Just Killing Time Read online

  “A fast-moving story, and a great start to an intriguing new series.”

  —Sheila Connolly, New York Times bestselling author of the Orchard Mysteries, the Museum Mysteries, and the County Cork Mysteries

  “Perfect timing! In her charming debut, Julianne Holmes creates the perfect contemporary cozy—with a smart and engaging heroine, a quirky and mysterious Berkshires town, and a cast of characters to rival any who live in Cabot Cove. Don’t waste another minute—this is your new favorite series!”

  —Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha, Anthony, and Mary Higgins Clark award–winning author of the Jane Ryland series

  “The clock ticks ever faster in this delightful debut mystery . . . The story, with a hunky barber, Ruth’s childhood friends, and conflicts between the new town manager and the ‘old’ Orchard, winds up to a suspenseful and satisfying end.”

  —Edith Maxwell, Agatha Award–nominated and national bestselling author of the Local Foods Mysteries

  “Take one tightly wound plot, a charming clock shop in the Berkshires, a woman you want to be your best friend, and you have Just Killing Time. Don’t waste any time, read this book.”

  —Sherry Harris, Agatha Award–nominated author of the Sarah Winston Garage Sale Mysteries

  “With its bucolic setting, engaging characters, and clever plotting, Julianne Holmes has crafted a mystery to stand the test of time.”

  —Jessie Crockett, national bestselling author of the Sugar Grove Mysteries

  “The Clock Shop Mystery series has zoomed to the top of my must-purchase-on-release-day list. Just Killing Time offers an intriguing premise, a fun mystery, and a town and heroine with heart.”

  —Barbara Ross, author of the Maine Clambake Mysteries

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  JUST KILLING TIME

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2015 by Penguin Random House LLC.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-16428-4

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / October 2015

  Cover illustration by Cathy Gendron; Clock Face © by harlowbutler.

  Cover design by Danielle Abbiate.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  To Paul and Cynthia Hennrikus. They passed on their love of mysteries. And they made me believe anything was possible. Thank you for being wonderful parents.

  acknowledgments

  That you are holding this book in your hand is a dream come true. I’d like to thank two people who played a critical role in this effort, Allison Janice, my editor; and John Talbot, my agent. Thank you both for your support, your attention to detail, and your belief in me.

  I would not be on this journey were it not for Sisters in Crime, especially the New England chapter. This wonderful organization has provided me mentors, friends, and a cheerleading section over the years. I am a proud board member. I am also a member of Mystery Writers of America, another wonderful organization for crime writers.

  In 2013, Sherry Harris wrote to a few of us and asked about starting a blog. The Wicked Cozy Authors (wickedcozyauthors.com) were born. Being a part of this group has made such a difference in my life. All of these women forged the path I am now on and have been instrumental in helping me navigate it. Thank you to Jessie Crockett, Liz Mugavero, Barbara Ross, and Edith Maxwell for friendship and support. And a special thank-you to Sherry Harris for her editor’s eye.

  Thank you to Jason Allen-Forrest, my first reader. To Sergeant Patrick Towle of the Bedford Police Department. To David and James Roberts of the Clockfolk of New England. To Liz Bolton, for her guidance on real estate matters. To my blogmates at Live to Write/Write to Live (nhwn.wordpress.com): Lisa J. Jackson, Diane MacKinnon, Lee Laughlin, Jamie Wallace, Susan Nye, and Wendy Thomas. And to everyone else who gave me guidance and advice while I was working on this book. Your help was invaluable, and any mistakes are my own.

  And finally, a huge thank-you to my friends and family. Where would I be without parents like Paul and Cindy Hennrikus? Sisters like Kristen Spence and Caroline Lentz? Brothers-in-law like Bryan Spence and Glenn Lentz? Nieces and nephews like Chase, Mallory, Harrison, Becca, Tori, Emma, and Evan? My amazing friends? I am one of the luckiest women in the world. None of this would be as much fun without all of you in my life.

  contents

  praise for Just Killing Time

  title page

  copyright

  dedication

  acknowledgments

  chapter 1

  chapter 2

  chapter 3

  chapter 4

  chapter 5

  chapter 6

  chapter 7

  chapter 8

  chapter 9

  chapter 10

  chapter 11

  chapter 12

  chapter 13

  chapter 14

  chapter 15

  chapter 16

  chapter 17

  chapter 18

  chapter 19

  chapter 20

  chapter 21

  chapter 22

  chapter 23

  chapter 24

  chapter 25

  chapter 26

  chapter 27

  chapter 28

  chapter 29

  chapter 30

  chapter 31

  chapter 32

  chapter 33

  chapter 34

  chapter 35

  chapter 36

  chapter 37

  chapter 38

  chapter 39

  chapter 40

  chapter 41

  chapter 42

  chapter 43

  chapter 44

  chapter 1

  The brochure lied. A week in the mountains of Vermont had not, in fact, helped me achieve a peaceful Zen that would pervade my life for the coming weeks, helping me approach old challenges with fresh energy. Instead it had made me aware of two things. First, much as I hated to admit it, I was addicted to technology. Not being allowed to have my cell phone for seven days was an interesting experiment at first, but an exercise in frustration toward the end. Never mind that the battery was completely drained of power by the time I got it back.

