The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle

by Unknown

  “Sure. I understand perfectly.” She threw her plastic fork down and climbed to her feet. “So sorry to disturb you.”

  “No, you're not!” I lied as Lucy charged toward the door. “I wish we could hang out longer, but I just have a headache. I love that movie, too!” I insisted. “Fortunately for us, they'll probably rerun it twenty or thirty more times before Christmas, so I'm sure we'll catch it again...”

  She gave a few crisp nods, then said, “No problem. Like I said, I'm very sorry to disturb you.” As she swung the door open, she jumped back, startled. Amy was on the other side, about to knock.

  She was startled, too. “Oh. Hello, Lucy.”

  “Ha!” Lucy yelped, then whipped her head around to glare at me. Suddenly her face wore a deep, vengeful-looking frown. Like a ghoulish face on a totem pole. Right now, I had to admit, she scared me. “Well, I see you're just trying to get rid of me. You're not too ill for your real friends, ey, Caitlyn? You've got time for all your other friends.”

  “No, that's not true, I only have time for Amy!” I explained, then realized the clarification didn't help. “I mean—”

  “I will never forget this,” Lucy vowed. Forcefully, she pushed past poor Amy, whose glasses went crooked from the impact.

  For a few seconds I felt jittery inside, totally rattled by the explosive confrontation. It had just been so unexpected. Venom like lava had poured from Lucy's eyes, her mouth, her entire being. It was like she truly hated me now.

  “Oh my gosh,” Amy murmured, rubbing her sore shoulder as she stepped inside my apartment and soundly shut the door. “What was that about?” she asked with concern.

  “It's hard to say,” I told her. “But since she's my neighbor, I'm afraid it's far from over.”

  * * *

  “Damn, it went to voicemail again.” I disconnected and set my cell phone down next to my fortune cookie wrapper.

  “Try another one,” Amy said, pushing another fortune cookie toward me. “Your odds can only increase.”

  Two hours had passed since Lucy's freak-out. I had shown Amy the article I'd printed, gone over my notes about the Metropolax staff and hashed out possible motives. While she agreed that many of my suppositions were plausible, Amy was one of those empirical types who threw their anchors into that elusive entity called Proof.

  So far I had tried twice to call the phone number I copied from Suzie's desk blotter. There had been no answer either time. When the voicemail picked up, there was no personal greeting, but only a generic, mechanical recording, stating the phone number.

  “Forget it,” I told Amy, who was reaching for her coat. “I'll wait until tomorrow.” I figured I had more chance of finding out whose number it was if I called during normal business hours—rather than possibly waking someone up, who would only be angry and resistant to my questions.

  “I'd better go, I'm exhausted,” Amy said.

  “Are you almost done at least?” I asked, referring to the R&D gala preparations, which I knew were sapping Amy's strength lately.

  She nodded. “Actually, yes. And no homicides have been committed in my house yet,” she said, her voice deadpan even when she was being sarcastic. “You'll definitely be attending, right?”

  “Yes, I'm sure the whole Chronicle office will come. Aim, you should be proud—it's a major town event.” Of course with my luck, I'd be reaching for a cheese puff just to have Bud come up behind me and say, “Another hors d'oeuvre, Caitlyn? Save some for the town!” (Crazy smile blaring.)

  Last year I hadn't attended R&D's Holiday Gala, because I had only just moved to Big Clock. I hadn't landed my job at the Chronicle or met Amy Laraby yet. God, so much had happened in only one year. Of course who could know how much was about to happen in just a matter of days?

  Chapter 24

  Just as I was turning the lock on my front door, Lucy jogged up the stairs. “Good morning,” she said. “Caitlyn, wait, can we talk?”

  “Well...I'm running late for work,” I began, still feeling uncomfortable from the night before.

  “Here, this is for you,” she said and handed me a potted plant with two frilly looking red flowers rising up from a thicket of leaves.

  “Oh...I...”

  “It's an apology,” she explained. “My way of saying sorry for flipping out yesterday. I totally overreacted. I guess I was just in a bad place—you know, because of Helmuson?” I nodded. “Anyway, I hope you'll accept my apology.”

