Page 35 of Holmes Is Missing
Unofficially, of course.
CHAPTER39
BY NOON, HOLMESwas 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 SMALLTIME, 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 saidOPEN, 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 aclassic 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 thatCLOSEDfaced out. On his way back, Paul rubbedhis hands together in glee. He returned to his spot behind the counter and settled onto a metal stool.
“You saidmurders,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?”
CHAPTER40
HOLMES COVERED HISears and waited for the din to subside. When the clocks returned to their insistent ticking, he rested his arms on the countertop and focused intently on the diminutive watchmaker.
“All right,” said Holmes, “tell me everything.”
In spite of his initial distrust of Oliver Paul—or maybe because of it—Holmes could feel himself coming alive in the moment. He was alert to Paul’s posture, his gestures, his expressions. As always, he was especially attuned to the olfactory blend of bacteria and perspiration from the apocrine glands—a clear indicator of stress. For a super-smeller like Holmes, it was more telling than a lie detector. But as Paul spoke, his body exuded only confidence. Which meant that he was either delusional or telling the truth.
“I’ve been investigating these murders since they began,” said Paul. “They go back more than two decades.”
“Two decades is a long time,” said Holmes. “Why haven’t the police solved any of these crimes over all these years?”
“For one thing, police are lazy and unobservant,” said Paul. His voice took on an extra rasp as he shifted to a lower register, more intimate and confidential. “You know I’m right.”
Holmes maintained his poker face, giving away nothing. He wasn’t about to endorse Paul’s subjective opinions about law enforcement, even if they matched his own. He was determined to follow the advice of his namesake and concentrate himself on the details. Facts. Data. Proof. That’s what mattered.
“These homicides,” said Holmes. “Where did they occur?”
“All over the country, in small jurisdictions,” said Paul. “But here’s the thing: they weren’t classified as homicides. They were all ruled to be accidents.”
“Fatalaccidents,” confirmed Holmes.
“Correct,” said Paul. “Deadly mishaps around the home or office. All conveniently unwitnessed.” Paul leaned forward. “Did you know, Mr. Holmes, that more than four hundred fifty people die from accidents every single day in this country?”