Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

by Valerie S. Malmont

  “They just won the district band competition,” Cassie shouted over the din. “This week everybody loves the director.”

  I snapped several pictures.

  “Don't use up too much film at the beginning,” Cassie warned. “The best floats come at the end.”

  Behind the band came a yellow school bus with a Nativity scene on top. Screaming children hung out of the windows and tossed Hershey Kisses to the spectators. I was proud to see my staff got most of them. This was followed by a troop of Brownies dressed as Christmas trees, carrying flashlights that they flicked on and off to represent stars.

  A group of middle-aged women, preceded by a banner that said they were the Silver-Haired Twirlers Association, marched in front of the junior high school band in little white tasseled boots and skirts that were much too short for them.

  I heard a strange noise come from Cassie. She sounded like a strangling horse, and I couldn't look at her for I knew if I did I'd have the giggles for the rest of the day.

  When the bus from the Sigafoos Home for the Aged went by, I saw the woman who reminded me of my mother sitting in the front seat wearing a Santa Claus hat. I waved at her and she returned my greeting with a Queen Elizabeth-style finger wiggle and a vague smile that really did look like my mother's. I suddenly realized I needed to visit the Willows.

  The man who'd played the bagpipes at Eddie Douglas's funeral passed in front of me playing an explosive version of “Scotland the Brave.” I noticed Buchanan Mc-Cleary, the borough solicitor, standing on the other side of the street beside Luscious, who looked quite official and almost handsome in his blue uniform.

  I waved at Buchanan, who smiled back.

  “I want to talk to you,” I mouthed.

  He tilted his head and moved his lips. I interpreted it as “What did you say?”

  I cut through a troop of marching Boy Scouts to get across the street.

  Buchanan greeted me with an enthusiastic hug. He and I had developed a kinship based on our both being outsiders in the small town and both being romantically involved with members of the Gochenauer family.

  A Maryland high school band stopped in front of us to play a medley of Dixieland jazz. “What's up?” Buchanan asked loudly.

  I didn't want my questions to be overheard by everyone nearby, so I stood on tiptoe and yelled in his ear, “I want to ask you about Stanley Roadcap.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what did Stanley have to gain by Bernice's death?” As I finished shouting out my question, I realized the band had stopped playing and everyone around us either heard me or was stone-deaf. I winced with embarrassment.

  Buchanan laughed at my expression. Luscious turned bright red, moved away a few inches, and pretended he didn't know me.

  Taking my arm, Buchanan led me through the crowd to the semiprivacy of the covered entrance to the Sweete Toothe Candy Shoppe.

  “I'm so embarrassed,” I said miserably.

  He shrugged. “If that's the worst thing you ever do, consider yourself lucky.”

  “I like your philosophy.” I lowered my voice and made sure nobody was listening before I asked, “Is there anything you can tell me about the Roadcaps? I met Stanley yesterday, under rather strange circumstances, and he tried to convince me that he and Bernice were getting back together. I just wondered if this was true. Or if Stanley was trying to convince me that he didn't have any reason to want her dead. Do you know if he stood to gain a lot from her will?”

  “I was Bernice's lawyer,” Buchanan said. “So I do know quite a bit about their affairs. And since the settling of her estate is a matter of public record, I won't be breaking any confidentiality by telling you this. Bernice inherited her personal fortune from her father in a trust. The beneficiary of the trust is Stanley and Bernice's son. Stanley won't get anything—a fact that he was well aware of. And he doesn't need it. Stanley is fairly well-to-do.”

  “A son? Where is he?” I asked, thinking I had just acquired a new suspect.

  “In the army, stationed in the Middle East. He's flying home right now for the funeral.”

  There went my suspect. I was vaguely disappointed. The idea of the killer being someone I didn't know was far more preferable to the alternative. I was also aware that the terms of the trust meant Bernice was more valuable to Stanley alive than dead. And for the same reason, it would have been to Stanley's advantage to keep his marriage going. How much of Stanley's patience with Bernice's history of rehab romances was due to his love for her, and how much was due to her wealth?

