Clocks and Robbers (2 page)

“Did the Strangers Game work?” Standing in the indent of the Four Corners, Viola Hart was bundled in a bright green puffy coat. The weather was changing. The wind rattled bare branches, and what was left of the fallen leaves
scritched
and
scratched
along the nearby streets. Surrounding Viola, the rest of the group wore heavier coats than they had the day before. Rosie’s was brand-new and bubble-gum pink.

Sylvester told his story of the tattooed man, about how Sylvester’s assumptions had been wrong. “That’s a really great thing to notice,” said Viola, impressed.

Rosie agreed. “We should all remember that. Don’t judge a book by its cover … right?”

Then Sylvester continued. His mother had returned with his grandmother last night. His parents had set up a temporary place for him to sleep on the couch in the living room, while Hal-muh-ni stayed in his bedroom as planned. As soon as the movers brought some of her things
up from her old house, his parents would bring Sylvester’s bed to the basement.

“That’s freaking cool, dude,” said Woodrow. “We can build all sorts of secret lairs down there.”

“I don’t really want my room to be a secret lair.”

Woodrow simply stared at him, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“It sounds like your grandmother needs your help,” said Rosie. “You’re being really generous. My brothers and sisters and I have to share all sorts of things in my house. It’s annoying, but we make it work. Well, mostly.” Sylvester nodded, but he wasn’t enthusiastic about it.

Woodrow went next, telling them about dinner the night before. Bill had ended up cooking a rosemary-herbed pork loin, with a side of steamed turnip greens. Woodrow had enjoyed the meat, but barely managed to choke down the soggy vegetables. “Who actually
eats
turnip greens?” he said.

“I like them all right,” Rosie said quietly.

“Turnip greens?” said Sylvester, shuddering. “I’ve never heard of them, and I don’t think I want to.”

“What does Bill do for a living?” Viola asked.

“He has some big job at the bank up on Maple. The one right next to that boarded-up storefront.”

“Did you like him?” Viola asked Woodrow.

“I guess he was nice enough. But I don’t trust him. I just know there’s something wrong with him.”

“Why?” said Viola, ready to open her ever-present notebook.

Woodrow thought for a moment. “I can’t place my finger on it.”

“I guess you should wait, then,” Viola answered cautiously. “See what clues come up.” She didn’t want to hurt his feelings by saying he might be wrong.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Woodrow, glancing back at his house longingly, as if another, better surprise might be waiting for him inside when he returned.

“So nobody has anything else?” said Viola. “No
mysteries?”

Rosie raised her hand. “There
was
the thing with the clock….”

“I thought you said it was just broken,” Viola said.

“It might be worth mentioning.” Rosie nodded at the boys. Sylvester and Woodrow stared at her intently. She told them what she’d noticed yesterday when she and Viola were waiting in front of the library—about how the minute hand had leapt forward.

“That’s funny,” said Woodrow. “There’s another clock just like that one down at the train
station, next to the platform. I’ve noticed it when I’ve gone to visit my dad, but I’ve never seen it do anything odd.”

“What does it look like?” asked Sylvester.

“Just like the one on Maple Avenue, like a big black Tootsie Pop, you know, with a bulbous head on top of a tall skinny pedestal. I’m sure you’ve seen it. It has four faces, staring out from the bulb in four directions.”

Viola wrote in her notebook as Woodrow continued. “The clock by the train station is really cool. Just below the indent of each face where the two hands meet, there’s a little half-moon window. In the window, a series of miniature pictures rotates through so that only one is showing at a time. I’ve seen a leaf, I think, and a cherry.”

“The one in front of the library is the same!” said Viola. “Yesterday, I noticed a small acorn peeking out from the window.”

“What could that mean?” said Sylvester.

“It could just be part of the design,” Rosie answered. “Not everything has to mean something.” She quickly glanced at Viola, hoping she hadn’t hurt her friend’s feelings.

Viola pursed her lips, but nodded. “You’re right. But maybe we should all take a walk down to the train station and check out the other clock too. You know … just in case?”

With nothing else planned for Saturday morning, the group let their parents know where they were going before setting off down the hill.

The train station on Oakwood Avenue was a quaint stone building that stood next to the tracks. The station’s doors were painted deep green. Its pitched roof was made of old slate, varnished wood, and tarnished copper. A large portion of it hung over the platform, providing shade to whoever stood on the cobblestone patio below.

The clock was exactly as Woodrow had described it—a twin of the one in front of Moon Hollow Public Library. Near the bottom of each face, a name had been printed in an elaborate and frilly type.
P. W. Clintock.
Today, the image showing through the half-moon windows was a bright green leaf.

“That’s from a maple tree,” said Rosie. “Like on the Canadian flag.”

“So you think these clocks were made by Canadians?” asked Sylvester.

“Does it matter?” said Woodrow.

“I don’t know! Viola’s always saying ‘mysteries are everywhere if you look for them.’”

“This is a mystery, then?” Rosie asked. “Two clocks that look exactly the same in two different parts of town?”

“Well …,” said Viola. “What makes a mystery? How do we know we’ve found one?” The group thought for a second.

“Something is out of place?” Rosie suggested. “Or lost or stolen … or just plain odd.”

“Mm-hm,” said Viola. “The question is: How odd are these clocks?”

“Whoa!” Sylvester shouted, pointing at the clock. “Did you see that?” Everyone in the group turned. “The minute hand jumped forward!”

Viola quickly pulled her notebook out of her coat pocket. “What number was it stuck at before it jumped?”

“I don’t know,” said Sylvester, thinking. The time now read 11:25. “Maybe eleven twenty?”

“So it jumped five minutes. Just like yesterday at the library.” Viola wrote all of this down.

