Broken Clock

By George Ebey

For the people of Freemont Indiana, Henry Fontaine is their most enduring claim to fame. After a childhood spent as one of Freemont's poorest farm boys, Henry rose from obscurity to become one of the most influential movie stars of the 1960's, only to lose his life in a tragic motorcycle accident at age twenty-five.

Inspired by the films of Henry Fontaine, Lucy Cole has created the Fontaine Gallery, a museum of sorts that boasts the most comprehensive collection of Fontaine artifacts and memorabilia in the world. Lucy has always had a special love for Henry and believes that everyone else in Freemont does as well. But someone is harboring a dark hatred for the long-dead film star, and after Fontaine's remains are stolen from the local cemetery, Lucy vows to do what she can to find out who's responsible. She soon discovers that Freemont is a town plagued with crooked police, violent residents, and hidden dangers. What begins as a simple search for local vandals soon grows into a deeper mystery as Lucy learns the truth about Henry Fontaine. He hadn't died in a motorcycle accident. He was murdered, and the killer may be close.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 8, 2004
• ISBN: 9780595777822

George Ebey

George Ebey is a graduate of Kent State University with a bachelor?s degree in Criminal Justice. During college he minored in writing. He lives with his wife, Gail, in Northeast, Ohio. Broken Clock is his first novel. For more information about the author visit his website at www.georgeebey.com

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All Rights Reserved © 2004 by George Ebey

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

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Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

PROLOGUE

The movie star had been dead for over forty years, yet women still kissed his tombstone.

To look at it, one wouldn’t believe that the simple grave had belonged to one of the most influential movie stars of the 1960’s. His was a modest headstone, sitting in the middle of the Freedom Hill Cemetery among the rest of the small-town farmers and shop workers and long lost homemakers who filled the ground there. Instead of this place, one would think that the legendary Henry Fontaine would have been placed under a shrine, roped off and out-of-reach from the legions of adoring fans who would surely visit it over the decades. But after his death, Henry’s Uncle Steve and Aunt Lois had insisted that his remains be brought back to Freemont and buried close to home. To them, Henry had been a little boy growing up on their farm long before he’d become a movie star, so the little plot in Freedom Hill was where he was placed.

Despite his gravesite’s mediocrity, the people still came to visit it, and the women still came to kiss it. The site of it had always infuriated Clay; the different shades of lipstick pressed against the cold stone by scores of loving fans, and for what? Just because he’d made a handful of movies and then died young? Why does that make a man a legend?

The middle of May was a busy time. Though Freemont was a small town, it was approaching the anniversary of Henry Fontaine’s death, and people often stopped in from out-of-town to morbidly view the place where the once handsome young star now rotted beneath the cold ground.

During this time, Clay often visited the cemetery himself, hoping to get a glimpse of any visitors who showed up. He wasn’t sure why he did it, or why he even cared. So what if people liked to visit Fontaine’s grave? He wanted to understand why they came. Why did they love him so much?

It was on a gray, drizzly Saturday afternoon when this question received a horrible answer.

Other than Clay, the cemetery was deserted and quiet. For the last few days, several people had shown up, but most of them just wanted to take a picture, look around for a few minutes, and then leave. No one had stayed for long, and no one had kissed his headstone. Sitting in his truck, Clay was about to leave when a red Ford Focus pulled into the cemetery and drove up to the plot where Fontaine’s grave was placed. After parking, two young women got out and walked over to the headstone. One was tall and blonde; the shorter one was a brunette. Both looked to be in their mid-twenties.

In their twenties? Why would people in their twenties give a damn about Henry Fontaine? They weren’t even born when he died.

Irritated, Clay watched as the two twenty something’s swooned over the headstone. Even from his distance, he could see the goo-goo look in their eyes, the deep infatuation with the long-dead man. What brought that out in people? What made them love him so much?

Then it happened. The tall blonde took out a tube of lipstick, applied some generously to her lips, and kissed a deep imprint into the stone marker. Seconds later, the brunette did the same.

Why? Clay had to know.

