A receptionist's desk faced the door, so I approached it from the back and had a good view of a well-tended plant, a ceramic snowman, and several photographs of a smiling man and two school-age children. Tinsel and strings of tiny white lights surrounded the windows and the door frame. And a real tree stood in one corner, covered with Christmas cards. I looked at a few of them; they all seemed to be from satisfied patients.
Good! No computer on the desk meant the receptionist probably kept an old-fashioned, handwritten appointment book. Her desk wasn't locked, of course. After all, this was Lickin Creek, where locking your door was considered an act of antisocial behavior! In the top drawer, I found what I was looking for.
I took the leather-bound book over to the window where there was more light, and opened it to Thursday, December 19, the night of the fire, and was disappointed not to find any mention of an evening engagement. When I turned to the next day, December 20, I was surprised to see that no appointments had been scheduled.
Most likely there's a good reason for that, I thought. Fridays could be the doctor's regular day off. But when I looked back at the past weeks, I saw that Fridays were especially busy days, with appointments scheduled until late in the evening.
Matavious's down day was Wednesday. A picture crossed my mind of a tipsy Bernice weaving her way down the center aisle of the church and complaining to Matavious about her back—and Matavious saying that he was always closed on Wednesday afternoons—and Bernice saying, “But you were in there. I heard you moving around.”
If he'd been closed on Wednesday, why had he also shut his office down again on Friday?
I noticed a car pulling into the parking lot, and I stepped back, away from the window. Probably one of the upstairs tenants, I guessed, but even so, I didn't want to be caught snooping through the office. I placed the appointment book back in the desk and closed the drawer. The footsteps were coming up the walk. I heard voices, one male and one female, on the porch. And the sound of a key in a lock.
Holy cow, they were coming in here! As I backed into the hallway, I heard the door open. No time to get out. I ducked into the first treatment room. Saw a door. Opened it and darted inside. Right into a supply closet with no other exit. I sank down on a pile of sheets, drew my knees up to my chin, and attempted to make myself invisible.
Something clicked, and light streamed through the crack between the door and the threshold. They'd come into this room. I was afraid to breathe for fear they'd hear me. I'd stirred up some dust when I ran inside the closet, and it was tickling my nose. I pressed my finger against my upper lip. This was not the time for sneezes!
Who were they? Did they know I was here? What on earth would I say if they opened the door?
All I could do was sit still among the mop buckets, brooms, sheets, and towels, and listen to what was going on. Something dropped softly to the floor, followed by whisperings, silky rustles, and finally several loud clumps. Then there were some other unidentifiable sounds. I didn't want to imagine what was happening out there.
A woman's voice gasped, “Oh, Mat, now … now!” I had a pretty good idea of what they were up to, and what Bernice must have heard on Wednesday when she had attempted to get in to see Matavious. I cringed with embarrassment and tried to do the Victorian thing of thinking of England, or something. Anything but what they were doing.
The examining table creaked. My face burned as I heard the unmistakable sounds of mounting passion: slurping kisses, moans, and rattles from the table. I was glad I couldn't see them; Matavious doing the nasty wasn't even an attractive thing to imagine.
Matavious paused in whatever he was doing to ask, “Debbie, where are the … you know?”
He didn't even want to say condom! What a guy.
“In my desk. Middle drawer.”
“I'll get one.” More rattles and groans from the table and the patter of bare feet on the wood floor.
She'd said my desk, so apparently Matavious was getting it on with his receptionist.
He returned in less than a minute. And I had to endure more of the kissy sounds. Lots more.
The mood changed suddenly, as the woman exclaimed angrily, “Damn it, Mat, what's wrong with you?”
“I don't know.” Matavious sounded miserable. “I just can't seem to—”
“You'd better get yourself a prescription for Viagra!”
“Debbie … I can't help it. I keep thinking about Oretta.”
“That's just great! The woman's dead, and she's still messing things up between us. I thought now she's gone, I could get a divorce and we'd get married.”
“It's too soon to think of that.”
“Too soon? After the years I've given you? Mat, you are a real SOB.”
“If we hadn't gone away together that night, Oretta would still be alive. I don't know if I could marry you now, feeling that guilt.”
The sharp crack I heard next had to be a slap.
“Ow,” Matavious yelled. Something crashed on the floor and shattered. “Damn it, Debbie, you broke the massage oil. It'll stain the floor.”
Before I realized what was happening, the closet door burst open, and a tall, skinny, naked man was staring at me with a horrified expression that would have been funny if it hadn't been directed at me. I could only imagine what I looked like to him.
The next moments, as I came out of the supply closet, were a blur. Matavious grabbing a towel and covering himself. The woman pulling on slacks and a sweater. Matavious looking for his glasses. The woman jamming her feet into her boots. Me looking in vain for a nonexistent escape route. Me finally slumping into a chair and waiting for the consequences.
“Call the police,” the Debbie-woman screamed at Matavious.
“But, darling, we don't want people to know about us.”
I breathed a little more easily. He had his reputation to lose if this got out. Maybe I'd be okay.
She glared at me, seized her purse, and slammed out of the room.