Woodrow chuckled. “Does that answer your question?

“Which question?” said Viola.

“About how
odd
these clocks are …”

Rosie smiled. “You guys, I think we might have found the beginning of another mystery.”

They sat on one of the benches and watched the clock for another twenty minutes, but the large hand did not jump forward again. Eventually, Rosie suggested they hike over to the library and examine the other clock together.

By the time they reached the library’s plaza, almost an hour had passed since they’d arrived at the train station.

“Check it out,” said Sylvester. “The maple leaf is showing on this clock too.”

They surrounded the clock so that each of them could see one of its four faces. Each face showed the leaf. “Interesting,” said Viola. “They must be on the same schedule.”

“I wonder …” Woodrow looked at his watch, comparing his time to the clock’s. “I think the clock’s stuck at twelve twenty. The large hands haven’t moved since we got here, and my watch says it’s almost—”

“There it goes!” Viola shouted. All four of them finally saw the minute hand leap forward. It landed on the number five, just like the one at the train station had done an hour ago. They stared at each other in shock for several seconds. “You can’t say that doesn’t mean something,” said Viola.

“Yesterday,” Rosie began, “the clock paused on the eleven before jumping forward to the twelve. Maybe the minute hand gets stuck on the same number every hour, a different number every day?”

“We’ll have to test out that theory,” said Viola, continuing to take notes. “We’ve got some time.”

“An hour,” said Sylvester, “to be exact.”

“You said that yesterday the picture on the clock was an acorn,” Woodrow mentioned to Viola. “Today it’s a maple leaf. Could it be a metaphor for something?”

“Yeah, like … for … growth?” said Sylvester. “Don’t acorns grow up into maple trees?”

“No.” Rosie shook her head. “Acorns grow up into oak trees.”

Sylvester looked embarrassed. “Well, maybe the images are connected in a way. What do a cherry, a maple leaf, and an acorn have in common?”

“They’re all plants?” Woodrow suggested.

Viola raised her hand. “I think the pictures might be a great aspect to explore later. But right now, we’ve overlooked an obvious, solid clue that can lead us down a very specific path. As long as we’re right here at the library … Who wants to find out who this P. W. Clintock is?”

The library was a stone building, built in the early 1920s. Inside, reaching up to the high ceiling, various golden sculptures decorated the polished marble walls. At the far left of one wall, a farmer held a small scythe. He pointed at a calf who stood beside him. The calf craned its neck up to look above them at a grand eagle with wide wings. The eagle appeared to be eyeing a kneeling robed woman who held a salmon she’d caught from a nearby stream. The
sculptures looked like something out of an old history textbook.

There was a marker on one wall describing the artwork and the artist, a local woman Viola had never heard of before. The sculptures had struck her the first time she’d visited the library a couple months ago, and every time since, she’d seen something new. Today, she noticed the small image of a sundial, which was located on the far right side of the wall.

Why did time suddenly seem so important here in Moon Hollow?

The group signed up for a computer. Searching the Internet, they learned that Paul Winston Clintock had been a local clockmaker. His factory sat on the river just north of Moon Hollow, but the company had shut their doors in the early 1990s. Rather than continue the business when Mr. Clintock had passed away, his heirs decided to sell the machinery and the building itself. On another website, the group discovered that the old factory had been converted into an apartment building. On a third site, they learned that Mr. Clintock had been a philanthropist—a generous person who used his wealth to aid others. He had helped to pay for the construction of the Moon Hollow Theatre. He had started a scholarship fund for needy students. He had donated three clocks to the town—the one in front of the library, the one next to the train station, and
one more, across the street from the entrance of Moon Hollow College, on Cherry Tree Lane. He had also given several donations to the town library. The library had even named a room after him—the Clintock Gallery.

“I know where that room is,” said Rosie.

“Show us,” said Viola, getting excited.

The group followed Rosie back into the lobby, then through a doorway into a long room, like a wide hallway with dark wood walls. A brass plaque bolted next to the door told them they were in the right place.
“The Clintock Gallery. Moon Hollow thanks our friends for their generosity,”
Viola read from the plaque’s small text. Along one side of the room, several photographs hung, portraits of serious-looking men and women, dressed in clothes from decades past.

“Who are these people?” asked Sylvester, as his eyes roamed from picture to picture.

“‘Our friends’?” Rosie suggested.

“Look,” said Woodrow, “their names are printed on tiny markers on each frame.” He pointed at the top right photograph. “There’s Mr. Clintock himself.” The man in the picture had a skinny face with a long gray goatee. He wore a dark suit, wide circular spectacles, and a wry smile, like the
Mona Lisa’s.
“And these are some other people who must have made donations to the town.”

“Check that out.” Viola pointed at more words,
engraved on a large brass plate above the wall of photographs.
“The First Principles,”
she read. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think it’s referring to these,” said Woodrow. Above each photo was a smaller metal marker, each containing a single word. In order, they read:

“Maybe each of these ‘principles’ is a trait of the person,” he said.

“But what a strange thing for the library to do,” said Rosie. “I feel like there’s more to it.”

“Maybe your mom knows something else about this gallery,” Viola said. “Why don’t you ask her tonight?”

Whether they wanted to or not, each of the four had obligations outside of detective work throughout the week that followed.

The next Saturday afternoon, Viola invited everyone to tag along with her father to go see the third clock, on Cherry Tree Lane, across the
street from the great stone wall and gatehouse that marked the entrance to Moon Hollow College. While Mr. Hart attended a meeting on campus, the four stayed behind to examine the clock, which stood several feet from the curb upon a small brick patio.

“This clock is exactly the same as the other two,” said Woodrow. “As … you … can clearly see.” He blushed.