Getting out of his car, Clay approached Fontaine’s grave. The girls hadn’t noticed him at first, so he walked cautiously, almost stalking, until he was right next to them.

Hi, he said.

Both women turned toward him; their happy expressions now changed to looks of annoyance at being interrupted, and apprehension at being approached by a stranger.

You girls from out-of-town?

The blonde nodded. Yes.

Where are you from?

They both looked at each other. Finally, the blonde answered, Fort Wayne.

Fort Wayne? Clay asked, clearly impressed. Let me ask you something. What is it about this man that would make you drive almost two hundred miles just to see his grave?

Of the two women, the blonde was clearly the leader. She looked annoyed now, and regarded Clay with dismissal and irritation. Clay could tell that his intrusion was clearly unwelcome, that the two women didn’t want to talk to him and wanted to be left alone. He didn’t care.

So, why did you come all this way just to see his grave? Clay repeated.

It’s none of your business, the blonde finally said.

But what about his tombstone? You kissed it. Why did you do that?

Listen, the blonde asserted. I already told you. It’s none of your business. Now I suggest you leave us alone or else I’ll go find a cop and report you for harassment.

Clay punched the blonde so hard in the nose that blood spurted from her face; she hit the ground a second later and was out cold. You’ve done it now. No going back. Move! Move! Clay turned toward the brunette who was standing alone in shock, her mouth agape and her senses keeping her frozen still. He moved on her, and she let out a horrified scream. Turning, she tried to run, but Clay caught her by her hair and spun her around. The fist he slammed into her gut changed her scream into a guttural moan. Growing tired of her noise, he bashed her in the face with his left knee, making her go unconscious just like her friend.

He had to hurry.

Searching them, he found the keys to their car and popped the trunk. Starting with the blonde, he shoved them both in the trunk and slammed closed the lid. Think. Think. Chances were, no one had seen him. He’d been in the cemetery for several hours. No one other than the girls had been through in a long while. No one could have heard the screams because Freedom Hill was on the outskirts of town and was mostly surrounded by farmland. It was getting late. He could drive their car home, stash it out of sight, hike the five miles back and get his truck without anyone even knowing that anything happened.

Yes. He could get away with this.

Getting behind the steering wheel, he fired up the engine and pulled out of the cemetery. It wouldn’t take him long to hide the car.

It had all happened so fast. None of it had been planned. None of it was expected, not even by him. Why did you do it? The question kept shooting through his mind as he drove, the memory of it pumping through him almost as hard as the adrenaline. Why did you do it? Why? But the answer was perfectly clear. The blonde had pissed him off with her condescending attitude. That was it. Period. All he wanted was an answer to a simple question: Why do they love him so much?

He had these two now, and when they woke up, he’d put the question to them again, and then see what they had to say. One way or another, he’d get his answer.

CHAPTER 1

Albert Hildebrand killed Henry Fontaine.

Looking up from her cash register, Lucy Cole regarded the stranger’s macabre declaration with a simple shake of her head. She hadn’t heard this theory before. She didn’t agree with it.

Henry Fontaine was only twenty-five years old when he died. He’d just finished shooting his fourth and final movie when he crashed his motorcycle, dying instantly. Because he’d been so young and famous, his death had been the fodder for countless conspiracy theorists over the years. Lucy had heard them all.

Think about it, the stranger insisted as he thumbed through a rack of postcards. "Hildebrand was the most powerful director in Hollywood. He would have had the connections to pull it off. He couldn’t stand working with Fontaine on the set of The Taking of Fifty Dollars. That’s been clearly documented. Fontaine played jokes on the set, he was constantly late, and he was rude. Hildebrand was a control freak. He only liked working with actors that he hand picked. He didn’t like it when the studio pushed stars on him. After Fifty Dollars wrapped, they insisted that Fontaine get the starring role in Hildebrand’s next movie, Broken Clock. Hildebrand didn’t want to work with Fontaine again, so he had him killed to keep him out of the movie."

