“What?”
“A neighbor came forward and said she saw someone over there on Friday afternoon. Don’t know why she didn’t call us sooner, but people get scared.”
“Any description?”
“Nope, just a man, she thought. Maybe older.”
“Was it Jack?”
“We don’t know who it was. If the woman had come forward sooner, we’d know more. We still don’t know what he took, if anything. The neighbor says the person wasn’t carry ing anything when he—or she—came out of Finn’s house. So that’s why the analysis on the vial is so important.” Tom stood up. “I have to go back. Will you promise me, pretty please, with a cherry on top, that you’ll stay home until I get back? I can call Marla to come over and be with you.”
“I’ll call her. Just hand me the phone.”
“Goldy,” said Tom seriously, “do not go back into Jack’s house, understand? It has been sealed.”
“I won’t.” Almost as an afterthought, I said, “Before Billie’s wedding last night, Jack said he wanted to talk to you.”
“About what?”
I shrugged. “You think he was going to tell me why he wanted to talk to you? You know how he was.”
“I do indeed.”
“Then he wanted to talk to Boyd. Do you know if he found him?”
Tom shook his head. “I asked Boyd if he’d seen Jack, or talked to him, and he said he had not. Sorry, Miss G.”
Tom kissed me and left.
I drained my coffee, called Marla, got her voice mail, and invited her over. I had no idea when or even if she would show up. Then, very carefully, I pulled out the nonfunctioning travel clock.
I was still convinced, or I wanted to be convinced, that Jack had left this for me, as a puzzle. And if he had, then by God, I was determined to figure out what it contained.
There were initials, very faintly visible, I noticed belatedly, embossed in gold on the leather case: hwf. I blinked, and then it came to me. This old travel clock had belonged to Harold William Finn. Had Jack taken this out of Finn’s house? But why? And had the brand-new golf clubs been Finn’s, too? Why would Jack have those?
One thing at a time, I told myself. I turned the neatly folding travel clock over in my hand. I had to know why Jack had had it. Jack was not sentimental, and it seemed extremely unlikely to me that Finn would have given Jack a small travel clock to remember him by.
I opened the case once more and folded it into its triangular shape. Nothing.
Hans Bogen, the master jeweler at Aspen Meadow Jewelers, had fashioned the rings for Billie and Craig Miller. He had vociferously complained to me about Billie’s constant changes of mind concerning the setting of her engagement ring, the size of the diamond(s), and the color of the metal: White gold or yellow? Or should we have platinum? Could Hans order the Versace china Billie had picked out, and give them a discount? Why not? And would he take back the “hideous” desk clock somebody had given them as a wedding present, even though the clock had not been bought from him? Like me, Hans had learned that when dealing with Billie, one had to become adept at caller ID.
But after the third change of mind about the setting for Billie’s engagement ring, Hans had had enough. He’d told Marla that he’d informed Billie to take her business down to Tiffany’s in Cherry Creek. “Enough is enough,” said Marla, imitating Hans’s Swiss accent.
Luckily for me, Hans Bogen and I had become partners-in-pain. He liked me, and had even ordered his wife’s birthday cake from me, which I’d given to him gratis. He’d promised I could call on him if I had any jewelry problems, of any kind. Call him whenever I wanted to, he said.
He lived nearby, and after I’d dropped off his wife’s cake, he’d repeated that Tom and I should drop in anytime.
Which was exactly what I intended to do, as Hans Bogen’s specialty was clocks.
19
This time, I had the sense to put on a cardigan before venturing out. While we’d been having all that rain earlier in the month, I’d actually relished going outside, as the wet pines and aspens had filled the air with a delicious scent. But I was still having trouble catching my breath, and my head continued to throb, so it was hard to smell anything. Jack’s death had left me without the ability to use any of my senses, apparently. But I was determined to use my head, or at least that part of it that hadn’t been smacked by Lucas Carmichael.
Anyway, using my head—that was what would get me through this mess. I couldn’t even call it grief. If I did, that would mean Jack was really gone.
At the end of our street, I stared at the signs and tried to remember where the Bogens’ house was. Finally I turned right, figuring I would recognize the Bogens’ red-painted, white-trimmed Alpine-style A-frame, even if I couldn’t remember the address.
And I did. When Hanna Bogen, brown haired, of medium height, and in her midforties, opened the door, she blinked. She wore a denim skirt and a T-shirt that read, will teach for food.
“Goldy,” Hanna said, without a trace of the Swiss accent that lay so heavily over Hans’s speech, “you don’t look so hot. Come in.”
Within moments we were in Hanna’s snug kitchen, which was so clean and scrubbed I wondered if I could hire her to help do cleanup for Goldilocks’ Catering. But I knew she would never jump ship to catering, as she was dedicated to—of all things—teaching English literature at Elk Park Prep. She set down two steaming mugs of cinnamon tea, a plate of ginger cookies, sliced peaches, and a wedge of Swiss cheese.
“I’m not hungry,” I protested. Mentally, I added,
“Pfft. When was the last time you had anything to eat? You look as if you’re going to pass out.”
“All right, thanks,” I said, and downed a slice of peach. I’m sure it was wonderful, and under ordinary circumstances, I would have enjoyed the sweetness. “Is Hans around? I need to talk to him about a clock. It’s really, really important, and after I, uh, made your birthday cake, he said I should come over anytime if I had —”
Hanna held up her index finger. “It is a truth universally acknowledged that Hans will never be here when clients drop in with their timepieces.”
Omigod, please spare me the Jane Austen quotations at this moment. “Do you know where he is? Or, uh, when he’ll be back? This is really, really important.”
“Hans takes Monday off. Today, he went fishing. He usually doesn’t get back in until the evening. And anyway, he would need all the tools he has at the shop.” When she saw my downcast face, her brown eyes filled with sympathy. She said, “Look, I can loan you a clock, Goldy.”
“It’s not like that,” I found myself protesting. “Could I leave Hans a note?”
Hanna produced pen and paper, and I wrote Hans a message that I hoped conveyed enough bafflement and desperation that he’d get cracking on Finn’s travel clock, but not call the police. My godfather, I said, had left me the clock as sort of a puzzle.
I bade Hanna farewell and took off for home. I hadn’t gone ten paces when my cell phone buzzed.
“Where the hell are you?” Marla fumed. “I’m outside your house and you’re not answering. Billie’s wedding is over, Goldy. You can come out of hiding.”
“I’m out taking a walk,” I said. “I’ll be there in less than ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes?”
I actually smiled. “Just get in your Mercedes and wait for me.”
“I’m going to need a drink when you finally let me in. Father Pete and I couldn’t find the diocesan letters, and
