The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle Read online

  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 kin
d 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!”