I don’t know, Lucy said. I have my doubts. I mean…why would Albert Hildebrand have Henry Fontaine murdered just to get out of doing one movie with him? It doesn’t seem worth the risk to me.

Like I said before, the stranger insisted. "Hildebrand was a control freak. Nothing was more important to him than his movies. He obsessed over every detail. Everything had to be perfect. And besides, Broken Clock was Hildebrand’s baby. He loved that movie. Fontaine was supposed to be the lead, but since he died the part went to Richard Curry, which is ironic because he stunk in comparison to Fontaine."

I agree with you there.

But in Hildebrand’s mind, Curry was the better choice. So he had Fontaine killed so Curry could get the part. I’ll take these. He set a stack of postcards and a Henry Fontaine coffee mug down on the counter.

What do you think of Hildebrand? Lucy asked as she rung up the items.

He was an asshole. A great director, but an asshole.

Lucy chuckled at the man’s openness. She’d never seen him before. He was an average looking man, probably in his mid-forties, and chatty. He seemed fidgety, and nervous, like he had a lot of time on his hands he didn’t know what to do with. She found the morbidity of his conversation a bit odd, but she’d heard worse, and he seemed harmless enough.

It sounds like you’ve given it a lot of thought, Lucy said.

Oh, yeah. I love old movies.

That’ll be $8.58.

The man handed her a ten. She made up the change and gave him his bag of souvenirs. Here you go.

Thanks.

Well, stop on back then.

Will do. The man left.

Smiling, Lucy reached under the counter, took out a small notebook, and jotted the man’s theory down in a quick paragraph. She’d heard a lot of theories over the years. This was a new one. Though she didn’t agree with it, she still found it noteworthy. In fact, she didn’t agree with any of the conspiracy theories. There’d been many over the years. Some people believed that Fontaine had owed money to the mob so he faked his own death and went into hiding. Others believed that he survived his accident but was disfigured, causing him to retreat from society rather than admit to his deformity. None of it was true. As far as Lucy was concerned, the simplest explanation was the best explanation. Fontaine loved motorcycles. They were his trademark. Most of his movies involved him doing something on a motorcycle.

As the story went, while he was making his final movie, Street Savior, insurance stipulations forbid him from riding his motorcycle for recreation during production. When the movie finished shooting, and he was free from the insurance burden, he took his 1950’s Vincent Black Shadow out on State Route 94 for a serious joy ride. While negotiating a treacherous curve, he lost control of the bike and crashed it on the highway. The bike rolled over on him. A piece of his rib bone broke off, punctured his heart, and he died. That was it. No scandal. No murder plot. No conspiracy theory.

But Lucy liked hearing them anyway.

Lucy owned and ran the Henry Fontaine Gallery in Freemont Indiana, the town where Fontaine grew up. Freemont was a small, simple town located smack dab in the middle of the flat farmlands of eastern Indiana. Upon looking at it, you wouldn’t think that one of the most enduring personalities in Hollywood history could have come from such a humble place. This, more than his striking good looks or the brief legacy of masterful performances he’d left on the screen, had been the cause of Lucy’s lifelong devotion to the film-icon. Like Fontaine, Lucy was also raised in Freemont. All her life, she’d been fascinated by the idea that someone from her hometown could have left such an indelible mark on society in such a short time. Unlike Fontaine, Lucy knew that she could never achieve such a feat. She wasn’t talented. She wasn’t pretty. She was plain. But she still found inspiration in Fontaine’s achievements. Lucy had been born in 1960, the year Fontaine died, and all of her life, she’d heard stories from the town’s people about the exploits of Henry’s Freemont days. They’d tell stories of how he used to chase cows in their pastures with his motorcycle, and how he’d once gotten in trouble for spiking a batch of brownies with a laxative and giving them to his high school teachers, and how he’d discovered acting in the local drama club.

Lucy had spent much of her early teen years researching the young actor’s career. Then she turned her hobby into a career of her own by creating and opening the gallery. Through her research and enthusiasm, she was able to assemble the most comprehensive collection of Fontaine memorabilia in the country. The gallery showcased everything from props to costumes to even a piece of the wrecked motorcycle Fontaine was riding when he died; most of it had been donated by friends of Fontaine, his family, and private collectors. Though she didn’t make much money at it, she was proud of the gallery.

