The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle

by Unknown

  “Nice to meet you,” was all he said.

  “You, too. And, Caitlyn, this is Sasha.”

  “Bill's girlfriend,” Sasha was quick to add and gave me a weak-wristed handshake, followed by a patently insincere smile.

  I fake-smiled back, just as James Williams and an older man with a thick wad of hair on his head walked up to join the group. When Bill noticed them, he said, “By the way, Caitlyn, I don't think you ever met Fritz Sachs. He—”

  I gasped. Then blurted out, “Oh my God, you're Fritz Sachs? I can't believe it!” The man appeared taken aback and a bit confused. “I just mean…well, when I saw John Fredriksen at Metropolax, the night of the Christmas party, but not you—and James had said he saw you in the lobby—but I didn’t see you...” My ramble kind of trailed off, as Fritz reacted.

  “Weellll...” he began, clearly defensive, “I stopped to take a call first. Then I made a few calls. Is that okay with you, complete stranger?” he said, annoyed. (Jeez, touchy, touchy.)

  “Rocket, take it easy,” Ian whispered to me.

  Later, I was grateful; it was like tossing me a line before I sank my own ship. What could I say? I'd been so caught up in the shock of the moment, in finally seeing this elusive man—in realizing, once and for all, that he was not actually the alter-ego of my boss, Mr. Fredriksen—I hadn't noticed the presumptuousness of my approach.

  “How do you know John Fredriksen anyway?” Bill said then.

  “Well...” Tilting my head, I quickly deflected. “How do you guys know him?”

  James answered, “He's Diana Dupont's brother. She always invites him to the party when he's in town.”

  Fritz, who was clearly still rattled by our confrontation—and a bit of a prima donna, it seemed—looked around to the circle, casting his arms out. “Who is this person?” he said, sounding impatient.

  “She's Bill's friend,” James replied.

  Sasha seemed to stiffen up at that, and Bill amended, “Well, she's an ex-girlfriend of a friend of mine.” He said it casually, as if he barely knew me. (Obviously Sasha was the jealous type. It was then I realized that Sasha was the persistent, clingy “S” who had been texting and calling Bill all the time. The woman who “couldn't take a hint,” but in the end, must have worn him down and won his heart back, after all.)

  By now Stu and Kendall had ambled over to join our circle. “Hi, Caitlyn,” Stu said warmly. “How've you been?”

  “You know her?” Kendall said, surprised.

  “Yeah, she's Suzie's cousin,” Stu replied.

  “What?” Bill said.

  Kendall scrunched her face. “I thought she was our cleaning lady.”

  “Wait,” James interjected, looking pointedly at me, “Suzie's your cousin? Why didn't you ever mention it?”

  “No, no,” I began. “Well, see...” I noticed Ian rubbing his tense forehead with his thumb and forefinger. I was pretty sure this was the part at which I was supposed to announce, “I can explain”—but why lie? I couldn't really explain too well.

  Just then, I spotted an important woman, several feet behind Stu. “Oh, no, I can't let her get away!” I yelped and abruptly pushed through the space between Kendall and James.

  Hurrying forward, I was determined to accost her, to catch her with the element of surprise on my side. She wasn't far away, but seemed to be averting her eyes. She was the only member of the Metropolax staff I had seen here tonight who didn't want to join the circle of conversation—at least not with me in it. And I knew why. “Wait, stop—Diana!”

  My voice must have been loud enough to alarm her. Maybe fear that I would draw too much attention. Finally, with the defeat of a trapped rat, she turned.

  Chapter 36

  “Why don't you come join us?” I said, as I closed the gap between us.

  “Oh, I didn't see you all over there,” she lied. “I was going to run to the ladies' room though. I'll wander over in a little bit—”

  “I think we should talk now,” I told her. “I finally figured out what happened to Suzie Diamanti. But you already know, don't you?”

