Page 39

CHAPTER 39

BY NOON, HOLMES was standing in the shadow of a pizza parlor awning and staring across Avenue B toward the address Virginia had sent him. The sign over the entrance said S MALL T IME , and the pun was totally apt. The entire clock shop was only about three times as wide as the front door, squeezed between a vape store and a pharmacy. The sign on the door said OPEN , but Holmes had yet to see a single customer enter or exit.

The powerful aromas of garlic and oregano from the pizza kitchen assaulted his nostrils. Time to move. He walked across the street, peeked through the front window, then opened the door and stepped inside.

The ceiling was low and the air was pungent. A dehumidifier near the entrance ended its cycle with a metallic rattle. Holmes cocked his head. The air was now filled with the sound of ticking from every direction, creating a disconcerting white noise.

The walls of the shop were lined with timepieces of every kind—alarm clocks, calendar clocks, cuckoo clocks—from polished antiques to neon-hued 1970s cubes to contemporary atomic models. Hanging at the top of one wall was a classic Standard Electric schoolroom clock. An imposing grandfather model was set into one corner, its brass pendulum visible through a glass-paneled front.

“ Yes! I knew you’d come!” An excited voice from the back of the shop. Holmes recognized the rasp immediately. Oliver Paul emerged from a curtained-off back room and leaned over a glass counter.

“Good morning, Mr. Paul,” said Holmes. “You said you were an amateur sleuth. You didn’t tell me you were a watchmaker.”

“Because I knew you’d find out. And please, call me Oliver.” Paul reached across the counter for a handshake. Holmes could feel Paul trembling with excitement. A double-eyed jeweler’s loupe rested on his forehead, giving him the look of an eager insect. “I guess you couldn’t resist my story,” he said.

“You haven’t told me a story yet,” said Holmes. “All you gave me was a somewhat provocative title. ‘The Mother Murders,’ correct?”

“Exactly,” said Paul. “I have everything right here.” He ducked below the counter. Holmes could see Paul’s back hunch over as he tugged at something underneath. After a few seconds, he resurfaced with a tattered file box, straining slightly under the weight of it. He slid the box onto the glass countertop. “My notes on the case,” Paul pronounced.

He started to lift the lid off the box, but Holmes reached over and pressed it firmly back down. “No notes,” he said. “I only want to know what’s in your head. Otherwise, I won’t help you.”

“No problem,” said Paul, tapping his temple. “I have it all collected and collated.”

He pushed the box to one side, then slipped out from behind the counter and walked to the front of the shop. He flipped the door sign so that CLOSED faced out. On his way back, Paul rubbed his hands together in glee. He returned to his spot behind the counter and settled onto a metal stool.

“You said murders, Oliver. Plural. How many are we talking about?”

“Twenty-three,” said Paul. He paused for a moment. “Soon to be twenty-four.”

Suddenly, the grandfather clock began to chime. In the next second, the shop was filled with a dissonant chorus of pings, gongs, chirps, and trills.

Holmes blinked as Paul called out over the cacophony. “Do I have your attention now?”