  “Of course I do. It's fine, no worries.” Not entirely true. I did accept her apology, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't have a nightmare or two last night featuring Lucy as the antagonist. “But really,” I insisted now, trying to hand the plant back, “you don't need to give me anything.” Truthfully, I didn't want it. I had a bad track record with plants and trouble remembering to water them. The micro-mommying of my dog and yet my failings with horticulture was a dichotomy I couldn't explain.

  But Lucy wasn't having it. “No, you have to take it. I won't be able to live with myself if you don't,” she said.

  Oh, brother. It wasn't worth arguing. So I thanked her and hoped I wouldn't kill the poor thing. Lucy smiled brightly, obviously cheered by our reconciliation. “Thanks for understanding, Caitlyn. By the way, have a wonderful Christmas if I don't see you.”

  “Why, what do you mean?”

  “I'm going home for the holidays. I'll probably be back before New Year's Eve.” I was shocked to hear she was going home at all, considering how much she seemed to hate her mother. Fortunately, I wasn't curious enough to ask about it.

  When I got to work, I was still preoccupied about Lucy. I didn't know why, but her rage-filled tantrum last night just did not sit well with me, despite her apology this morning. Out of desperation, I found myself discussing it with the only person available: Monica Fong. After I confided the abridged version of what happened, I said, “What do you think, Monica? I just feel an aversion to her now. Am I overreacting?”

  With her feet planted in front of the water cooler and plastic water bottle in hand, Monica shared her wisdom. She said something along the lines of: “Yeah, that's strange. I guess she was hungry and then she got upset.”

  “Thanks for recapping, Monica,” I said. Fine, I didn't say that. But I wanted to. Do you see why it was impossible to be friends with her?

  With a sigh, I went to fill my mug at the coffee pot and then sat at my desk to start my work. Within minutes, the front door flew open. A cold wind drifted across my cheek and shoulder, as Gary Netland made a loud entrance on his cell phone.

  “Listen, Ed, it's not up to me,” he was saying. “It's a numbers game. Believe me, buddy, if it were up to me, you'd be in there. Right, yeah, listen, crunch some numbers and call me back. Like I said—hey, buddy, I'm on your side. Talk to you soon. Ciao.”

  Really with 'ciao'? Something about 'ciao' and Big Clock, Minnesota just didn't flow. “Hey, girls,” Gary said and went to his desk. Ian's door opened and he stepped out; as usual he crossed the room with a purpose. “Morning, Ian,” Gary said while his computer booted up.

  “Hey Gary, how're you doing?” Ian said, sounding distracted as he pulled some papers off the color printer.

  “Good—listen, you can expect a call from Ed Sogard,” Gary told him.

  “Oh Christ,” Ian muttered.

  “He's not happy,” Gary warned.

  With a humorless laugh, Ian said, “I'm sure he's not. He can't seem to understand that you have to pay for advertising around here. All right, thanks for the heads-up.”

  “You might want to call him and just diffuse the situation now,” Gary advised.

  Ian shook his head. “I can't. Fredriksen's stopping in to go over a few things with me, he'll be here any minute now.”

  “Mr. P.'s still in town?” Gary said, sounding surprised.

  “Well, I guess he flew in yesterday, but he was at the Minneapolis office. He supposed to fly back to LA this afternoon.”

  Just then phone in Ian's office rang.
r />   When he went to answer it, his office door was still open, so I heard him clearly. “Ian Beller. Oh right, hi, Ed.” He didn't say anything for several moments, which indicated to me that Ed Sogard was on some kind of rant.

  “Psst, Gary, what's Ed mad at?” I asked curiously.

  “Doesn't want to pay his bill,” Gary told me. “He thinks because Ian's his neighbor, he should work with him more.” I didn't know Ed Sogard well, but the few facts I knew were these: he ran a hardware store in town called BC Tools & Trades. Ian lived in an apartment above the store. Ed did a lot of advertising in the Chronicle, especially over the past few months when his store had run multiple “super sales.” He was middle-aged and disheveled with a rather obnoxious, blustering personality.

  Once Ian's divorce was final and the issue of his house in Seattle settled, I had to assume he would look for a more permanent residence. But of course Ian didn't exactly spend his work day elaborating on his personal life.

