “Right, yes, that's true...”

  “I find it kind of hard to believe that she would report a crime she was complicit in, but I suppose it's possible,” Amy offered. Then, thoughtfully, she tipped her head. “So what's your next step?”

  “I have a few ideas...” I remarked, and for a few moments, let all my swimming thoughts fill my brain.

  Just then, eight people in matching green cloaks entered Starbucks. Each wore a Santa cap and I noticed that one of the women had dangling jingle-bell earrings on. With no introduction they all burst into song, in the middle of the establishment.

  “What the...?” I began, confused—turning first to the singers, then to Amy.

  She explained, “The Clocktet. That's what they call themselves. It's shorthand for the Big Clock Octet.”

  “Okay...”

  “It's an a capella group here in town. This time of year they do Christmas carols.”

  “Oh. Well, that's nice...” I said, and normally would have meant it, but they were belting out the tunes so hard, it was impossible to continue my conversation. Sure I could scream over their voices, but drowning out “O Come all Ye Faithful” with chitchat about double homicide seemed in questionable taste.

  Clearly I wasn't alone in my basic sentiment—as I noticed that most conversations ceased, as the Clocktet belted tunes to the room and people looked on.

  They went straight into “O Holy Night” next. Then “Silver Bells.” Then a version of “Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree” that nearly split my eardrums. I turned to Amy and asked if she was ready to go. Normally I love carols, but I guess I just wasn't the target audience for this overbearing performance. Or maybe I still had too much on my m
ind.

  As Amy and I walked to our cars, I said, “By the way, I have another problem.”

  “What?”

  “I can't stop lying!” I blurted. “I find myself just making things up all the time.”

  “When did this start?”

  “I guess when I began investigating Metropolax,” I said.

  “And do you lie about anything and everything? Or just to people at Metropolax?”

  I thought for a second. “Just to people related to the investigation.”

  As she tightened her scarf around neck, she shrugged. “Then don't worry.”

  “No? So you don't think I'm developing some sort of problem?”

  “No, of course not. Your deception has a purpose. What choice do you have, if you hope to obtain results? After all, you don't really have any solid reasons for going into this level of depth with the Metropolax Company. It's not like anyone would understand your motives for getting this involved. Well, a psychiatrist, maybe,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said wryly, and patted her shoulder. “So now that you're done making me feel better, do you want to come over? We'll forget this whole case for now. See what's on TV, get armchair-deep in some java chip ice cream. C'mon, it'll be fun!”

  Prudently, Amy mentioned, “It's ten degrees outside.”

  “Fine. You don't have to have the ice cream.”

  “Actually, I have to go anyway. My mother and I are stringing popcorn together tonight.”

  “Oh, how cute!” I said, for some reason finding the notion adorable and heartfelt.

  “Not really. It's a fund raising strategy. She decided that she wants the R&D gala to have a 'hint of hominess.' She thinks it will elicit people to give more money.” There was no rancor in Amy's tone. She was matter-of-fact and sanguine—apparently just like her mom's popcorn-stringing. In that way, Amy was lucky. Because she was a scientist, she believed what counted were results, not emotions. And therefore she made sure she got results. With the Metropolax case, I would have to find a way to make like a scientist.