The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle

by Unknown

  Or—had Suzie resigned as some sort of escape from the company, only to then be pursued by someone who was actually trying to kill her? Assuming the note on the mirror was not a bad joke, the only explanation I could think of was that it was a last-ditch effort on Suzie's part to name her killer, in case she was unable to get away.

  Most important of all: where was Suzie now, and was she still alive?

  On the top of my comforter lay the resignation letter that I had printed from Suzie Diamanti's scanner. I picked it up and read it for the fourth time.

  THe TIMe HAS COMe TO MOVe ON. I'M SeNDING YOU THIS LeTTeR B/C I'Ve NeVeR BeeN GOOD AT QUITTING IN PeRSON. I'M NOT THE TYPe TO STAY ANYWHeRe TOO LONG, AND AFTeR A FeW MONTHS, I'M ReALIZING THAT I'M JUST NOT CUT OUT FOR ALL THIS DAY-AFTeR-DAY MONOTONY. I GUeSS I WANT MORe OUT OF LIFe WHILe I'M STILL YOUNG eNOUGH TO GeT IT. WITH FOND ReGARDS,

  SUZIe

  At this point, I had to assume that Suzie was the true writer of this letter. If anyone was going to fake Suzie's resignation to convince others not to look for her and that she was alive and well, then wouldn't that person write something more professional than this? More generic? Rather than come up with a scrappy little note that might invite questions?

  But even more basic than that: no one would be able to scan an item on Suzie's machine, which was hooked up to her computer, unless that person knew the log-in password to her computer. I seriously doubted that Suzie had told the password to her co-workers. Call it my guarded, cautious nature—maybe it was the New Jersey in my blood—but I just couldn't buy the idea of anyone with half a brain voluntarily revealing her log-in password. And I hadn't gotten the impression that Suzie had been particularly close with any of the Metropolax staff.

  Speaking of the staff... I picked up my pen now. To keep all my facts straight, I made a detailed list:

  Bill Christopher – 26/27, affable, smart, fairly laid back; claimed to like Suzie, called her “fun.”

  James Williams – around 30, seemed kind of cynical & catty, but was drunk at the time; not sure what his “sober personality” is; called Suzie a “hot blond with a hot car.”

  I paused then, tapping my pen on the pad. There was something else that James had said about Suzie...some other detail, but it was escaping me now... Finally, I shook my head in defeat, and went back to jotting notes.

  Dede James – between 45 and 55 (hard to pinpoint age); seemed friendly & warm, James had called her a “gossip” while Bill had referred to her as “a mother hen type”

  Kendall Wallingham – early twenties, immature (i.e. got sloppy drunk at work party); obvious dislike for Suzie; worked directly with her, as the two women were both accountants. Kendall said that Suzie's numbers “didn't add up.” Kendall also had a crush on some guy who worked in the building named Stu—who James said was interested in Suzie.

  Stu?? *find out about him – maybe ask Bill

  John Black – mid forties, bad dresser, shy to the point of suspicious?? Apparently lives with his mother? Not sure what he thought of Suzie, but must have interacted with her regularly since she was an accountant and he was the company's Tax Specialist. Bill and James both implied that John was “off” in some way.

  Diana Dupont – mid 40s, self-righteous, unfriendly; not sure how she felt about Suzie, but it was hard to picture the scowl-faced shrew saying anything positive. *Important: Diana Dupont was the one who told me over the phone that the burglary was a “misunderstanding.” She was insistent about dropping the topic. Was she acting on behalf of the company—or did she have her own personal agenda for keeping people from looking further into what had happened that night?

  Fritz Sachs – looks?? personality?? Bill had said he was fifty-something with a “bad toupee.” Also, that Fritz had a “soft spot for Jennifer.”

  Jennifer Agnor – apparently was involved with a married man. Reported the break-in to the police—then went to lunch the same day and never returned to work. Suddenly I remembered one more detail about Jennifer and added it to the page: ASPIRING ACTRESS

  Suzie Diamanti – what did I really know about her? Attractive blond, early thirties, drove a silver Mercedes, was apparently always nice to Maria... I thought back to that day at the Marriott, five months earlier, and added to my list: *Suzie knew someone in Big Clock when she arrived in town. Who was it? From the phone call, it sounded like an antagonistic relationship. Why had Suzie moved to Big Clock in the first place?

