All things come to those who wait.
“Perfect. It’s absolutely perfect.” Chloe Abbott cradled the rosewood mantel clock in her hands, turning it to inspect each side. Sunlight poured through the windows of the antique shop on Fourth Avenue in Seattle, gleaming off chests of silver, displays of china and crystal, and finding deep red highlights in the clock’s wooden box.
She couldn’t detect a single fault with it. The wood had the fine patina of age, and when the clock struck the hour, the carved doors on the front opened. The delicate figures of two dancers in Louis IV court dress popped out to twirl to the strains of a Strauss waltz.
“Gran’s going to love this.” Delighted, Chloe set the clock carefully on the glass counter. “Thank you so much for finding it for me.”
“I’m glad you like it.” The shop owner, a thin, elegant man in an impeccable gray suit and tie, abandoned his normal reserve and fairly beamed at her. “I knew the moment it came into the shop that it was meant for Winifred. There’s only one tiny detail that detracts from its value. Someone modified the clockworks to add a modern battery-operated alarm inside.”
“I don’t care, David, and I doubt Gran will, either.” Chloe’s eyes half closed as she swayed to the lilting music. “‘The Blue Danube’ was my grandfather’s favorite waltz. Gran told me they danced to it the night they became engaged.”
“I seem to recall Winifred telling me that story.”
Chloe opened her eyes and chuckled at his expression of fond indulgence. David McPherson had grown up with Chloe’s grandmother Winifred and grandfather Richard in the community of Ballard, only a few miles from the heart of downtown Seattle. In 1943 Winifred had signed on as an assistant to her father, a cryptographer employed in the Seattle section of the Office of Strategic Services, precursor to the CIA. That same year, Richard Abbott and Winifred were married four days before he and David donned army uniforms and marched off to war. They’d returned to Seattle to take up their lives after peace was won. Winifred had resumed her university studies, earning her doctorate and stayed on to become a professor of literature. Richard inherited Abbott Construction from his father, while David had opened an antique shop in downtown Seattle. Both men had been stunningly successful, and although David was widowed at forty-two and never had children, he’d been adopted into Richard and Winifred’s family. Chloe thought of him as a much-loved great-uncle.
Which was why, when she’d wanted a special gift to mark her grandmother’s eightieth birthday, she’d called on David.
“Of course you remember. You were probably at the same dance.”
His blue eyes twinkled. “I’m sure I was. In fact, I distinctly remember slipping money to the bandleader so he’d play the waltz at just the right moment.”
Chloe laughed and hugged him. “Clever, David, very clever.”
“Sometimes true love needs a helping hand,” he said sagely, patting her back.
“Hmm.” Chloe herself had never experienced true love, so she’d have to take his word for it. She stepped back and looked once more at the clock, gleaming in splendor on the glass counter. “I’ll buy it, of course. It’s wonderful.”
“Give me a few minutes to pack it properly.” David walked behind the counter and disappeared through a curtained doorway.
The antique bell mounted above the outer door chimed. Chloe smiled politely at the three older woman who entered the shop before her gaze moved on to the big display window. Outside, the sidewalks were busy, thronged with pedestrians walking briskly past. A solitary man stood motionless, looking through the glass into the interior of the shop. He was of average height and weight, dressed in khaki pants with a neatly pressed plaid shirt. Mirrored sunglasses concealed his eyes below the bill of a Mariners baseball cap that covered all but a glimpse of short-cropped black hair.
Chloe’s skin prickled and she shivered. She couldn’t see the man’s eyes behind the dark glasses, but she had the uneasy conviction that he was staring at her. Something about his absolute stillness was unnerving. How long had he been watching her?
“Here we are.” David returned with a cardboard box, tissue paper and an elegant plastic bag.
Chloe turned to look at David, and when she glanced back at the window, the man was gone. Shrugging off the unsettling moment, she leaned against the counter. “Where did you find the clock?”
He carefully wrapped the tissue paper around the mantel clock before slipping it into the white box with his shop logo, Elegance, in tasteful script across the top.
“At an estate sale in the Capitol Hill District. Fortunately,” David told her, taping the lid of the box closed, “I had the opportunity for a private viewing before the house was open to the public and I picked up several nice pieces, including this clock.”
“What else did you find?”
Chloe listened with interest as David pointed out the various newly acquired items in his chic, cluttered shop. Finally she said goodbye and left, the clock held safely in her arms within its multiple layers of packing.
She checked her watch. She had to lecture college freshmen on the basics of English composition at two o’clock. If she was lucky and there were no traffic snarls, she could make it back to the campus with ten minutes to spare. She quickened her steps as she headed toward her car and was soon driving north on Dexter Avenue before crossing the Fremont Bridge to hook up with Pacific Avenue on her way to Lake Union and the University District. The University spires were already in sight when her cell phone rang. She flipped open the phone, read the caller ID information and held the slim silver phone to her ear.
