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 end 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.
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
“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
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.”