  Finally, I set my pen down. After a thoughtful few moments, I dropped my head against my fluffy stack of pillows. Again I thought about the words on the mirror. Sox killed me. If I played out my theory—that this “Sox” had been with Suzie that night at Metropolax, and had the intent to kill her—then it stood to reason that “Sox” worked at the company.

  Of course, it could be someone else, who had gained access to the office by Suzie and then turned on her. Perhaps they had been in on the robbery together? Perhaps they'd had some shared scheme that had gone awry?

  But let's face it. When someone was killed in New York, the police didn't first start with the eight million people who didn't know the victim, in case it was a random act of violence. They started with the core group who surrounded the victim on a daily basis. With that logic, I was determined to learn more about the people on this list—to figure out what the name “Sox” meant, and which one of the Metropolax staff might've been parked beside Suzie the night of the robbery.

  Of course, if you were a stickler for logic, you might point out that I had no proof a murder was committed, or even attempted. This was true. But I did have this bad feeling. And that note on the mirror... and the bizarre resignation letter… and all the other odd, unsettling details that swirled in my brain.

  The last thing I remembered before falling asleep was seeing a powdery shower of snow fall across the street lamp outside my window.

  That night I slept restlessly, my mind churning out one vivid, disturbing scenario after the next. In one dream, Kendall was bludgeoning Suzie because of jealousy over the “mutant” Stu, who worked downstairs. In another, Jennifer had convinced Suzie to loot the supply closet and sell the supplies on Ebay; when Suzie tried to pull out of the scheme, Diana Dupont showed up out of nowhere, and began stapling Suzie's head repeatedly.

  The dream in which hefty HR woman, Dede, was playing Twister with Suzie and then sat on her and killed her by accident was the one that finally woke me up.

  Breathing hard, I felt instantly that I was cold and damp with sweat; the back of my shirt felt soaked. I shivered and Cappy un-buried her head to see what was wrong—then snuggled closer to me. Even as my breathing slowed and my heart rate calmed again, I still couldn't block out the presently insurmountable question: who in the world was “Sox”?

  Suddenly I bolted up in bed. I couldn't believe I'd forgotten! I switched on the light and darted over to the bag on my dresser. I rooted through it until I pulled out a slim gold necklace with an engraved heart dangling from it. S, Love forever, X.

  I turned it over. Y2K. A common abbreviation for: Yours to Keep.

  I hadn't looked at this since that night I'd found it in the Metropolax supply closet—along with a reddish brown smudge on a stack of sticky pads, which now suddenly didn't seem so innocuous.

  Chapter 16

  The next morning I was returning from my walk with Cappy when I ran into Lucy. Today she had a beaming smile, and while I would love to give credit to my insipid pep talk the other day, I could tell there was more to her glowing happiness.

  “Hey, Lucy, good morning,” I said, as Cappy plopped down on the foyer rug and immediately began licking the clumps of snow stuck to her fur and red sweater.

  “Hi, I was just upstairs looking for you. You'll never guess what happened!”

  “What?”

  “Yesterday I went to campus to use the library, and guess who I ran into? Professor Helmuson—and you'll never believe this—he asked me out!”

  “Really?” I said, not meaning to sound
as stunned as I was. Maybe I shouldn't have just assumed that Lucy's crush on linguistics professor, Mark Helmuson, was unrequited. Typically, I found the whole professor-hitting-on-student thing a pretty deplorable trend. It had only happened to me once, and instead of feeling flattered, I'd felt disappointed; seeing my brilliant professor make what was ultimately a smarmy come-on, had chopped the pedestal I'd placed him on right to the ground.

  But this seemed different. With Lucy in her forties and Helmuson over fifty, to say they were consenting adults would be an understatement.

  “I can't wait! I have no idea what to wear,” Lucy continued.

  “That's great—but...well, isn't it kind of a conflict of interest since you're in his class?” I said, being a naysayer after all. I regretted the words as soon as I blurted them; obviously Lucy was beyond excited about this and I shouldn't ruin it for her.