  Diana James—or Dede, as she was affectionately called by most of her coworkers—appeared supremely uncomfortable. “What do you mean?” she said with unconvincing innocence and fiddled with the sash that draped across her burgundy velvet muumuu. “Why should I know? And why should it even matter where Suzie is now? She was only at the company a short while; we didn't really know her that well.”

  By now, the circle of Metropolax people had migrated closer to us and apparently were looking on, listening. I wasn't completely oblivious to their presence, but I wasn't focused on it, either. Rather, I was determined to get to the truth, once and for all. “Dede, please, don't bother with your sweet mother hen act.”

  Eyes wide, she said, “What are you saying?”

  Thoughtfully, I pursed my lips. “I'm saying that you didn't get that ring at Macy's for thirty dollars—and that's just one of the lies you told me.”

  At first she barked out a sort-of-laugh, looked around, as if amused or perplexed. It was a strained, artificial version of either or both. In the background, I heard Fritz mutter, “This friend of yours is a real piece of work, Bill.”

  To which I heard Bill reply, “Really, I barely know her.”

  I pressed on. “The whole story about the ladies room and Suzie on the telephone—it was all a fiction. A fabrication. None of that ever happened, did it? Suzie never had anything on Fritz. She had something on you.” I pointed straight at her.

  “Wha—! Really, what on earth—?”

  “That's why you had to get rid of her,” I added.

  “'Get rid of her'?” She forced a laugh and rolled her eyes to her co-workers. “I think maybe you've seen too many movies. Please, don't pay any attention to Caitlyn. She's trying to start her own private detective business.”

  “Wait, she is?” I heard some poor confused soul say. (I think it was Stu.)

  “Really, honey, this isn't the way to go about a career change,” Dede added snidely.

  “You created the tale about Suzie having something on Fritz, because you knew you were going to have to drive her out of your company, and you wanted to lay some ground- work first. Set up a strawman, a scapegoat. So that when Suzie did leave, people would automatically focus in a different direction—a direction other than yours. Especially in case anyone ever noticed any tension between you and Suzie,” I stated.

  “But why would there be tension?” Dede exclaimed. “I liked Suzie fine. I was the one who hired her! I didn't 'drive her out' of the company. She resigned of her own free will. I have the email, I can prove that. Not that I should have to...and her letter was handwritten. If you think I forged it, please, by all means, take it to a handwriting expert. You'll see for yourself that it was real!”

  “You're right, it was real,” I admitted. “Suzie did write that letter. She just didn't write it to you.” I pulled the copy I had of Suzie's resignation from my purse. “You know, Ian always tells me, when I'm stuck, to go back to the beginning. It can be very annoying advice by the way, but now I see how smart it is. This didn't start with the robbery in the supply closet. Or even with Suzie's employment at Metropolax. All of this started years ago. Back when you were married to Xavier Media.”

  Now Dede gasped; I could tell she was genuinely stunned. A little more pushing and she would fall. Suddenly, I realized I was missing some key props. “Wait...Ian? Where are those papers?” I crossed to him, as he handed them back. “Take a look at this, Dede. It's your husband's death notice, dated December 2000.”

  “Dear God, does this girl have no soul?” she said then, wobbling her voice to make it sound emotional, broken. “Why on earth would you bring this to me now? I loved my husband dearly. And you choose tonight to rub salt in the wound. How could you?”

  I ignored Dede's melodrama, which really amounted to another strawman. “It says here that your husband was shot and killed by an intruder. I did some searching and found
out that the murder was never solved.”

  “There was nothing to solve; it was a random act of violence. A home invasion that had tragic results.”

  “There were no arrests, is what I mean. The shooter was never caught.”

  “That's true,” she admitted. “One of the life's injustices—one of the many, many injustices. But if you're thinking that I killed Xavier, that you're somehow going to dig up a cold case file and pin it on me to make a name for yourself... Well, I'm sorry to break this to you, honey, but the police already scrutinized and interrogated me every which way there was. And I was cleared 100% of all suspicion. Because of two factors. One, I had an alibi—I was the keynote speaker at a Garden luncheon with about forty other women who vouched for my presence. And two—more importantly—I Loved My Husband!”