Matavious made his towel more secure around his waist. “Tori Miracle! What the hell are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“I was looking for you. The front door wasn't locked, so I came in, thinking you were here.”
“And why were you in my closet?” He'd calmed down a little. Maybe I'd get away with it.
“I thought it was the way out. By the time I realized I was in a closet, you started—well, you know—and I was too embarrassed to come out.”
He scratched his head, but he was smiling a little. I was winning him over, I thought.
“Why were you looking for me?” He sucked in his stomach. Now I knew I'd won him over.
“I only wanted to ask you some questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“About where you were the night your wife died. But I don't have to. You were with her, weren't you?” I pointed at the little pile of ladies’ underwear Debbie hadn't had time to put back on.
He turned red all the way down to his towel and tried with one foot to push the silky pink things underneath the examining table.
“Were you going to ask your wife for a divorce?” I figured the best defense for my bad behavior would be to go on the offense.
He glanced toward the door and lowered his voice. “No,” he said firmly. “I had no intention of divorcing Oretta.”
“And what did your girlfriend think of that?”
“I'll answer that,” Debbie said from the doorway. “She didn't know. She trusted him. She was ready to give up her husband and children for him. That's what his girlfriend thought!” She threw Matavious a look that would probably reappear in his nightmares for years to come. “I could kill you.”
“Aw, Debbie …”
“Maybe I'd better go,” I said.
“Like hell you will,” Debbie said. “I called the police.”
Matavious blanched. “I told you not to.”
“And why should I care what you say?”
Caught between them, I was almost rel
ieved when the police, in the person of Afton Finkey, arrived.
To give Afton credit, he didn't even crack a smile as he listened to the naked man and the half-dressed woman complain about me.
When they were through, he said, “Come on, Tori. I've got to take you down to the station.”
I tried a little humor. “Are you going to put me in leg irons?”
He still didn't crack a smile, and I was beginning to realize he was taking this seriously.
He didn't even talk to me in the police car.
Leaving the cruiser by the gas pump, he led me through Hoopengartner's Garage office, into the back room where the Lickin Creek Police Department was located.
Luscious looked up from the army-surplus desk, shook his head in despair, and said, “Tori, I know I asked for your help, but I didn't think you'd do something like this!”
The next hour was really dreadful. Luscious actually took me to the old Pizza Hut building where Judge Fet-terhoff had temporary offices until the courthouse was rebuilt. After a long wait, the judge listened to Luscious file a complaint against me, a court date was set, and I was released on my own recognizance. But not before the judge looked sternly at me over his half-moon glasses and said, “I've been hearing a lot of stories about you bothering people, young lady. I hope this puts a stop to it.”
In the waiting room I asked, “Can I make my one phone call now?”
Still no smile from Luscious. “You're not under arrest.
You can make all the phone calls you want—if you've got enough quarters.”
“What about my truck? I left it at Matavious's office.”
“I don't want you'uns going anywhere near his office, Tori. Give me the key. I'll fetch it later.”
I placed a call to Maggie Roy and shivered in the dark parking lot until she arrived.
CHAPTER 18
Still proceeding
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE NOW?” MAGGIE asked, once I was belted into the front seat of her car.
“You might say I was caught somewhere I wasn't supposed to be.”
Maggie gasped. “You were trespassing?”
“That's what the judge called it. He also charged me with breaking and entering.” I described my ridiculous adventure to Maggie.
When I was through, she said, “There are two things you need to keep in mind about Lickin Creek, Tori. First, the Lickin Creek Grapevine spreads gossip faster than the speed of light, so you can't do anything wrong and not expect to get caught.”
“I am fully aware that the news of my arrest is spreading through town, even as we speak,” I said.
Maggie laughed. “Not to mention what the gossips are saying about Matavious's affair with his married receptionist. The other thing you have to be aware of is the extent of the old boys’ network. All those good old boys who are descendants of the town's founders.” She glanced sideways at me. “Like Judge Fetterhoff and Matavious Clopper and—”
“Let me guess … Stanley Roadcap.”
Maggie nodded. “Yup. And Marvin Bumbaugh, of course. Even Jackson Clopper. They stick together against outsiders, Tori, no matter what they think of each other.”
“When you say outsiders, you mean me, don't you?”
“Right. You've upset a lot of important people in the past few days. They aren't going to let you get away with it.” She giggled and changed the subject abruptly. “Now, tell me what Matavious looks like naked.”
“You really don't want to go there, Maggie.” I tried to speak flippantly, but I was concerned. Not only had I angered the old boys’ network, but someone was scared enough about what I'd been doing to leave the bean-bag cat on my door as a threat. Was it one of them? I was quiet for the rest of the short drive home.
“Here we are,” Maggie said cheerfully. “Going to offer me a cuppa coffee?”
“Isn't Bill waiting for you?” I asked ungraciously. I really wanted to be alone with my thoughts.
“He left for the Poconos right after the parade. To set up a Christmas reenactment camp. I'm going to join him there on Christmas Eve, if the weather holds out.”
“Then please come in.” A cup of coffee was the least I could do to show my appreciation for her driving me home.
