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  The Watchful Coroner

  Book Six of the Fenway Stevenson Mysteries

  Paul Austin Ardoin

  THE WATCHFUL CORONER

  Copyright © 2020 Paul Austin Ardoin

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-1-949082-20-3

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  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  * * *

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

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  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

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  Edited by Max Christian Hansen and Jess Reynolds

  Cover design by Ziad Ezzat of Feral Creative Colony

  Find information about the author at http://www.paulaustinardoin.com

  For Chris Dehlinger

  Table of Contents

  I. Sunday

  Chapter One

  II. Monday

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  III. Tuesday

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  IV. Wednesday

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  V. Thursday

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  VI. Friday

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Cast of Characters

  Acknowledgments

  Want More Fenway?

  I attempted to rise, but was unable to stir: for, as I happened to lie on my back, I found my arms and legs were strongly fastened on each side to the ground… In a little time, I felt something alive moving on my left leg, which advancing gently forward over my breast, came almost up to my chin; when, bending my eyes downwards as much as I could, I perceived it to be a human creature not six inches high, with a bow and arrow in his hands, and a quiver at his back. In the meantime, I felt forty more of the same kind (as I conjectured) following the first.

  —Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels

  Part One

  Sunday

  Chapter One

  Fenway had always hated this room.

  Odd for a former literature major to hate her father’s library, full of handsome, leather-bound tomes of Western literature. But it smelled strange. Not bad, exactly, but strange.

  She sniffed, hoping Charlotte wouldn’t notice. Slightly tropical, maybe an undercurrent of bleach. Then it hit her. How does a room with so many classics not even smell like books?

  She switched her mimosa to her left hand and ran her finger along the shelf at her shoulder. She closed her eyes for a moment, and the image flashed in her mind: her father lying at her feet, blood pouring from his chest, as the smoke swirled around her and the EMTs burst in—

  She opened her eyes, the image fading. She focused on the shelf in front of her.

  There.

  That book looked like it had been opened some time in the last decade.

  She set the champagne flute on the side table and pulled the book out. Gold lettering on the spine, vellum pages, a weathered leather cover. The book fell open to the first chapter, and an illustration stared back at her.

  Gulliver, tied down by tiny men.

  It was her father.

  “What is it?” Charlotte said, crossing the room and peering over Fenway’s shoulder.

  “Take a look.” Fenway raised the book. “Doesn’t that remind you of Dad?”

  Charlotte recoiled. “Ugh. With the IV drips and oxygen tubes?”

  Fenway winced. “Oh—no. I was thinking of all the Lilliputians swarming all over him like the board of directors trying to keep him down. Before they were indicted, anyway.”

  Charlotte walked away from Fenway and took a long drink of her mimosa.

  Fenway ran her finger lightly over the image. The page was thick and smooth. She wished she knew what to say. “Tiny men trying to bring down a giant,” she muttered, lifting the book back into its place.

  “Don’t put it back,” Charlotte said. “I think he’d like you to read it to him.”

  “This book? I can’t take it to the hospital. It’s got to be a hundred years old.”

  “Books were meant to be read, weren’t they?”

  Fenway nodded.

  The doctors thought Nathaniel Ferris would wake up from the surgery that had removed the bullet lodged near his heart. For the first few days, Fenway had sat at his bedside in silence. She’d perused the medical journals about the positive effects of talking to comatose patients and had seen success when she’d worked in the ER. But she hadn’t uttered a word.

  What would she say? Would she tell him about her first few dates with McVie? Would she discuss the interview process for her new assistant? Maybe McVie’s decision to start his own private investigator firm?

  Then the week of Thanksgiving, she bought a book to which her father had constantly referred: Endless Crude. The insider’s look at the oil industry had spent a few weeks at the top of the bestseller lists and seemed like an anecdote-filled take on the journey from crude to use. She’d sat down at his bedside and read the first few chapters out loud. It wasn’t exactly conversation, but it was something. Fenway was pleasantly surprised that, while filled with jargon, many of the stories were engaging. She even suspected that her father was one of the anonymized players in Chapter Sixteen.

  The first weekend in December, she’d brought The Immorality Amendment Act, a memoir written by a South African comedian who’d been raised by a Black mother and a white father in Johannesburg before the end of apartheid. His parents’ relationship had been illegal, and while many of the stories were hilarious, Fenway had put the book down the day before: she’d gotten to a chapter in which, two weeks apart, his mother had been beaten to death and his father had been shot in the head by his white wife, who didn’t approve of his Black mistress or his intent to attend her funeral.

