The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle Page 6

  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, Det
ective. 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 wo
uld 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.