As we stepped into the warm kitchen, Noel came over to rub against my legs. I bent over to pat her and whispered, “Did Fred come home?”
I knew he hadn't. If he was home he'd be at the door to greet me.
A delicious aroma tantalized my nose. “What smells so good?” I asked Praxythea, who was once again in her domestic goddess role.
She looked up from dipping a piece of white cheesecloth in a bowl and said, “I baked my fruitcakes this morning.” She wrapped one of three loaves in a brandy-soaked cheesecloth, laid several slices of apple on top, and wound aluminum foil around the whole thing.
“Brandy?” Maggie asked.
Praxythea nodded. “Sometimes I use rum.”
“It's her old family recipe,” I said to Maggie, as I filled two mugs from the pot of coffee on the back of the stove.
“I never liked fruitcake very much,” Maggie said. “Heard too many jokes about using them for doorstops.”
“You'll like mine,” Praxythea said, not at all insulted. “Even people who don't care for fruitcake rave about it.”
I flipped through the day's mail. Christmas catalogs were still coming in. Who was disorganized enough to order gifts four days before Christmas?
“Anything interesting?” Maggie asked.
I shook my head and burned my tongue with the big gulp of coffee I took to hide my distress. The counterirritant was a good remedy for self-pity.
Praxythea handed me a plate of her homemade crescent cookies, saying, “The powdered sugar will cool your mouth.”
It did, and I ate several, vowing to restart my diet immediately after Christmas.
At Maggie's insistence, I once again told of my afternoon's adventures. Praxythea listened with a bemused look, which turned to a small frown when Maggie told her about my having rankled the members of the old boys’ network.
“I can't help worrying,” Praxythea said. “I thought all day about that nasty stuffed cat. Someone is out to frighten you away.”
“Or worse,” Maggie said.
“Thanks to both of you for making me feel so good,” I grumbled. “Does your psychic power tell you who that someone is?” I asked Praxythea.
“That's not the kind of thing I do,” she said. Before I could make a snide remark, she added, “But why don't we look at what we know and try to figure it out?”
“Good idea.” Maggie jumped to her feet. “Got some paper? I'll make notes.”
It wasn't a bad idea, I thought. Two heads (or in this case three) are usually better than one, and I've always found that talking something out helps me focus in on what's important. I found a yellow legal pad in the drawer near the phone and handed it to Maggie.
“Okay,” I said. “Who wants to start?”
“You're the one who's been doing all the snooping,” Maggie said with pencil poised. “Tell us what you've found out.”
“We know that Bernice and Oretta were murdered,” I said.
They nodded.
“What we don't know is if they were murdered by one person or by two.”
“I'm betting on one,” Maggie said. “This is a small town. It's hard enough to imagine a murderer on the loose, much less two.”
“Strong, strong vibrations tell me both murders were done by the same person.” Praxythea finished wrapping the last of her fruitcakes and daintily wiped her fingers on a paper napkin.
I went on. “We do know Bernice was poisoned, most likely by cyanide, and—”
“What makes you think it was cyanide?” Maggie asked.
“Certain obvious signs. Her color, the smell, the speed with which it killed her. I've asked Luscious to have the lab check for it. And we know Oretta was shot, but the gun has disappeared. It would help to know what weapon was used.”
I t
hought for a minute. “The disemboweled cat with its attached threatening note tells me the murderer is frightened of me. It means I'm getting close to the killer, even if I don't know yet what it is I know.
“Although I've talked to a lot of people, I can't see that I've learned anything. The boyfriend, VeeKay Kaltenbaugh, appears to be a logical suspect, at least in Bernice's death, but all I can tell you about him is that he's very rich and that his rehab romance with Bernice was on the skids.”
Maggie said as she wrote on the legal pad, “VeeKay Kaltenbaugh. Could have killed Bernice in a fit of passionate rage over their relationship breaking up.”
I repressed a grin at Maggie's efforts to solve the crime. VeeKay didn't look like the kind of man who'd get excited over much of anything except his restaurant and maybe his muscles, and although I'd seen little of Bernice she didn't strike me as a woman who could inspire passionate rage in anybody. Hiding my skepticism, I continued.
“Stanley Roadcap said he loved Bernice and was trying to save his marriage—”
“That's what he says,” Maggie interrupted. “How do you know he's telling the truth?”
“For now, that's all I have to go on,” I pointed out.
Maggie licked her pencil and wrote Stanley Roadcap's name. “I'll just put ditto marks under what I put for VeeKay.”
“I guess that's all right.” If we agreed that Bernice was capable of inspiring passionate rage in one man, then why not two? Or maybe even five or six? Who knows what kind of temptress lurked beneath that boozy, middle-aged exterior? “However,” I pointed out, “neither Stanley nor VeeKay had a motive to kill Oretta, and we've practically decided both women were killed by the same person.”
“I could be wrong about that,” Praxythea said.
“You? Admitting you're wrong? I'm amazed.”
“No need to be sarcastic, Tori. I sometimes get interfering vibrations that can cloud an issue. How about some more cookies?”
I was surprised to notice the plate was empty. I couldn't possibly have eaten them all, or had I?
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