The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle

by Unknown

  A few Christmas Shoppe employees were setting up a display outside the store. Talking to one of them was Big Clock's Mayor, Leonard Krepp. He was bundled up in a wool coat with a fur collar (though I had to assume, in these controversial times and with an election coming up, it was probably acrylic).

  As always, he had an affable, warm smile—and a real way with his constituency. He made you feel like he was truly one of the people, like he cared. Mayor Krepp, I thought idly, recalling the previous night, now there's someone who drives a dark car...

  I shook off the thought and continued to Cup/Cakes. Because, surely, the mayor had nothing to do with this.

  Chapter 17

  As the big clock struck eight, I turned my key in the tarnished old lock that secured the Chronicle office. I felt a little like I was breaking in, even though, technically, I was allowed to be here. Monica, Gary, and I all had front door keys to the office, and we were never specifically told when we could come and go. Still, it felt odd to be entering the Chronicle at night, after everyone had long gone, and on my day off, to boot.

  But what I needed was simple and hopefully this would not take long.

  I switched on the lamp by my desk. Out of habit, I glanced up in the corner. Charlotte was curled up in ball in the center of her net, which was otherwise pristine. If she ever did catch bugs in that thing, I appreciated the fact that she always ate them before I got there. I fished a USB drive out of my bag as my computer booted up. I pushed some loose papers out of my way. My work space was typically scattered with files, printouts, and Post It note reminders that I stuck liberally all around my desk. Normally the clutter didn't bother me, but tonight I was edgy, impatient. What if the message on the fogged mirror didn't show up in the photograph here either?

  Earlier I had uploaded the few pictures I'd taken at Metropolax, only to discover that the most crucial one of all was a dud. The words “Sox killed me,” which had been clear as day to my eyes for a few meaningful moments, seemed not to have been picked up by my camera lens. But all was not lost yet.

  At the Chronicle, we had special photo enhancement software that we used pretty regularly. It allowed us to blow up photographs by up to 500% without any distortion in clarity. Therefore, there was still a chance that I could retain photographic proof of the disturbing note I'd seen on the ladies' room mirror.

  It only took a few seconds to transfer my photos from my USB to my hard drive. The enhancing part took longer. (I said the software was special, but I never said it was new.) Restlessly, I tapped my foot as I watched the percentage bar on the screen. It crawled from 5% to 8% to 11%—

  Suddenly I heard the rattling of keys at the door.

  I froze—panicked. Instinct told me to switch off my light and hide. But then I came to my senses. What was I really doing that so wrong? Who else could it be besides Ian? But why would Ian return to the office after eight o'clock at night? I quickly minimized the window I was working in and waited as the door knob turned.

  Ian was clearly taken aback by the image of me, sitting across the room at my desk. “Rocket...?” he said, and eyed the clock on the wall above his office door. “What are you doing here?” Slowly he walked closer to my desk. “Today was your day off,” he stated unnecessarily.

  “Yes, I know,” I remarked, just as stupidly. But I figured agreeing with whatever he said was a good way to go. “But I...the truth is, I was hoping I could use the photo software we have here at the office. I have to be honest. It's not for work. It's something for school. I hope you're not mad. I wouldn't normally use the office equipment for school work, but I just needed to finish this one thing,” I added vaguely, “and I didn't want to do it on company time, of course...”

  After a pause he said, “Okay. Well, that's fine. By the way, how's your review coming this week?”

  I nodded. “Fine, good. Can't wait to show it to you,” I lied.

  “All right. Well, I actually forgot something earlier, so I just came to pick it up.”

  “Oh what?” I blurted and then realized that it was kind of nosy of me even to ask. “Never mind, I don't want to know,” I said, then amended, “Oh, what I mean is, I don't need to know—”

  “My charger,” he stated, putting my rambling out of its misery. And I thought I saw a trace of smile. But it was so hard to tell sometimes with that unreadable countenance of his. When he stepped into his office, I maximized the window again. The percentage bar was at 89%, indicating the file was almost finished converting to a larger, clarified image.