  “At least no man's going to marry me for my money,” I thought out loud. “I don't have any.”

  Buchanan looked seriously at me. “I'm not so sure about that,” he said cryptically. “Sometimes I think you act like a rich kid slumming it.”

  “Where did you get that idea?” I asked, startled by his comment. “I'm no different from anybody else.”

  He smiled. “What about that preppy accent, the five or six languages you speak, the casual way you drop exotic places into your conversations, the way you assume everything will go your way?”

  “It's my background,” I protested. “In the foreign service, we tend to live ‘rich’ even when we're not. My father is a career diplomat who worked his way up, not one of those millionaires who bought his ambassadorship. And that accent you referred to comes as a result of my having lived in a dozen foreign countries when I was growing up.”

  Buchanan said, “Okay, Tori, you've convinced me. I didn't mean to stir up a tempest in your teapot.”

  The high school steel band drummed out my retort. He planted a kiss on the top of my head and moved on with a cheery good-bye.

  “If you ask me,” said a woman's voice behind me, “he and that galfriend of his done it.”

  I spun around to face Weezie Clopper, who was standing in the open doorway of the candy shop. How long she'd been there, I didn't know, but apparently she'd heard most of our conversation.

  “Hello, Mrs. Clopper. How nice to see you again,” I said, forcing a smile.

  “I thought about calling you after you left,” she said. “About that Gochenauer woman. She thinks she's so much better than everybody else because her family's been here forever.”

  As the poison dripped from her lips, I thought how untrue were her remarks about Greta. Garnet's sister was a true original, an aging flower child, who lived to help everybody and everything in the world.

  “What is it you are trying to tell me, Mrs. Clopper?” I asked. My smile was gone now, and I was striving for cool and intimidating.

  “You know how she and that—that black man”—she spoke with a sneer in her voice—“have been yacking about saving them brown trout in the Lickin Creek. And you know how they are. If you really want to find out who killed Bernice, you ought to look closer to home, rather than bothering us good Christians.”

  “Why don't you write an anonymous letter about it to the Chronicle? I won't publish it, of course, but you might feel better getting some of that venom off your chest.” I turned my back on her.

  “You better watch your tongue, young lady. It's liable to get you into big trouble someday.”

  I ignored her and pushed through the crowd.

  Inside, I was seething at her snide remarks. Just because Greta sometimes used militant methods to further her causes, it was ridiculous to suggest she'd resort to murder to protect some fish. Smiling to myself, I recalled the time she bombarded the town meeting at the Accident Theatre with overripe tomatoes and another time when she chained herself to the fountain to protest the nuclear-waste dump. Yes, Greta could be extreme, even a little scary at times, but she was definitely not a murderess.

  I found myself, once again, standing beside Luscious.

  “Hi,” I said cheerfully, but Luscious was too busy being chewed out by Marvin Bumbaugh to acknowledge me. Of course, being the mind-your-own-business type of person that I am, I tried not to listen and took several pictures of the Fogal Farms float going by
stacked with mounds of beef sticks, or summer sausages as my mother called them. But, standing as close as I was to the men, I couldn't help but overhear their conversation.

  Actually, it wasn't a conversation but a one-sided diatribe in which Marvin bombarded poor Luscious with accusations that he was incapable of doing his job and dire threats of having him fired.

  “Yesterday, you said I had till Christmas,” Luscious protested. “I haven't even got the toxicology report back yet.”

  “And what about Oretta Clopper? What have you done about finding her killer?”

  “I'm waiting for the results of the forensic tests on the bullet that killed her.”

  “Christmas, Miller. If I don't have a report on my desk on December twenty-sixth, you can kiss your job good-bye.”

  Marvin leaned forward slightly to glare at me across Luscious's brass-buttoned chest. “This wouldn't have happened if Garnet was here.”

  “Why yell at me?” I snapped back. “I didn't make him go to Costa Rica.”

