Chime and Punishment Read online

  “Sorry, Ruth, I’ll be out of here in a minute. Just want to make sure Jack has a bottle ready to go, in case.”

  “No worries. I’m going to change. Take your time.”

  “I topped Bezel’s dry food off too. I still think we should bring her to the ceremony. We have her harness.”

  “Yeah, that’s been a terrific success. We can take her for a drag.”

  “Well, if I didn’t have Jack, I’d totally bring Bezel. She’s the star of some of our best social media.”

  “Still not sure how a cat pondering clock guts on Instagram is so popular. Letting a cat near them is never a good idea. Most can be bent, and cat fur wreaks havoc in gears . . .”

  “Ruth, we are creating our own reality. Bezel is a star. So are you. Get used to it. After today, we’re going to be trending. @ClaganClocks, #AllGearedUp.”

  I was hesitant, but not about to throw cold water on Nadia’s plans. Six months ago I had trouble envisioning today, but I kept believing. Now the clock tower was a step closer to reopening.

  “In Nadia I trust. I’m going to go back and put on my dress.”

  “I still can’t believe you’re wearing a dress.”

  “I wear dresses all the time.”

  “Sure, over jeans or leggings. But this is a dress dress.”

  “It reminded me of my grandmother when I saw it. But don’t worry, I’m wearing bike shorts underneath in case I have to climb a ladder or there is a gust of wind. I’m a practical dress wearer.”

  I walked back to my bedroom area and drew the curtain for privacy. The ’50s-style cotton dress hung by the closet door, freshly ironed by Nancy Reed yesterday, so that the collar was crisp and the skirt was full. The white cotton and large blue cabbage roses made me smile. The dress really did remind me of my grandmother. At the very least, I knew she would have loved it. Pretty, but practical, with strong pockets, a must-have in all of my clothing. I loved the midcalf length as well.

  Getting dressed was very quick, with the last step pulling on the bike shorts. People were used to me wearing my lace-up Doc Martens, but today called for special occasion shoes. My red gladiator sandals were insanely comfortable and balanced on the line between my style and appropriate for the occasion.

  I opened the curtain dramatically and struck a pose, but Nadia and her gang were gone. Probably for the best, since my preparations were only halfway complete. The bathroom mirror helped me understand where the tweaks needed to be done. My hair was still a curly mass of red, but thanks to Flo, it still looked good. I knew better than to touch it myself. She’d futz with my hair as soon as she saw me. Makeup was minimal, but I’d spent more time on it than normal. At the last minute I took out a deep red lipstick and put it on.

  My clock cog necklace and earrings, both of which I’d made, completed the ensemble. I picked out a white cardigan in case it was chilly and checked once more in the mirror. I was as tall as my grandfather, but in this dress I also looked like my grandmother. They were both with me today; I felt it. I glanced over at the carriage clock on top of the cabinets and felt my pulse pick up. I needed to be over at the clock tower three minutes ago. Running late, again, to no one’s great surprise.

  chapter 7

  I walked over to the Town Hall, using the crosswalk and looking both ways before crossing the street. During the winter the only reason to follow this rule was that the crosswalks were dug out first so you didn’t need to climb over snowdrifts. But traffic picked up right before Memorial Day, and there was a steady stream coming through Orchard these days.

  The Signing Ceremony started in less than two hours. Overflow parking was going to be at the high school, and that was a good thing. All street parking was already full. I took my phone out of my pocket, and texted Ben.

  Did you cone off the back alley?

  Done, he texted back. Where are you?

  Heading over, I texted back. Where are you?

  Flo has me running errands. Will be there in 10.

  The Town Hall was the oldest building in Orchard proper. It was clapboard covered, but underneath the building was made of stone, which had helped it weather the many trials and tribulations Orchard had faced over the years. Floods, fires, the Great Depression, neglect—through it all the Town Hall stood firm.

  I looked around at the beautiful grounds, complete with gardens and paths, and remembered the sea of mud that had been there weeks earlier after Ben, Pat, and I spent a weekend pulling out old bushes, overturning flower beds, and pulling weeds. Ben and Pat had taken the last load to the dump, and I was cleaning up the site.

  “What are you going to do here?” Harriet Wimsey had stopped to survey the progress, arms crossed over her chest, a vague tone of disapproval in her voice.

  “I was thinking about having some mulch delivered to cover the mud,” I’d said. “I don’t have enough of a budget for doing anything else right now.”

  “I have a suggestion,” she’d said. “Do you know about the Community Orchard Nature and Garden Association?”

  “The Community . . .”

  “CONGA. We’re volunteer gardeners. Why don’t you let us take care of outside the Town Hall?”

  “There isn’t a budget—”

  “Don’t worry about budgets,” Harriet had said. “We collect leftovers from other gardens.”

  “Leftovers? But—”

  “I promise you. Donations only, surplus from other folks’ home projects,” Harriet had said. “I want to do this, please. I haven’t done much else to help you lately.”