So when people came around sprouting conspiracy theories and murder plots, she was just plain happy to see that people were still interested in her favorite star. It was the legend that kept people coming to this little nothing of a town just to see where the man had been born and was now buried. It had made all of her efforts to keep and maintain the place worthwhile.

While thinking on this, the bell on the front door jingled, bringing her out of her thoughts. Looking up, she expected to see another customer entering the parlor. Instead of a customer, she saw a policeman.

* * * *

She’d seen the policeman around town before, but she didn’t know him. There wasn’t much crime in Freemont. Traffic enforcement and the occasional drunken brawl seemed to be the worst offenses that Freemont’s policemen had to face. Since Lucy didn’t own a car, she hadn’t had any occasion to be pulled over by any of Freemont’s finest. Luckily, she hadn’t ever had any reason to call them for anything. So as the patrolman entered, she had no reason to know him, and couldn’t imagine any reason for why he was in her place.

The cop was a large man, in his late forties with thinning gray hair and a modest spare tire around his waist. But he was somewhat good looking, yet official and direct.

Are you Lucy Cole?

Yes.

Do you own this place?

That’s right. The gallery was actually just the first floor of the house she’d grown up in. Her mother had left it to her when she died. Lucy now lived in a makeshift apartment on the second floor. It was a good arrangement. Because of its large size and location, she’d decided to turn the first floor into the gallery and convert the upstairs into the apartment for herself. And since her mother had left it to her, she was able to run the place at a low expense.

My name is Officer Edward Brick, the cop said. Are you aware of the incident that occurred at the Freedom Hill Cemetery this morning?

No. What happened?

When was the last time you were there?

I was there three days ago, Lucy said. Why, what happened?

A visitor this morning discovered that the grave had been broken into.

Lucy felt a wave of sickness wash over her. Broken into? How?

Apparently, someone went into the cemetery last night, dug his way down to the coffin, and stole the remains.

Lucy’s hands went automatically to her mouth, shocked, and she worked hard to fight back a sob. The few tears that formed in her eyes were uncontrollable. Why would somebody do that?

That’s what we’re trying to determine. We know that it happened yesterday evening. The night patrolman reported that he drove by it last night around eleven-thirty and it hadn’t been touched. Someone must have come in afterward and dug it up. This morning, the coffin was found empty, the remains missing. When you were there three days ago, did you see anything strange?

No.

Any unusual people hanging around?

No, I was alone.

Why did you go there?

Visiting Fontaine’s grave was a weekly ritual for her. Often, visitors to the site would leave trinkets and offerings to show their devotion to the Fontaine legend. Over the years, Lucy had made it a sort of habit to go there and jot down a list of the items that were left behind by fans. The various gifts ranged from the absurd to the downright bizarre: pennies, toy motorcycles, locks of hair, hand written notes, a box of cookies, jewelry, love notes, paper clips, the list went on and on. It was all part of Lucy’s notebook, which she kept at the gallery. Keeping tabs on this sort of thing was her hobby, a way of better understanding the Fontaine legend. But she didn’t know how to explain all of this to the cop.

I ride my bike there often, she decided to say. It’s good exercise, and I like to see what kind of things people leave at it.

Has anyone unusual been here recently? Maybe someone who keeps hanging around, who comes over and over, that sort of thing?

No, not really. This is kind of a busy time of year. The anniversary of Fontaine’s death is next week. We get a lot of visitors from out of town and around the area come in because of that. So far, I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary.

Where were you last night?

The question caught her off guard. She paused for a moment, puzzled. Where was I? I was here. I live upstairs. Why?

The cop suddenly looked uncomfortable. It’s important you be honest with me on this.

Reviews for Broken Clock

[ebeybooks · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Broken Clock is the first novel written by Ohio author, George Ebey. It is full of suspense as his main character, Lucy, discovers some truth to her favorite actor.