  Luckily, she shook her head. “No, not at all!” she insisted. “The class is done, granted the grades aren't posted yet, but still.”

  “Oh, I see your point,” I said and smiled. “Well, have fun. Do you know when and where yet?” Lucy followed me up the stairs as I dragged Cappy along; my dog always got into a time warp of fixation when it came to snow-clumps stuck to her fur. We could be in the foyer for the next three hours if I let Cappy make the decisions.

  As the three of us entered my apartment, Lucy continued giving me the details about Professor Helmuson. She told me how he'd approached her at the library, exactly what he'd said, the intense way that he'd looked at her, what he was wearing, etceteras etceteras. I think I heard most of it. “Well, I have to go shopping for a new outfit,” she said now. “Do you want to come?”

  Although it was my day off from the Chronicle, an idle day of shopping and relaxing was the last thing I needed. I was too focused on the whereabouts of Suzie Diamanti—and about half a dozen other questions—to shut my mind off now.

  “No, thanks, I'm going to stay in. But make sure to show me whatever you end up buying,” I added brightly.

  “I will. Oh, by the way, did you have a dinner party last night or something?”

  “No,” I said, confused. “Why?”

  “Sure sounded like you had company last night,” Lucy said. “I thought I heard people moving around up here.”

  At first I thought that Lucy was just inventing social plans for me as usual—maybe out of some psychological need to play the martyr when she wasn't invited? Who knew why she was always convinced I was entertaining. Besides, she'd already made it clear that Cappy and I sounded like a “herd of elephants” when we ran around—

  Then the notion struck me. Cappy and I hadn't run around yesterday evening, because I hadn't even been here—not until after I returned home from Metropolax. Cautiously I asked, “Lucy, what time was that?”

  She shrugged. “Around dinner time. Maybe six, six-thirty. That's why I asked if it was a dinner party. No big deal, I guess I was hearing things. Well, I'd better head to the mall.” She reached down to give Cappy a loving pet before she left.

  I suddenly felt apprehensive. Concerned. Could someone have been inside my apartment yesterday while I was out? Or was I just being paranoid now? Given Lucy's track record with the sounds coming from upstairs, she wasn't exactly a reliable source.

  An hour later, I had put the thought aside as I searched the Internet for traces of the stolen supplies. I checked Ebay and every other site remotely like it that I could think of, using all different key words, trying to find some listing that could match up with the office supplies that had gone missing from Metropolax. After exhausting that idea, and poring especially over the ads coming from Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Illinois, I debated a third cup of coffee when I heard the doorbell ring.

  My first instinct was to go downstairs and see who was at the front door. My second instinct figured it was probably Bud, so I stayed at my dining room table. See, Bud had done this sort of thing before. After delivering misery—I mean mail—to the Chronicle, he would learn it was my day off, and decide to “say hello” when his route led him to the brownstone I shared with Lucy. Of course a face-to-face mail delivery meant enduring more of Bud's grating personality.

  Well I wasn't falling for it this time. My basic attitude was: he could leave the mail in the box like any other mailman, or he could commit a felony and not leave it. On a side note, I really wasn't sure if Bud thought we were friends—or knew we were silent enemies.

  Several minutes and one doorbell ring later, I decided that the proverbial coast was clear. Figuring I might have another package from my mother, I left my apartment and headed down the stairs. I paused in the foyer, listening carefully for signs of life on the other side of the front door. There was no peephole, and I couldn't risk glancing through the narrow side window, because if Bud was there, he would surely spot me and then I'd feel obligated to open the door.

  Slowly I turned the deadbolt. I cracked the door open an inch and squinted to peer through the gap. There was no one there, but a box was lying on the mat. After I opened the door, took the package, and happily saw that it was from my mom, I was about to turn and retreat inside when I heard a voice call, “Caitlyn! Caitlyn—hi!”

  No! It couldn't be...except I knew that it could.

  “Over here!”

  Finally I spotted Bud waving to me, standing diagonally across from my car. I supposed I hadn't noticed him when I'd opened the door because of the large snow bank that had piled up to the left of our driveway. Unless...could Bud have been deliberately ducking behind the snow bank, waiting for me to show my face?