  I looked at Harriet. Tall, thin, gray wiry hair held back with a headband, blue cat-eyed glasses. Harriet was the same age as Nancy and Flo, but while they positioned themselves against Kim Gray, Harriet sided with her, assuming that Kim knew best. Flo had explained that Harriet had thought the world of Grover Winter, and since he’d handpicked Kim for the job of town manager, it was up to Harriet to honor his memory by doing what she could to help Kim succeed. Harriet was one of the reasons Kim still had her job. Lately I wondered if Harriet’s faith wasn’t wavering, but I knew better than to ask Harriet herself. Her actions spoke louder than words, and she’d never share her thought process with me.

  “Thanks, Harriet. It would be great to have the outside looking nice,” I’d said.

  “Then I’m going to schedule a CONGA line,” she’d replied, smiling slightly and nodding her head. “Grover, rest his soul, would have wanted the hall to look her best.”

  “One more question. What, exactly, does a CONGA line entail?”

  “A CONGA line is, if I may say so, one of the best things about Orchard,” she’d said. “Wait and see.”

  On the Saturday of the CONGA line, five minutes before it had been scheduled to start, I’d stood out in front of the Town Hall, waiting to see what was going to happen.

  The first truck of supplies pulled up as a stream of twenty volunteers descended, led by Harriet Wimsey herself. A few volunteers broke off to unload the truck, others laid out stakes and strings on the front yard to create a grid. A few dribbled into the Town Hall. The large vacuous space had been cleared of furniture after the last event that was held there, and the rugs had been rolled up. The slate flooring was cold, but practical, able to hold up to years of foot traffic. Whereas the outside had been covered up with white clapboard to fit into New England norms, the inside stone walls were kept in their raw state. In past years tapestries had covered the walls, but those had been removed and were being restored.

  I followed the CONGA volunteers in and helped them set up a half-dozen six-foot tables.

  “These three will be for food and snacks. The Reeds will be along soon to deliver those. Those two by the door? Those will be for extra tools. The last one will be Command Central,” Harriet said.

  “Command Central?”

  “We’ll lay out the diagram of the gardens and the updat
ed task list of what needs to be done. You said this place had Wi-Fi?” Harriet said.

  “Yes. I wrote down the log-in and password and the rest of the information you requested.” I handed her the two-page document I’d created, which I’d laminated, per her suggestions. She looked it over and nodded. I may even have seen the hint of a smile, but I couldn’t be sure. Harriet would never be accused of overenthusiasm.

  “Did you make—”

  “Extra copies. Yes, here’s six more.”

  “I only asked for two.”

  “But I made extras. I’m sure they’ll be helpful to have around here: emergency contacts, preferred vendors, log-ins.”

  “It is always helpful to arm people with information,” she said in a serious, almost reverent tone. She lowered her reading glasses on her nose and looked at me over the rims. Her angular features were heightened in the shadowy light of the Town Hall. I remembered the look well, from the years Moira and I would go to the library and giggle. Harriet was never a shusher—she used “the look” instead. It still scared me.

  “You think I am overly organized, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Actually, no. I was thinking how glad I am that you are on it.”

  “On what?”

  “On it. On everything. Organizing today. Being supportive of the loyalty card program last winter. Helping me with research. You are one of the cogs of Orchard. You help keep it running.”

  “You are lucky that I’ve learned enough from you to know that being called a cog is a compliment. I thought the world of your grandfather, Ruth. You’re cast from his same mold.” She gave me one of her rare smiles, which pleased me inordinately.

  “How can I help today?”

  “Don’t you need to be at the shop?” Harriet asked.

  “Caroline is running it today,” I said. “She asked me to fill in for her. Her shoulder is still giving her trouble, so she can’t help out.”

  “I hope it heals quickly. She’s one of our best gardeners. Well, in her stead, why don’t you help with the food and supplies?”

  “Sure,” I said. Harriet didn’t trust me to help with the gardens. Her mistrust was well placed. I was known to kill cacti. “Wonderful. You’re much more useful on Command Central,” I said.

  Harriet smiled slightly, and a bit of color rose on her cheeks. “Well, let’s see how the CONGA line is progressing.”

  We walked out the front of the Town Hall into a hive of gardening activity. A grid had been staked out. Different shapes—lines, circles, squares, ovals—has been spray-painted onto the mud. More volunteers had arrived and were unloading another truck of supplies. Three more trucks were waiting behind them.

  “Where did all this come from? My tiny budget couldn’t have covered all of this,” I said.

  “No, the budget covered the gravel we are going to use underneath the paths. We saved the old cobblestones for edging. The CONGA started early this morning, with volunteers going around to pick up the contributions folks had made.”

  “Contributions?”

  “We take the community part of gardening very seriously. Everyone has leftovers from projects. The garden plan takes into account that not everything will match—that’s why there are all these different shapes. Everyone donates leftover plants and things from their gardens. We make them work. That oval? The Browns had a lovely birdbath and some granite pavers that will fit in that spot perfectly. The Polleys had a lot of extra concrete pavers they didn’t end up using on their driveway. They offered them to us for the paths. Not historically accurate, but the price was right.”

  “They just gave them to us?” I asked. I knew of the Polley family, but I didn’t know them personally. The pallet of pavers had to cost a small fortune.