  As I waited, I wheeled my chair over enough to see into Ian's office. He was at his desk. He hadn't taken his coat off but he was typing something. He always looked so intent. So focused and calm. I don't think I'd ever seen him lose his temper. This might sound strange, but I was beginning to realize that Ian's even-keeled personality was sort of a comfort. No matter what, you felt that when you came to work—for better or worse, smugness and all—Ian would pretty much be the same each day.

  Then it occurred to me. I was trying to produce revelations about Metropolax in the vacuum of my mind, when what I could really use was the benefit of someone's else's logic. There was no way I could come clean with Ian about all the subterfuge I had to perpetrate in my quest to find leads about the burglary. But I could pose a few hypothetical questions, and see what he thought.

  “Hey, Ian?” I said, leaning slightly against his door jamb. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure,” he said and turned to face me. “What's up?”

  “I wanted to get your opinion on something.”

  “Okay,” he said cautiously. “What?”

  “Well...let me give you a scenario. Let's say that there's a woman who feels in danger. Like maybe she's somewhere and suddenly realizes that she's not safe—that someone's after her.”

  “Rocket, what is it?” Ian asked. “Are you in trouble?” He appeared genuinely concerned about me, which was flattering.

  “No, no,” I assured him. “This isn't me, I swear.”

  “Okay...”

  “So back to this woman—not me, I promise. Okay, let's say that was alone with this person—”

  “Who was after her?” he clarified.

  “Right. Or, maybe they had a fight and in the heat of the moment, he threatened her or came after her,” I speculated. Ian nodded along. “So, fearing for her life,” I said, “she goes to the ladies' room, fogs up the mirror and scribbles the man's name on the glass.”

  “Scribbles,” he repeated, wrinkling his brow. “You mean with her finger? Why would she do that?”

  “Well, maybe, she figured if she was killed, then people would know who did it.” When I said my theory out loud, I admit it sounded a bit far-fetched. Yet, Ian surprised me by nodding.

  “I guess I've seen that kind of thing in movies,” he said. “You know, the woman writing her killer's name in lipstick or blood, right before she dies. Something like that—but that would be more concrete. You fog up a mirror, it's not going to last, nobody will see the message. I don't see the logic.”

  “But what if there was no time for logic? What if this woman were being chased? And maybe she didn't have anything to write with or any way to get help? Would that make sense?”

  Ian slanted his gaze. “This is for school?” he said skeptically.

  “Yeah...basically...”

  “Oh, don't tell me,” he said, then shook his head, as if cursed with the gift of smug epiphany. “You're one of those journalists who really wants to be a novelist, right?” He gave a short, obnoxious laugh. “Oh boy. That's what this is—you're trying to write a book.”

  “No, nothing like that. But thanks for the pep talk in case I decide to go in that direction.” Again, he kind of laughed, and I said, “I guess you don't think I could be a novelist? I mean, if I wanted to...”

  “Hey, I'm sure that you could. With the way you exaggerate, you clearly have the imagination.”

  “I exaggerate?”

  “But if you went in t
hat direction, then you would probably leave the newspaper. And I don't want you to leave,” he said simply.

  With that, he stood and picked up the charger from his desk. “Now what exactly did you want my opinion on? Whether or not the scenario is possible? Yes, it's possible. Is it likely? Not overly.”

  “Okay, but is it something the police would look into?”

  With a shrug, Ian countered, “Well, if there was a murder, aren't the police already looking into it?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Let's say, no body was found. But the person who found the message is convinced that—”

  “No body?” he said. “Forget it then; the police aren't going to listen.”

  “Yet,” I emphasized. “No body was found yet. Which is another question I had for you. How would one go about confirming something like that? Let's say this woman seems to have disappeared. How would a concerned citizen go about finding her, or seeing if she actually is okay—making sure that whomever she'd named on the mirror hadn't succeeded in killing her?”