  Fenway had looked across the book face down on her lap, then raised her eyes to the crisscross of tubes and wires, the sentries of softly-beeping machines, spitting out numbers and flashing yellow lights. The comedian had not been able to visit his own father in the hospital because his skin was the color of Fenway’s. Hadn’t been able to say goodbye.

  “I hope you make it through this,” Fenway had whispered, feeling a tear slide down her cheek.

  Fenway blinked and came back to the present, to her father’s library, stepping over to his grand mahogany desk and setting Gulliver’s Travels down.

  “I think brunch is almost ready,” Charlotte said. “Let’s go see.”

  This early in January, the sun struggled to peek through the clouds even though it was almost noon. The hallway was dim, and Fenway stifled a yawn. She felt odd taking the seat at the head of the table.

  Lemon-ricotta crêpes and croissants with what appeared to be homemade marmalade. “This looks great,” she said, draping the napkin onto her lap and pushing down the plunger of the French press in front of her.

  “I’ll tell Sandrita,” Charlotte said, though her voice was far away. “Oh—I forgot. You like lattes, don’t you? I can ask—”

  “No, please don’t,” Fenway said quickly, realizing that Charlotte hadn’t asked her to brunch at the mansion to be friendly. Something was on Charlotte’s mind.

  “Did you visit your father today?”

  “Yeah,” Fenway said through a mouthful of lemon and ricotta. Oof—this was good. A bite of this might have even been worth whatever Charlotte wanted.

  Charlotte glanced briefly up at Fenway, then her eyes went back down to her plate. “Still reading that oil book?”

  “Endless Crude? No, I finished that a while ago. I’m reading The Immorality Amendment Act.”

  “By that one comedian? The one who grew up in South Africa?”

  Fenway nodded.

  Charlotte chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. “It’s interesting. First you tried to understand him. Then you wanted him to understand you.”

  A flash of annoyance. “I guess.”

  “Did you like Endless Crude?”

  Fenway shrugged. “I didn’t really expect to, but some of the stories were interesting.”

  “Which one was your favorite?” Charlotte’s tone was oddly casual.

  “Hmm. I guess I’d have to say the trend in specialty fuels. All the equipment you need to produce it and how expensive it is if you don’t have things set up. I had n
o idea that some companies literally made their fortune undercutting bigger suppliers just because they could control their systems.” Fenway heard the enthusiasm build in her voice and quickly took another bite of the crêpe to mask it.

  Charlotte laughed. “You know, Nate saw that trend five years before Endless Crude was published. It’s one of the reasons Ferris Energy grew so quickly.” Charlotte set her fork down and rested her chin in her hands, elbows on the table. “Interesting that you both saw the possibilities in that.”

  “Uh… like father, like daughter, I guess.”

  “Maybe it’s more than that.”

  Fenway set her fork down as well. Her stepmother’s eyes keenly took Fenway in. Fenway suddenly felt underdressed: Charlotte’s powder-blue wrap dress looked elegant and professional yet somehow effortless, while Fenway’s half-zip pullover and concert tee were designed for lounging around on a lazy Sunday. “I have a feeling you have something to ask me, Charlotte.”

  “Yes.” Charlotte hesitated. “I need a sounding board.”

  “A what?”

  “A sounding board. I need someone I can trust.”

  “And—you’re asking me?”

  “Yes.”

  Fenway sat up straight, her skin prickling with worry. “You don’t have anyone you can trust? How about the controller? Or one of the company lawyers?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “Look, I didn’t expect to be thrust into the CEO position, and I haven’t spent the years your father did building relationships with the different departments. Or like the board members did while they were all jockeying for position. No one is on my side. And everyone—” She stopped and dropped her hands to her lap. “Everyone is hoping I’ll fail.”

  “You’re doing a great job,” Fenway said.

  “I’m keeping the lights on, which in the current environment is hard enough. But I need to make a lot of tough decisions in the next couple of weeks, and I know myself too well. I’ll be full of self-doubt, second-guessing everything, overthinking every tactical move, seeing threats where none exist. You can keep me on track.”

  Fenway’s eyes widened. “I hardly know anything about the oil industry.”

  Charlotte shrugged. “Nine months ago, you didn’t know anything about being an investigative coroner, but here you are.” She smiled. “And if your interest in specialty fuels is any indication, you’ll be a quick study.”

  Fenway’s jaw tightened.