  “We’ll have a plaque outside, with special thanks to the contributors. All that is for another day. Is Pat bringing over the clock parts we’d talked about?”

  “Clock parts? He did leave a pile of wheels and cogs, a couple of old weights, and some other clock parts out in the back. They’re under a tarp.”

  “Good enough,” Harriet said. “We want to incorporate clocks into the gardens. Now, we need to get to work if we expect to finish this weekend.”

  “Finish this weekend?” I looked around, wide-eyed. The workers were still unloading everything.

  “Of course. That’s what a CONGA line is, or rather does. It is fun, and busy. But it doesn’t last forever. We’ll get it done. Besides, we both know that if Kim Gray has a minute, she’s going to put a stop to this, just to spite you.”

  “To spite me?” I said.

  “Don’t act like you’re so surprised,” she said. “It doesn’t suit you. We both know that your moving back to Orchard was the beginning of a rough patch of road for Kim. She blames you for that. I’ve been trying to keep her in line, but I’m getting tired. That is for another day. Luckily for us both, she’s in Boston at a conference. We’ll get it done today, and she’ll be none the wiser about it.”

  • • •

  I looked around on this Saturday morning, and smiled. The CONGA line had, indeed, gotten it done. Paths wound around beds, each of which had its own personality. The path that led to the back of the Town Hall met a dead end of sorts. To the right was the side entrance to the Town Hall. Straight ahead was a six-foot fence with a trellis on top. There was a door in the middle of the fence that led to a hardscaped area, a portico edged with gardens. The idea for the back was eventually an outdoor performance space or gathering spot. Right now it contained a few tables and chairs that had been procured from yard sales and spray-painted to match the color palette the CONGA folks had chosen—white, black, gray, federal blue, and a lovely violet color. This afternoon it would be a holding pen for the VIPs, with food and drinks available to the large donors while we posed for a few pictures. We’d set out some of the clock tower inner workings for scale, and for context. We’d also set up a frame and hung the bell we were planning on using, so folks could ring it. That was Zane’s idea—he hoped that someone would be so horrified by the muddled sound of our donated bell that they would open their checkbook and solve that problem. Tonight’s cocktail party would be for the folks that helped make today happen, but we had hours before that took place.

  I walked into the Town Hall through the front door. The old building was empty, with tables along the far end. A podium had been set up on the right side of the room. There was a configuration of pipes that framed the podium, and a black drape hung on it. It gave the area a sense of formality. Fred Hamilton was hanging a sign on the back pipe, alongside the town crest.

  “Where did you get the sign?” I asked Fred.

  “Whoa, Ruthie, don’t sneak up on a man on a ladder,” he said, grabbing the ladder as he held the pipe for support.

  “Sorry, Fred. Didn’t mean to scare you. It looks great in here.”

  Fred harrumphed acknowledgment of my comments but went back to the task at hand. He was midfifties, at the most, but was the sort of man who looked the same his entire adulthood, with more wrinkles and whitening hair the only signs of time passing. He was a few inches short of six foot, trim build, and a full head of wavy hair. His hair was his best feature. I knew well enough by now that I needed to let him finish before we could continue to talk, so I cooled my heels and took a walk around.

  Pat had asked if we’d hire Fred on to help us get the clock tower project in gear. “He’s fallen on hard times since Kim canned him,” he’d said. In February Kim Gray had fired Hamilton Plumbing from all municipal projects. The official reason was that his most recent bids weren’t in the ballpark. Unofficially, Kim and Fred had never gotten along, but his contracts were long running and hard to break. She’d argued that the transfer of ownership of the Town Hall changed the terms of all her contracts. She’d been renegotiating contracts ever since.

  “Fallen on hard times” was code for “the re
asons don’t matter, but if we can help we should because that’s what decent folks do,” the credo that Pat Reed adhered to and that my grandparents had raised me on. By his suggestion, Pat was vouching for Fred, and that was good enough for me.

  Fred was a plumber by trade, but he had a lot of other building skills that we’d put to good use. Taciturn was a nice way of describing Fred’s personality, but he never groused about what he was asked to do.

  “That even?” he asked. I looked over at the sign and backed up so that I could assess it. The sign had the Cog & Sprocket predominantly featured, but it included other businesses that were supporting the Signing Ceremony.

  “It looks good. Sorry you had to do that on your own.”

  “No worries. It is made of foam core.” Fred grabbed a roll of duct tape from the podium and ripped off a piece. He fished around in his pocket and grabbed a few coinlike items, putting them on the tape.

  “What are you doing now?” I asked.

  “I’m going to add some weight to the bottom so it doesn’t flap around. Added some washers, going to put the tape on the back of the sign. Figure folks are going to be coming and going for a few hours, so there’s bound to be a breeze.”

  “Good thinking,” I said. “This looks pretty official.”

  “That Nadia, she’s a sharp one. I was making fun of her for her arts and crafts projects, but it looks terrific. Wait till you see what she’s got in store for the front of the lectern. Pat’s working on that out in the side offices.”

  “Why did you set it up over here, not in the middle of the hall, along the back wall?” I asked. This side of the room wasn’t used often—behind the walls were dead storage and the building mechanics like the furnace.