  “Maybe he wanted to get away from something—or somebody,” Marvin said nastily, touching the very painful thought I'd been trying to push deep into my subconscious—the possibility that Garnet had left because of me.

  When he left, I turned to Luscious and muttered, “I hate that man.”

  “That makes two of us,” he said.

  “We'll show him,” I said. “We'll find his murderer for him.”

  “Sure we will.” He didn't sound convinced.

  I wondered if Marvin would have treated either of us so rudely if Garnet were still here. But, of course, if Garnet were here, he wouldn't have any reason to.

  The Chronicle employees waved at me from the other side of the street, and I decided to rejoin them. Reverend Flack's cousin, the bagpiper, was accompanying a group of little girls in full skirts and clogs who stopped to perform a charming Irish folk dance in front of me. As I wove my way through them, a tall clown, carrying a bunch of helium-filled balloons, stopped in front of me and mimed an elaborate double take as if he were surprised to see me. He was taller than anyone around and wore a baggy yellow suit covered with black polka dots. A bright orange wig topped his creepy, white-painted face. When he bent down and patted me on the head, I heard laughter from the crowd.

  I've never liked clowns. There's something eerie and disturbing about them, like a bin of broken dolls. I want to know what's under the makeup, yet I'm afraid of finding out.

  For the sake of the children watching, I forced a smile. The clown slapped his pockets, as if looking for something, then with a theatrical gesture of relief, pulled something from his vest pocket and handed it to me with a low bow.

  I took it, a folded piece of paper.

  “Open it. Open it,” the children cheered.

  I smoothed it out and read the neatly printed message: MEET ME AT RAYMOND'S. SUNDAY AT TWO.

  “Tori's got a boyfriend. Tori's got a boyfriend.” That annoying little choral rendition came from the direction of my office staff.

  “Who are you?” But the clown was gone when I looked up.

  “Where'd he go?” I asked, but nobody seemed to know.

  Besides, who cared, when Santa was coming down the street in an army Jeep with a deer head mounted on the hood? Red laserlike light beams blinked on and off in the dead animal's nostrils. Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, I realized with a shudder. Or Bambi. This kind of thing could warp a little kid's psyche forever.

  CHAPTER 17

  In sin and error pining

  LUCKILY, CASSIE HAD COUNTED OUR KIDS BE- fore we left for the parade, because when she lined them up to return to the Sigafoos Home we quickly realized three were missing. After a brief but panicky search we found the missing trio sharing a cigarette behind Santa's Workshop.

  I breathed a deep sigh of relief when the last of the children was picked up. After only a few hours I was exhausted. What an awesome responsibility full-time parenthood must be!

  Cassie said a quick good-bye to me and hurried off. I was left standing in the parking lot, wondering what I should do next.

  “Meet me at Raymond's,” the note had said. I assumed that meant Raymond's Art Studio and Gallery at the low-rent end of Main Street. Since the One-Hour-Photo-Shop was nearby, I could check out the studio on my way to drop off my film.

  Raymond's Studio was in an old building, once the home of a dress shop. I knew that because the old sign over the door still said TRISHA'S TOGS FOR TASTEFUL LADIES. The door was securely locked. Black draperies behind the large display window made it impossible for a passerby to see inside, even though I pressed my nose against the glass, trying to find a crack to peek through.

  The only thing in the window was an easel, and on it was a sign that said NEW SHOW OPENING SUNDAY AT ONE. REFRESHMENTS WILL BE SERVED.

  I suddenly realized the clown had simply been passing out flyers for Raymond's art show. He hadn't been targeting me at all. It disappointed me that my mysterious assignation had turned into nothing more than an advertising gimmick.

  I pulled the note out of my pocket and tossed it in the trash container on the curb. As it dropped into the mesh basket something caught my eye, and I reached in to retrieve it. A woman passing by eyed me curiously, probably thinking I was one of Lickin Creek's many collectors who constantly check garbage cans and bulky trash pickup sites for antiques and other treasures.