  For some reason, I thought of Ian. I pictured myself telling him this. Ian would dismiss this thesis as ridiculous and paranoid (and most certainly “unprintable”). And though I may not admit it to his face all the time, Ian was usually right.

  So, I impersonated a trusting soul and simply smiled and waved a friendly hello. “You got a package there!” he yelled.

  “I got it!” I replied, stating the obvious. “Thanks so much!”

  “Day off, huh?” he called.

  Okay, I was done. I didn't need to shout my business into the street. “Yep—bye!”

  Once the door was shut behind me, I felt geared up for my next mission. With my Internet searches yielding nothing so far, I would have to return to the clock building. Only this time, I wasn't going there to clean or even to go inside.

  * * *

  So there I was—in a skully cap, oversized sunglasses and a scarf to bury my chin, sitting in the visitor section of the clock building parking lot. I couldn't take the chance that one of the Metropolax employees would see me spying on their cars. The best time to do this would really be around five o'clock, when most employees typically began leaving work. I could observe the Metropolax staff, one by one, getting into their cars, and assess which ones were candidates for the owner of the mysterious “dark car” that was parked beside Suzie's Mercedes the night of the robbery.

  The problem with that, though, was that it was pitch dark in Big Clock by 4:30 PM. As I'd learned from my nights posing as a Spotless Find cleaning woman, the parking lot of the clock building was not particularly well-lit. I knew I would get a much more accurate picture of who drove what if I came in the daytime. Now I glanced at the time. Twelve-forty-five. The perfect time to catch people on their way to or from lunch.

  Although the visitor section had a clear view of the front entrance, I quickly saw that the back exit of the parking lot was obscured. This wouldn't work. I put my car in reverse and slowly made my way closer to the Metropolax section. Okay, now what? If I rode around and around in circles, I would definitely draw attention to myself. Yet, I couldn't very well park in Metropolax-designated parking, because that would draw attention to myself. If I parked in Big Clock Print & Copy's parking, then the manager, Danny, might recognize and come over to my car to say hi.

  Finally I settled on a space reserved for a company I never heard of called Al's Imports & Exports (which was probably a drug bust w
aiting to happen), and cut the engine. The temperature today was about 19° but even without my heater on, I probably had at least twenty minutes' worth of warmth stored in my winter coat. Now if I could figure out how many blue, black or even brown cars were driven by employees of Metropolax, then I might narrow down my pool of suspects to consider.

  Over an hour later, I was driving home, with mixed feelings about my results. This is what I'd learned:

  Kendall drove a black sedan.

  James drove a black Jeep.

  John drove a dark blue hatchback that reminded me of much younger days .

  Bill drove the same red BMW he'd had in college.

  Also—a midnight blue CR-V with a bumper sticker that read, “Proud Parent of a Butler Honor Student,” never moved from its spot. I figured that one belonged to either Dede or Diana since both would easily be of age to have a child in high school, and stickers like that were usually a mother's car ornament of choice, not a father's. There were four other spots left open in the Metropolax section of the lot.

  Although the day was not a total loss, I wish I'd come up with data that was more finite. The fact that most of Metropolax drove dark colored cars didn't exactly finger the prime suspect. It ruled Bill out, I supposed, but I hadn't really considered him anyway. It might help if I found who the midnight blue CR-V belonged to—since Maria had described the vehicle as a “car” and a CR-V looked more like an SUV. I might be able to rule that person out, as well...

  As my stomach growled loudly, I realized I was starving. I'm not sure how, but I hadn't eaten anything since a granola bar this morning. I decided to stop at Cup/Cakes, a cafe near my house, to pick up a hot sandwich and a blueberry muffin.

  When I turned onto Clock's Crossing, I heard music. It was the familiar, soothing voice of Nat King Cole. The song was streaming from the speaker perched on top of the Christmas Shoppe—a store that had managed to convert a giant warehouse into a yuletide extravaganza, in which it seemed every square inch of the place was covered in garland and greenery—and filled with ornaments, Santa statues, Teddy Bears wearing sweaters, glitter-painted pine cones, and any other shiny Christmas trinket you could imagine.