  “This is so for a book,” Ian muttered.

  “Come on, seriously...Ian, I need your help on this.”

  His eyes met mine. He expelled a quick sigh. “Okay, look. You go back to the beginning. This 'concerned citizen' who is obviously your protagonist should find the starting point of the trouble. Then talk to people close to the woman—family, coworkers, friends, boyfriend—find out if anyone's heard from her. Talk to the police and find out if she's been reported missing. Go to her apartment and talk to her landlord. If she owns a house, talk to the neighbors. Look for who was the last person to see her. I mean, it's pretty obvious, I guess.”

  Reluctantly, Ian eyed the clock on his desk and gathered up his keys. “Rocket, the bottom line is, if all this is based on a message on a fogged up mirror, then this 'concerned citizen' is going to look like a crackpot. If she has no concrete knowledge about the purported victim, and no proof of foul play whatsoever, then there's not going to be an investigation, period. How does she even know who wrote the message?”

  “Because she has a sample of handwriting that matches, and it's distinctive,” I said.

  “And how does she know when this message was written? It's mirror graffiti in a public restroom; there's no date-stamp. It could be a month old, two months old. Etceteras, etceteras. All right, Rocket, I've got to go. ”

  He started for the office door and I sort of blocked his path. “Wait! Just one more question. What if the cleaning woman Windexed the restroom mirror every other day, as part of her normal duties? Would that help prove anything?”

  “Borderline,” he said. “The cleaning lady could be covering. Maybe she hasn't actually been doing everything she's supposed to, but if asked, I doubt she'd admit it.”

  “Oh...I hadn't even thought of that,” I mumbled. And it was true: if Maria were that vigilant about cleaning the mirror, then how would a sentence made of finger smudges still be present after two weeks?

  He moved around me, hit the lights in his office. “Are you staying much longer?” he asked.

  “No, I'm leaving soon, too.”

  “Okay, don't forget to lock up. Goodnight.” Abruptly, he stopped and turned. “Hey, while we're talking about all your Nancy Drew aspirations here—” I couldn't help rolling my eyes. “—how did you do on that little wager we made? About the robbery over in the clock building? Or did you forget?”

  “Little wager”—ha! If Ian only knew the truth.

  Too bad I couldn't tell him. He would never condone my equivocal approach, no matter how well-meaning. Of course I had never intended to get in this deep with the matter. But the more I uncovered, the more entangling the case seemed to be. And now I had reason to believe that not only a burglary was being covered up at Metropolax, but possibly also a murder. I couldn't just walk away from that. If I did, what kind of person would that make me? I hated to employ the self-righteous phrase “moral responsibility,” but I didn't know how else to describe this feeling that was pressing on my chest.

  Meanwhile, I gave Ian a casual smile and said, “I've been asking some discreet questions here and there, you know, looking for some solid leads...”

  “Uh-huh. Have you given up yet?”

  “Not at all,” I maintained. “But these things take time. Of course I wouldn't want it to interfere with my work. But don't worry—I plan to win that wager. And I might add that whatever I'm doing, I'm still going faster than the police. I'd like that on the record.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” he mumbled and turned toward the door.

  Once Ian left, I crossed back to my desk and printed my enhanced photo of the mirror. Something had gone right anyway. I could clearly read the corner of the word “Sox” which took up most of my screen. The printer would shoot out as many pages as the image would need to spread across. That was fine; I could tape them all together later. What mattered was proof that the message had been there. After the steam pipe mess, there was a good chance that Maria had given the mirror a fresh cleaning by now.

  For several moments, I thought about what Ian had said. Overall, my knowledge about Suzie Diamanti was way too murky. I hadn't even found out where she lived to check up on her at home; I hadn't asked her co-workers enough questions. My inquiry had been too shy and indirect, while the trail got colder. I still hadn't met that guy, Stu, and found out what he might know. According to James, Stu was interested in Suzie—but what if the two of them were dating? Maybe they'd been a couple on the down-low, and if so, Stu could be a surfeit of information.