  “But you didn't love his mistress,” I said. “And that was Suzie.”

  “Holy shit,” I heard James say in the background.

  “You see, Dede, I believe you completely when you say that you didn't kill Xavier. Because Xavier wasn't murdered. He killed himself. Didn't he?” Her mouth fell open; she seemed to be rendered temporarily speechless. I glanced over my shoulder. “Stu, remember when Suzie told you that a man from her past committed suicide because he was obsessed with her?”

  “Holy shit,” James uttered again.

  Quietly, Fritz added, “I admit I'm thoroughly confused—but I can't look away.”

  I said, “This note confirms it. It's a copy of Xavier Media's suicide note. As you'll see, Dede, it's addressed to Suzie.” I handed her the sheet of stationery that had been tucked among the index cards in the supply closet. I didn't read it out loud, because that seemed in bad taste even for a novice like me, but I'll share the contents of the letter here:

  Dear Suzie,

  I am devastated by your note. Because of your recent actions and your sudden coldness, I am convinced that you mean what you say. God, was it really such monotony to be with me? From my perspective, our love was a reason for living. The love I feel for Sox is different, and entirely inadequate to the passion I feel for you. I can't face losing you. So I'm writing to say goodbye. I've written Sox a note, as well. I intend to shoot myself—I wanted you to know why. This will cause Sox and Daniel heartbreak beyond measure, and it's all your fault. Please always remember: I am killing myself and you are the reason.

  Goodbye forever,

  Xavier

  (I know, talk about a guilt trip.) Briskly, I took the note out of Dede's hand, before she could try to keep it. “I can't understand why the police would think your husband was shot by an intruder, when he'd left a note like this?”

  She floundered. Clearly agitated, she began gesticulating with manicured hands. “Well—this is crazy—why—how—oh, that note is a fake. Did you and Suzie come up with this idea together or something? Some kind of sick joke—ha. Ha...”

  “It's no joke, and neither is this. Suzie's supposed resignation letter.” This time I did read aloud:

  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

  “The 'monotony' that Xavier asks Suzie about in his note, refers to what she wrote to him in this note.”

  “I don't get it,” James said then.

  “Me, either,” Bill agreed.

  I explained, “Dede used this note Suzie had written to Xavier, years ago to stage Suzie's resignation. She probably found it among her husband's things after he died, and held onto it. When it became obvious that she needed to get rid of Suzie, she realized that this letter, which as she said, was in Suzie's authentic handwriting, read like a resignation.”

  “It was emailed to me from Suzie's computer!” Dede argued. “It was scanned on her machine. Check with the IT department in Donnersville, I'm sure they'll tell you that.”

  “Dede, let's be honest. As the company's sole Human Resource administrator for eight years, I think you have a way to access almost anything—including resetting an employee password or getting an extra set of keys to the supply closet.”

  Not that I'm saying I had an audience or anything...but I couldn't help glancing back at the group. Everyone seemed to be waiting. “This is what I think happened,” I said. “Years ago, Xavier owned a restaurant in Chicago, where he became enamored of a pretty blond waitress named Suzie. I should have picked up on the connection sooner. I knew Suzie had been a waitress at one point, and during our interview, Dede remarked to Kendall that she was 'in the weeds'—which is really a restaurant term, meaning backed up, behind schedule.”

  I took a breath and continued: “Although Suzie and Xavier had a relationship, obviously he was much more serious about it than she was. I believe she sent him this note.” I held up the paper. “A dear john letter, basically. And being unable to handle Suzie's rejection, her sudden absence from his life—and surely he had his own emotional problems that I know nothing about—Xavier Media committed suicide. And he left behind a son named Daniel and a wife he called 'Sox.' You, Dede. I figure that the nickname had to do with your love of the Chicago White Sox. As your license plate even depicts. Maybe the rest of your restaurant staff called you that, too. Or at least knew about the nickname?