  The second realization? Coffee and I couldn’t break up. I did wonder, briefly, if a week of no coffee had crushed the addiction. The green tea I’d drunk by the bucketful had enough caffeine to keep the headaches mostly at bay. And I knew that any addiction was a vice. But honestly, aside from the occasional glass of wine or beer, coffee was it. Coffee and baked goods. I walked into the first coffee shop I found on my way back to civilization. I
ordered the French roast but hesitated before I ordered the scone. It looked dry and a little anemic. Not worth it, I decided. Maybe that was progress? I did grab a protein bar and filled up my water bottle at the water station in the store.

  I took the coffee back out to the car and sat inside with the key turned and the windows cracked. I plugged in my phone, but it didn’t come back to life right away. I took a deep breath and looked out the window at the view. October was a stunning time to live in New England. The leaves were turning and the mountains were smeared with splashes of orange, red, yellow, and brown in between the deep green of the pines. The air was crisp, but not cold. Layers were necessary. The sky was a stunning crystal clear blue with white puffy clouds. Even I had to admit the scenery was beautiful. Especially with a cup of coffee. I closed my eyes and took a sip. Heaven.

  I unwrapped the protein bar and grabbed my black bound notebook from my bag. I’d taken to carrying one notebook and using it as a combination journal, to-do list, sketchbook, and message pad. I took a bite of the protein bar, which tasted like chemicals. I should have tried the scone. I’d inherited the notebook habit from my grandfather, and he’d inherited it from his father. There were boxes of notebooks from all the Clagan clockmakers in my grandfather’s attic. Or at least the past four generations, since the first generation had emigrated from Europe.

  I wondered if the notebooks were still there, or if G.T.’s wife had tossed them. What was her name, anyway? I honestly couldn’t remember. I’d nicknamed my grandfather G.T., Grandpa Thom, when I was a little girl, during one of my summer-long visits to my grandparents’ house in Orchard, Massachusetts. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of being my grandfather, my grandmother had explained. It was that Grandpa wasn’t professional in the shop. So G.T. it was. If that was the rule for working in the shop, I was more than happy to comply. Because my summer visits hadn’t just been a welcome reprieve from my parents’ benign neglect, they had been my introduction to clocks and time and how humans could work with both. G.T. was a master clockmaker, and he had passed on his passion, and some of his skill, to me.

  I turned on my phone, which finally booted up. I checked the time and smiled. There was great accuracy to the clock on my cell phone, but little art. Time could be so much more. I flexed my shoulders back and mentally prepared myself to check my voice mail. I had been in a vulnerable place during a “Healing” workshop at my yoga retreat last week, and I’d sent G.T. a postcard asking him if I could stop by on my way back to Boston. My grandmother’s death six years ago had broken both of our hearts. G.T. and I had a falling-out when I brought my then husband (now ex) to meet him and they didn’t hit it off. The falling-out became a full-out rift when he called me a couple of months later to tell me he had gotten remarried. I’d sent him Christmas and birthday cards, and he’d sent them to me, but we hadn’t seen each other in five years. It was time to change that.

  When the phone rang, I almost spilled my coffee. I didn’t recognize the number, but the 413 area code identified it as western Massachusetts. Maybe G.T. had a cell phone?

  “Ruth Clagan here.” I sounded so officious, even to myself.

  “Miss Clagan, this is Kristen Gauger. I’m a lawyer here in Marytown. And a friend of your grandfather’s. I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”

  chapter 2

  G.T. was dead. Kristen Gauger was not only G.T.’s friend and a lawyer, she was his lawyer. They’d found the postcard I sent him at his shop, the Cog & Sprocket, and had been trying to reach me all week. The reading of the will was today. Would I possibly be able to make it?

  “Reading of the will?”

  “There are some issues that need to be addressed in the next few days. We decided to do the reading this afternoon so we could start getting the will processed through probate. At one o’clock. Might you possibly make it?”

  “What time is it now?” I looked down at my watch. “Eleven o’clock. I can try, but it will be tough. I’m up in Vermont.”

  “We could reschedule, but there’s a preliminary meeting with the Board of Selectmen at three, and the contents of the will may have some impact on the meeting.”

  “Really?” My grandfather had always been a concerned citizen. The Clagans were one of the oldest families in Orchard. But still, impacting a town meeting?