  The fact was: I had jumped to too many conclusions without completing the most basic steps. What had Ian called his suggestions just now—“pretty obvious”? I supposed my only excuse was inexperience.

  Don't get me wrong—I hadn't abandoned my theory that Suzie's resignation, the message scrawled on the mirror and her presence at Metropolax the night of the break-in all were interconnected. I still believed there might be a link to Jennifer Agnor's whereabouts, as well. At this point, I didn't know if the gold necklace and the stained sticky pad found in the supply closet were important or ancillary. But what Ian had made me question tonight was my method.

  “Go back to the beginning,” he had said. In fact, he often said that. It didn't help me now, though...or did it? As an idea began to form in my mind, I realized that it was too late to go back to the beginning—but it wasn't too late to start again.

  Chapter 18

  “Thanks again for making time to see me,” I said. “I know how busy things can get around the holidays.”

  Dede gave a short, hearty laugh. “Believe me, when you're a one-woman show, it's always busy! Anyway, it's my pleasure. Bill speaks very highly of you. Now if I can just find that application paperwork...I had it right here, set aside for you...”

  As she rummaged through some manila folders and long envelopes, I darted my eyes around her office. I have to say, it was a kitschy, jolly place. Granted, not exactly how I planned to decorate once I took position of my new office at the Chronicle, but still, it had a tacky charm. Each file cabinet was topped with something Christmassy: a lighted Manger on one, a gingerbread house on another, a singing Santa, a reindeer in an Argyle sweater, and so on. Along the desk was a row of shiny ornament balls, sitting on tufts of cotton snow.

  Beside Dede's monitor was a paperweight that instantly reminded me of my brothers—it was a blue football helmet with an orange 'C'. As my eyes traveled around, the window caught my attention. A string of colored bulbs flashed intermittently above the blinds. Outside, the bright blue sky had turned the pale indigo of twilight.

  When I'd spoken with Dede on the phone this morning, I had managed to “sell myself” enough for her to offer to see me late this afternoon. I suspected that my brownie-points for driving an inebriated James and Kendall home from Metropolax's party last week were still paying off, and had more to do with Dede accommodating me. Either way, I showed up with my starchy interview suit on, and a crisp copy of my resume in hand.


  My hope was this: despite his drunken state, James had managed to be spot-on when he'd described Dede as a “total gossip.”

  “Have you been with the company long?” I asked casually.

  “Years,” she agreed. “Almost eight by now, I'd say. There used to be two of us handling Human Resources, but eventually it became just me. But I love my job,” she added merrily. “Ah—here it is!” She pulled out a few clipped papers and slapped them on the desk. “Now, I'll need you to fill these out, and provide me with a copy of your Driver's license, of course. Attach your resume, if you have it.”

  Nodding eagerly, I reached for a pen. I started filling in boxes, as I made what I hoped appeared to be small talk. “So have you had many applicants so far?”

  “Actually, you're in luck. I haven't even had a chance to look through the replies to the ad yet. I've been so focused on replacing our senior accountant.”

  “Yes, Bill mentioned that one of the accountants recently quit. That's too bad. Did she leave for another opportunity?” I fished (still using interview-speak, of course—outside of an interview, no one really talked like this).

  Dede's responding frown was brief, but clearly disapproving. “Well, I would have to think so—but she didn't exactly give us much to go on.” Then she shrugged her beefy shoulders. At that moment, I noticed what James had rudely remarked on, the night of the party; although he'd definitely been exaggerating when he'd call it a “mustache,” still I could see the dark fuzz above Dede's lip that could easily be taken care of at a salon, or with a quick trip to CVS. The same went for the partial unibrow that bridged the top of her large nose. Fuzz and features aside, Dede had a pillowy, zaftig quality that lent femininity, enhanced by deep dimples in her cheeks and a sweet voice.