  “You know, I should've thought along those lines sooner. During our interview, I saw the Bears helmet on your desk—the paperweight. I should have put it together: if you were a Bears fan, then you were a Chicago fan—and therefore you were probably a Sox fan. Just like James's extreme obsession with the Red Sox; I mean, if he's already obsessed with one Boston team, you know the Patriots aren't going to be far behind.”

  “Extreme...?” James echoed then. “Wait, does she mean me?”

  Oh, whoops—James didn't know I'd searched his desk. Moving on...

  “The point is,” I continued, “the police didn't think your husband killed himself, because you and Suzie covered it up. Xavier said that he'd left you a note, too. Obviously both of you must have kept your notes to yourselves. You probably got rid of the gun, or whatever evidence there was that his death was self-inflicted. I'm guessing that you came home from your Garden Luncheon and found your husband dead. You most likely already knew about his mistress; most wives do. Especially if she was an employee in the family restaurant. Somehow you and Suzie came together and worked out the arrangement. You'd both keep quiet that Xavier had taken his own life, and then you'd split the life insurance money.”

  “Right, of course!” Kendall jumped in, with unusual animation. “Insurance companies won't pay out life insurance policies on a suicide! But it doesn't make sense... who would want to take the chance of being accused of the murder herself? You know the spouse or girlfriend is always the first one they suspect.”

  I said, “Yes, but if both women had airtight alibis, they knew that the supposed 'murder' couldn't be pinned on them. So what happened, Dede? You collected the money, then gave Suzie her portion, and you both went your separate ways? You got your Audi, some expensive jewelry,” I said, motioning to the ring, “probably a big beautiful house. You told me once that you live forty minutes away from Big Clock. Where—Briar Hills?” Her silence was answer enough. It was a good guess on my part, but it made sense. The wealthy, exclusive community of Briar Hills was about forty minutes away and scattered with mansions.

  “But then—more than ten years later—Suzie's run out of money. So she tracks you down and tries to pressure you into sharing whatever money you have. She knows you both have the shared secret of the insurance fraud you committed together—but, she also knows that as Xavier's wife, you were the beneficiary of the policy. Therefore, any fraud that was committed for the payout, is going to be traced to you, not her. Proving you paid Suzie a cut to hide the suicide note and play along, would not only be diff
icult to do, but would incriminate you further. She knew you'd never do that.

  “Of course, I'm sure you explained to her that you were just a working stiff like everyone else. But still, Suzie managed to extort from you the one thing you could give her, considering your position. You were able to get her a nice cushy job. A good salary, a nice title, even the big office. A comfortable situation, in which, according to Kendall, Suzie wasn't pulling her weight and nothing was really happening about it.”

  “This is all conjecture!” Dede shouted. “I'm tired of listening to this!”

  “Oh wait, please, I'm almost done,” I begged. Quickly, I reined in my desperation. “I mean, um, where was I...oh, right. The night of the so-called robbery. Suzie was there late. A cleaning woman recognized her car in the parking lot. There was another car there, too. Your car, Dede. Suzie was probably pressuring you for more money, more perks—or maybe you were pressuring to leave Big Clock and get out of your life. Either way, I believe that an argument broke out, which turned violent. Suzie had enough time to scrawl a cry for help on the ladies' room mirror, and then to run and hide in the supply closet. She hid this suicide note from Xavier among the supplies. Probably she had it on her because she always carried it, at least when she was meeting with you. Maybe to wave it in your face, threaten you with it? In any case, hiding it was her last ditch attempt to reveal the truth—to point a finger at her attacker, in those few moments she had before you struck her down.”

  At first, Dede said nothing. Stared aghast with flaming cheeks like two overripe tomatoes. So I added, “Tell me, does Daniel still live in Chicago? Is he the one who came to your aid that night? Who got rid of Suzie's car, and dumped her body in the Chicago River?”