  “Ruth, I’ll tell you what. Write down this address and come to my office when you get to town. We’ll delay as long as we can.” She gave me her address in Marytown, which I wrote down in a shaky scrawl and then programmed into my GPS.

  “I’ve got it,” I said. “I’ll be there as soon as possible. I don’t even, I mean, wow, this is starting to sink in. What happened? Had G.T. been sick? We’ve been out of touch. I’d hate to think I wasn’t there to say good-bye.” There was a long pause on the phone. For a second, I thought we’d been disconnected.

  “Oh, Ruth, there’s no easy way to say this. I’d rather tell you in person, but you should hear it from me. They think that Thom died of a heart attack. But he was being robbed at the time. The police are treating it as a murder.”

  • • •

  I was riding an emotional roller coaster as I drove toward Orchard. Sadness and grief overwhelmed me. The ride down took almost five hours. Tears caused some of the delays. And there were a couple of times when I just needed to pull over and scream, trying to get rid of some of the emotions. Anger that I’d been robbed of the chance to see G.T. once more. Guilt that we’d been estranged. Overwhelming sadness. And a slow burn building up inside me. Screaming in the car had been very cathartic for me over the past year as I tried to move past my divorce, and it helped this time as well. A little. Not enough. But some.

  Even under the best of circumstances, chances were good I would have been late. I could build timepieces, but I couldn’t keep time. An irony in my life—one of many.

  But seeing the Berkshires again brought forth a flood of happy memories as I recognized old stomping grounds. I felt some pride in seeing how spruced up Main Street was. Of course, Main Street was always the center of attention, since it was in Marytown, the closest thing to a city in these parts. Six years ago I’d driven away from a region full of hardworking people trying to figure it all out. Some new businesses had brought economic vibrancy back, but the town was still a pale imitation of what it had once been, at least according to my grandparents. But now? Storefronts were open. The street itself was newly paved, with freshly painted lines. Streetlights had been replaced by gas lanterns. Marytown looked good. I wondered if Orchard had fared as well.

  Had the town finally come into its own? After the last great flood wiped the town out in the 1920s, the townspeople of Orchard worked hard to bring the apple orchards back and to embrace the possibilities of the future, but true prosperity always passed the small town by. I used to refer to Orchard as the town that almost was. Almost was the site of a railroad station, until another community won the bid. Almost saw a new mill built after the flood, but the aforementioned railroad station took that off the table. Almost was the site of a huge private college in the early 1900s, but that honor also went to another town, five miles south.

  Maybe Orchard’s luck had changed, even if G.T.’s hadn’t.

  • • •

  Kristen Gauger had directed me to the offices of Gauger, Spence, Colfer, and Lentz in Marytown. A lot of names for a tiny office that consisted of two desks, three chairs, and a couch.

  “Ruth? I’m Kristen Gauger.” She walked around her desk and held out her hand. I shook it and walked toward the desk. Kristen Gauger was shorter than I was, but the high heels she’d kicked off would have made us eye to eye. She had brown hair streaked with gray and pulled back into a ponytail. Her makeup was a little smudged and there were dark circles under her brown eyes. Her shirt was untucked from her suit skirt.

  “Let’s sit over here.” She motioned me toward the couch. “Can I get you anything? You sure? Well,
sit down while I pull the file. Forgive the office clutter. A bunch of us share the space. We have ‘offices’ all over the Berkshires, but most of them involve our dining room tables and home visits with clients. You made decent time getting here.”

  “Not good enough. I missed the reading. And I must have missed the funeral,” I said. I sounded pitiful, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “There hasn’t been a funeral. Thom didn’t want one, according to his will. Caroline would still like to have a service, but wanted to talk to you.”

  That was her name, Caroline. G.T’s wife.

  “Your folks already told Caroline they aren’t planning on coming back,” she continued.

  I’d long ago given up making excuses for my world-traveling parents, and so I didn’t respond. We e-mailed and talked on occasion, but I hadn’t seen them in a couple of years. Again, Kristen didn’t respond to my silence, but instead moved on.

  “I’m sorry you had to hear the news from me that way. But I know you have a few voice mails and I thought you should hear it from a human being.”

  “Thank you, I barely listened to my messages. I just wanted to get here.”

  “Well, you should know, he didn’t suffer. He got hit in the head and then he had a heart attack. It was pretty quick.”

  “Where was he?”

  “Out in back of the shop, getting into his car. There had been a robbery a couple of weeks before, and the police are assuming that the robbers came back for a second round and ran into Thom.”

  “A robbery? What did they steal?”

  “The first time? Five clocks. I don’t have the descriptions handy, but Caroline says they were worth about a thousand dollars each.”

  “Wow. What was he doing with that kind of inventory?”

  “He had bought out a couple of estate sales recently. Including the Winters’ house. Do you remember Grover Winter? He passed three months ago, and his son, Jonah, has been selling off the estate. Apparently he and his late wife were clock fanatics.”