“Hi, Alexie, what’s up?”
“Did you get Gran’s present?” Chloe’s sister didn’t bother with a greeting.
“Yes, and it’s gorgeous. You’re going to love it.”
“Good. Which one of us is picking up the cake?”
“I will.”
“Excellent.” Alexie sounded relieved. “With Mom and Lily still in England, and you and me responsible for Gran’s birthday, I’m a little worried that we’ll forget something. Speaking of forgetting, why didn’t you tell me about the guy you met at the UW Medical Center?”
“What guy?”
“The guy kissing you in the Tribune photo.”
“Jake Morrissey? He wasn’t kissing me.”
“Ohh, yes, he was,” Alexie drawled. “And I cut out the photo to prove it. Oops, gotta run, I’m due in court in thirty minutes. We’ll discuss this later. Call me after work.”
Chloe turned off the phone and reached across the console to tuck it back into her purse.
She’d thought Jake was interested, maybe a lot interested.
But he hadn’t called. She frowned. The article and photos weren’t published in the Tribune until this morning’s edition, but the photos had been taken three days earlier. She’d been sure Jake would call and was surprised at how disappointed she felt that he hadn’t.
She nosed the Volvo into the stream of cars crossing the University Bridge and checked her watch again. By the time she turned onto Pacific Avenue and arrived at the north-central side of the university campus, she had just enough time to slip into a faculty parking space, grab her purse, briefcase and an armful of books, and dash across campus.
Halfway to Liberty Hall, she had the feeling that someone was following her. She looked over her shoulder, but although students crowded the sidewalk, none of their faces were familiar and none appeared to be paying particular attention to her. Frowning, she dismissed the oddly disturbing sensation and picked up her pace once again.
Chloe’s freshman English classes were held in one of the original brick university buildings. The small single-story hall was used as the first campus church but during the mid-1950s, had been converted into a classroom. Now it contained only one lecture theater, accessed by students via a steep flight of concrete stairs leading to the double oak doors at the front. Professors entered at the lectern level through a side door that opened directly onto a sidewalk and the campus lawns beyond.
When Chloe walked inside, the three hundred tiered theater seats were half-filled with students. She dropped her briefcase and books on the table.
“Professor Abbott?”
Chloe glanced up from organizing her lecture notes and reference books and smiled at the first-year student seated in the front row.
“Yes?”
“I read the article in the Tribune this morning—the one about the solider in rehab? The article said your grandmother was a codebreaker.”
“Yes, she worked for the Office of Strategic Services at a satellite office here in Seattle. Her father was a cryptographer working for the OSS and he hired her as his assistant when she was only eighteen years old. She loved the work.”
An hour later, Chloe assigned a three-page essay as homework. Class time had been used for a lively and passionate discussion fueled by the Seattle Tribune article with the photos of Dan West, and Chloe had encouraged students to voice their views. The papers were to explore the impact made on each student’s life by the wounding or death of American military personnel stationed around the globe.
“The essays are due next Wednesday. If you drop them through the door slot at my office, they have to be there no later than 4:00 p.m. on Wednesday afternoon,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of books slamming shut. “And don’t forget to take a copy of the handouts on the table next to the exit. The page-three article on the style of Jane Austen is part of your required reading for next week.”
She gathered up her books and slung her purse over her shoulder, making a mental note to confirm with the student editor about using the Opinions section of the university newspaper. She’d promised her class the winning essay would be published in the column, and the editor had agreed.
The lectern-level exit door stood ajar, letting fresh air and the scent of flowers into the hall. With her arms full, Chloe bumped the door with her shoulder to open it and the heavy metal panel crashed into something solid just outside.
“Hey!”
Chloe peered around the edge of the door. The janitor perched on the ladder grabbed the wall next to the empty light socket above the doorjamb.
“Are you all right, Fred?”
“Yeah.” The dour, midfifties man frowned, his carrot-colored brows pulling down into a V over his beaky nose. “The light bulb isn’t, though.”
Chloe followed his gaze. Pieces of shattered glass lay on the concrete sidewalk. “I didn’t see you there behind the door. I’m so sorry.”
Fred grunted an acknowledgment and descended to the walkway. “I’ll have to go to the maintenance shop and get another bulb. I’m leaving the ladder here.”
He paused, looking at her pointedly, and Chloe waved at the lawn and busy campus beyond. “It’s safe from me. I’m going to my office.”
“Uh-huh.”
He eyed her suspiciously before Chloe walked briskly away. The taciturn man had worked at Liberty Hall, her campus office building, for the past year and he had yet to warm up to any casual conversation beyond “hello.” She glanced over her shoulder. He was moving the ladder, carefully arranging it against the side wall. Then he took a small hand broom and dustpan from his toolbox, knelt down and began to sweep up the broken glass.