  “Look, Ed, I sympathize,” I heard Ian say now, “but you have to understand the paper's position on this. We simply can not afford to give away advertising space. We rely on that revenue too much. No—no—”

  Having once seen Ed Sogard at the Cineplex demanding he get the senior citizen's discount, I knew how belligerent the man could be. Though Ian was not the type to lose his temper, I couldn't see him sitting on the phone and being berated for any length of time, either.

  I picked up the hard copy of my movie review and brought it over to my boss's office. Ian was standing in front of his desk, having grabbed the phone that way; he hadn't bothered to sit down, which indicated that he didn't plan to get into a big discussion. As I dropped my review in Ian's inbox, I heard him say, “Regrettably, Ed, I don't have any other choice but to pull the ad until we receive payment. And unfortunately, I have a meeting now so I am going to have to go. Have a good day.” With that, he calmly hung up the phone.

  “Nice work,” I said, genuinely impressed. “I enjoy your use of adverbs in place of emotion. Very editor-y.”

  With a wry look, he said, “I don't have time for emotion; I only have time for getting to the point. Speaking of which, is that your review?” He nodded toward his inbox.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He picked it up and used it as a kind of pointer, motioning for me to step out of his office. He went, too, walking right behind me. “We can show it to Fredriksen when he gets here, if you want. Or you can wait, let him read it in next Sunday's issue.”

  “Let's wait,” I said. “You haven't even marked it up yet.”

  “Maybe I'll get lucky and not have to,” he said, before walking past me to the fax machine. Did he even know how smug that sounded? I wondered, shaking my head.

  Despite being part of the digital age, Ian was surprisingly old school. He demanded a hard copy of everything he read, claiming he caught more errors that way. “By the way, Rocket,” he called over his shoulder. “Can you give the printer's a call about the graphics I put on your desk?”

  “Okay.” I sat at my desk with every intention of doing that. But then I recalled the phone number from Suzie Diamanti's desk blotter, and I realized this would be a perfect time to try it again. I nestled a little deeper in my corner and discreetly slipped my phone out of my bag. I went to the log of last night's calls, and hit “redial.”

  Just then the Chronicle door blew open with a ferocious gust of wind and John Fredriksen, stepping inside. “Hello, everyone,” he said, smiling. He paused to shake snow off his hair (well, it was sort of his). As he stomped his boots on the mat, his cell phone started ringing. He reached in his coat pocket to answer it. Just as I heard him say, “Hello?” I heard a man say, “Hello?” on my phone call.

  Confused, I froze. Waited. I was about to say something, but couldn't seem to manage it as I watched Mr. Fredriksen speak into his phone again. “Hello?” he said. “Is anyone there?”

  After a half-second delay, I heard in my ear: “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  I snapped my phone closed. Just then Fredriksen caught my eye. He must have heard me stirring back here. Sometimes I felt like a raccoon, squatting in someone's attic. Guiltily, I smiled at him. He smiled back. “Hello, Caitlyn, how are you today?”

  “Fine, Mr. Fredriksen, and you?”

  “Good, good. Please call me John.”

  Ian crossed over to him; the two men shook hands and said hello. “Here, I've pulled up the spreadsheets on my computer,” Ian said, leading the way. As Fredriksen passed Monica's office, he said hello to her, too, but she had a mouth full of food and could only nod clumsily with her cheeks puffed out like a squirrel in a nut pile.

  Before he disappeared into Ian's office, I had to try again. To be absolutely sure. Holding my phone beneath my desk, I crept my finger over to “redial.”

  “My cell again, sorry,” Fredriksen said then, and my mouth curved open. Luckily he didn't notice me gaping. So it hadn't been a coincidence! I tossed my phone in my bag. “Hmm, they hung up,” Fredriksen said with a shrug, and followed Ian into his office.

  Chapter 25

  I sat at my desk, stunned. The phone number turning out to Mr. Fredriksen's had been an unexpected coincidence. An unfortunate development, actually—because where could I go from there?