  “We haven’t always gotten along, but I know you’ll treat me fairly.” Charlotte picked up her fork again. “And you won’t have any problem telling me something I don’t want to hear. You’re no yes-man.”

  Fenway leaned back. She’d wanted to focus on the coroner position now that she was no longer an interim coroner or a coroner-elect. This had the potential to be a huge distraction, not only from her professional goals but from her personal life as well.

  But Charlotte wasn’t asking.

  “Is this a paid position?” Fenway said.

  “You’ll be well-compensated.”

  “I’ll have to see if it’s a conflict of interest with the coroner’s office.”

  “Of course.”

  Fenway folded her arms. “I don’t know about this, Charlotte. Surely someone at Ferris Energy knows more about the business than I do. I can’t just read one book about the industry and expect to give you decent advice.”

  “I can teach you the basics,” Charlotte continued. “I’ve attended enough golf outings and fancy business dinners with your father.” She smiled as she raised her mimosa glass. “He calls me his secret weapon. He’d excuse himself from the table, and then all the dealmakers would discuss business in front of me, thinking I didn’t know what they were talking about—or wasn’t interested enough to care.”

  Fenway set her mouth in a thin line. She hadn’t been the only person who’d underestimated Charlotte. She’d have to say yes.

  She wondered how many more tiny men would try to keep her father down.

  Fenway drove her Accord down the winding road in the darkness, the leather-bound edition of Gulliver’s Travels on the passenger seat. She got onto the freeway and almost passed the San Clemente Street exit before remembering she was going to McVie’s apartment.

  She exited the freeway and drove the six blocks to the neatly maintained but outdated apartment complex, where she found an uncovered visitor’s space.

  Applying her makeup in the rearview mirror, she sighed at the mess her hair had become in the constant drizzle. She put on a dark red lipstick, striking against her light brown skin. Her large eyes needed just a hint of liner and mascara.

  Her stomach rumbled as she exited her car. Ever since her father had caught the bullet for her, she hadn’t had much of an appetite, and she’d only finished half of her crêpes at brunch. She figured she’d lost at least ten pounds the last six weeks.

  Maybe the gurgling was a sign that she was coming out of her funk.

  It helped that she was finally dating McVie openly, now that he’d signed the quickie divorce papers in Vegas so Amy could get married again.

  McVie opened the door, and an easy smile came over his handsome, lightly freckled face. “Hey, Fenway. You made it.”

  “Well, yeah. I said I’d come by after I saw my dad in the hospital.”

  “I know. I wasn’t sure you’d still be up for it. How’s he doing?”

  “No change.”

  McVie shifted his weight. “Sorry to hear it. Have you eaten?”

  Fenway didn’t respond, but a slow grin came over her face.

  “Really? Dos Milagros again?” McVie laughed and shook his head.

  “I think I’m getting my appetite back,” Fenway replied.

  McVie rolled his eyes. “I knew when we started dating that eating at Dos Milagros was part of the price of admission. I didn’t realize it would be so often.”

  “I keep telling you to try the burritos. Just because I get the lengua tacos every time I go there doesn’t mean you have to get tacos too.” Fenway looked out of the corner of her eye at McVie. “Besides, the carnitas are maybe the only disappointing thing on the menu. You really need to get the lengua.”

  McVie made a face.

  “Or the carne asada.”

  “Fine, fine, I’ll have something besides the carnitas,” McVie said. “I can drive.”

  On the short drive to Dos Milagros, Fenway leaned against the passenger side door and looked at McVie in profile. His striking face, square jaw that wasn’t too hard, and kind eyes made a certain type of woman look at him twice when he passed. Not for everyone, maybe, but certainly for Fenway. “So,” she said, “I think I should be your first client.”

  McVie stopped at a red light and turned his head toward Fenway. “Oh, no you don’t. I don’t want to be a pity hire.”

  “It’s not a pity hire. I know you’re a good detective.” She reached across and elbowed him in the ribs. “And I definitely know that Piper is fantastic at what she does. I hope you’re paying her enough.”

  “I’ll pay her more when we get clients.”

  “Well, that’s where I come in.”

  McVie harrumphed. It was almost cute. “What would we be doing for you?”

  Fenway hesitated. She liked McVie—she might even have a real future with him. But she hadn’t discussed what she wanted McVie to investigate yet. She’d wanted to, but something always got in the way. They got interrupted, or they ran out of time, or Fenway decided they needed to make out at the end of the movie instead of talking about her mom.