The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle Page 3

  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 mornin
g 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.