  Maybe I shouldn't have been so surprised. After all, I'd seen Fredriksen enter the Metropolax office the night of the company Christmas party. I had to assume that he'd been there to attend the party himself. Therefore he had to be friendly with at least one person on the staff. So would it be such a surprise that Suzie would have his number?

  Yes...it would still seem off. Something was missing here. Because if Suzie were the connection, why would Fredriksen go to the party after she had already resigned and left the company? And if he was friendly with Fritz Sachs—like an old-boys'-club type of thing—it still wouldn't explain why Suzie had his personal cell phone number written on her desk calendar. Unless...

  I paused to consider: could Suzie and Fredriksen have been dating?

  But that wouldn't fit either. If Fredriksen and Suzie had a romantic thing going, then surely I would have heard it mentioned by now by Bill, James, Kendall, or even Stu. Maybe it was a purely professional connection?

  By lunch time, Fredriksen had left. Monica had stepped out to pick up her order from Bella Pizza. Ian was in his office, and Gary appeared to be packing it up for the day. “Well, I'm off to see some clients,” he explained vaguely, and slung his laptop case over his shoulder.

  “Okay, bye,” I said, tapping my pen on the edge of my desk. Call me an obsesser, but I couldn't wrap my mind around Fredriksen's connection to Suzie Diamanti and the Metropolax Company. I really wasn't sure how this had happened to me. How had a sophomoric wager I'd made with my boss ended up spiraling into a mind-bending investigation that seemed to consume my thoughts?

  While I might not be able to answer that question, there was one thing I could do: sneak into Gary's files.

  I stepped away from my desk. Glanced through the window on Ian's door to make sure my boss was still preoccupied by his computer. Then I went over to Gary's desk and opened the tall bottom drawer marked “Client Files.” Gary didn't bother locking it, but had the key to the drawer hanging right from the lock. He probably figured that nobody in his right mind working at this office would care to snoop through this drawer. And I guess you could say that he was correct.

  What I wanted to find out was if the Metropolax Company had been a client at one time. I was almost certain that Metropolax didn't currently do any advertising in the Chronicle—but if they had in the past, it might explain how Fredriksen came to be a friend over there or at least a contact.

  Quickly, I flipped through the file folders, looking for a familiar name. I knew I had to hurry, because Monica would return soon with her lunch. I had just buried my head lower to see the files toward the back of the drawer when I heard, “Rocket. Get in here.”

  My heart jumped to my throat. Reluctantly, I turned
my head. As I feared, Ian's gaze was bearing down on me from his open doorway. This was one of those rare moments that Ian wore his emotions openly. Too bad for me the emotions were disappointment and annoyance. “Um...” I began, as I rose up from a crouching position.

  “Now,” was all he said, and stepped back into his office.

  Running my hand over my eyes, I glanced toward my own desk. How sad was it that I envied Charlotte right now, safe from the world's confusion and censure, tucked up there in her web?

  “Sit down,” Ian ordered once I arrived.

  I shut the door behind me. “I can explain...” I began even though the trite sentiment was not all that accurate.

  “You'd better,” he told me. “Over the past week, you have obviously been distracted about something. Now I didn't want to pry. But to find you here the other night working on something secretive...and now you're rifling through Gary's desk? Yeah, I'd say you'd better start explaining.”

  I inhaled a deep breath, sighed and said, “Okay. Let's say, hypothetically, there was a situation that—”

  “Rocket, cut the hypothetical crap, and just tell me the truth, please.” I didn't know which was more off-putting, hearing Ian curse or hearing him say “please.”

  “Ian, I'm sorry, but...I can't exactly tell you.”

  That alarmed him, I could tell. “I thought you said you could explain.”

  “Oh right...”

  “Are you afraid you'll get in trouble?” he asked with concern. “Is that it?” When I didn't reply, Ian stretched his palms across his desk and made me a gimme gesture with both hands. “C'mon. Let's hear it.”

  “Okay, all right,” I relented. “But please don't yell.”

  “When have I ever yelled?” Ian pointed out and it was true.

  “See, it started out so simple—but now it might actually be about murder.”

  “What, is this about your book?”

  “I'm not writing a book!” I said, a little exasperated.

  “Then what started out simple? What's about murder?” he asked, confused.