  Pretending I didn't see her, I smoothed out the piece of paper. What had attracted my attention was on the back of the paper. My name, handwritten in pencil. This was no flyer. Someone had planned to hand this message to me and me alone.

  I had almost twenty-four hours to wait for my mysterious meeting with the clown, and patience is not one of my virtues. I wanted to know who he was. Did I simply have a secret admirer? Or was there something more sinister involved? I thought of the mutilated bean-bag kitty I received last night and wondered if both incidents had something to do with my investigation of the murders of the sugar plum fairies. I'd know … tomorrow at two.

  After I dropped off my film, a slight gnawing in my tummy let me know the Sweete Toothe Candy Shoppe snack bar was calling.

  While enjoying the house specialty, an old-fashioned chocolate soda made with chocolate ice cream, I thought about poor Luscious, who was in danger of losing his job if he didn't find out who killed Bernice and Oretta. I'd promised to help, but so far I hadn't accomplished much.

  As I slurped up the last of the creamy liquid, I decided the answer could lie with Matavious Clopper, the elusive widower who refused to be interviewed by the police and who hadn't been seen anywhere in town since his wife's death. At the fire scene Friday morning, I'd overheard him blaming himself, saying this was all his fault. I wondered what was his fault … and why? And why hadn't he been home that night? He'd offered no explanation of where he'd been. Since he'd done a disappearing act, I also wondered where I could find him.

  When I stepped out onto the sidewalk, I realized the temperature had dropped considerably in a very short time, and the sky was darker than it should have been for this early in the afternoon. Several people rushed past me, their collars turned up against the wind. I pulled my hood over my head and walked back to the Sigafoos Home where I'd left Garnet's truck.

  I'd decided the logical place to look for Matavious Clopper was at his chiropractic office. Even if he hadn't yet reopened, he might be staying in the old Victorian mansion in the historic district.

  I had to drive past Garnet's home to get there. The large old home where the Gochenauer family had lived since the late 1700s brought back too many memories. It's over, I told myself, you've got to look ahead.

  The street turned partly commercial in the next block. At one time, people had considered the gracious mansions too big for contemporary living and many had been divided into apartments. Now, one housed the VFW Club and another was a bed-and-breakfast.

  The Clopper Chiropractic Clinic was a white Victorian with black shutters, by far the largest house at this en
d of the street, sitting on a low hill fronted by several acres of lawn. It was the kind of grand black-and-white mansion that was often turned into a funeral home in small towns. Most likely, the Lickin Creek Historical Preservation Society had fought that undignified intrusion.

  A small sign on the wrought-iron fence announced there was parking in the rear. Below it hung an even smaller sign that said CLOSED. I circled the block and approached the building through a deserted alley.

  The parking lot behind the business was also deserted. But just because the clinic was closed didn't mean Matavious wasn't in there.

  A brick walkway led to a glassed-in porch, which I entered through an unlocked door, a good sign that Matavious was there, I thought, until I noticed the four mailboxes on the wall, which meant the upstairs had been divided into apartments. He wasn't the only one who used this entrance.

  The clinic door was locked, and although I knocked loudly, no one answered. I decided to try the front door and walked around the house, through the garden.

  I rang the doorbell several times. Because this was Lickin Creek, where people were not as careful about security as New Yorkers, I tried the doorknob. As I thought it might, the door creaked open. This was actually the clinic's back entrance, so most likely it had been years since anybody had thought to check on whether or not it was locked.

  “Hello,” I called, not too loud. “Anybody here?” My voice echoed in the dark hall, and I was sure I was alone.

  As long as I was here and the opportunity was at hand, I decided carpe diem was the motto of the moment. Matavious had to have an appointment book. Perhaps I could find a notation in it that would explain where he was the night his house burned down and his wife was murdered.

  The office, I assumed, would be in the back. Even though I was sure I was alone in the house, I tiptoed down the hall, past the open doors of several treatment rooms, and found the office in what surely had to have been the original kitchen. There was neither a stove nor refrigerator, but the old pine cabinets were still there, probably now holding office supplies.