The Offside Coroner Read online

  The Offside Coroner

  Book Eight of the Fenway Stevenson Mysteries

  PAUL AUSTIN ARDOIN

  THE OFFSIDE CORONER

  Copyright © 2022 by Paul Austin Ardoin

  Published by Pax Ardsen Books

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN 978-1-949082-38-8

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  For information please visit:

  www.paulaustinardoin.com

  Cover design by Ziad Ezzat of Feral Creative Colony

  feralcreativecolony.com

  In memory of Katie

  Contents

  I. Thursday

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  II. Friday

  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

  III. Saturday

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  IV. Sunday

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  V. Monday

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Cast of Characters

  More by Paul Austin Ardoin

  Acknowledgments

  Part 1

  Thursday

  Chapter One

  Shadows from the candles danced on the white tablecloth. In the dim light, Fenway Stevenson looked across the table at Craig McVie, who smiled easily as he took a sip of wine. Fenway returned her gaze to the two women at the table about ten feet behind his left shoulder.

  He set the wineglass down and searched her face. “What’s going on?”

  McVie cleaned up good, as her mother would have said. His tailored suit fit his muscular body well, the blue in his tie pulling out the color of his eyes. His freckles gave his face a boyish quality, but it was a good look.

  Both women were in profile, sitting across from each other, as the server set salads in front of them.

  “I know you think I won’t attract as much attention as you,” Fenway said, “but I still think you should be on this side of the table.”

  “I had to slip the maître-d’ fifty bucks to sit us here,” McVie murmured, leaning forward. “I’m not screwing it up by looking like a creepy guy taking pictures of two famous women.”

  Fenway gasped.

  McVie’s eyes went wide. “What? What happened?”

  “Annabel.” Fenway leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “She ate a bite of salad.”

  McVie’s shoulders slumped, and he shook his head, the corners of his mouth curving up slightly. “Fine, I deserved that.” He took out his phone, tapped the screen, and handed it to Fenway from across the table. “But we still have a job to do.”

  Fenway glanced at the screen: the camera app. Of course. “This is so gauche,” Fenway said, forcing a smile as she held up the phone.

  “People come to Maxime’s for special occasions all the time. They’re fine with pictures.”

  Fenway pointed the camera phone slightly above her smiling boyfriend’s right shoulder, zooming in on the two women at the table behind him.

  She checked the photo on the screen. It was a clear, in-focus shot of two casually-dressed women having dinner at a nice restaurant. The woman on the left was in her mid-thirties and had high cheekbones and a smooth, luminous complexion, with skin dark enough that she, like Fenway, might also be half-Black. Even sitting, the woman looked tall—possibly even taller than Fenway.

  “Well?”

  “They’re eating,” Fenway said in a low voice. “Not staring longingly into each other’s eyes, not making kissy-faces—”

  “Take a couple more,” McVie said.

  Fenway raised the phone and tapped the screen again.

  The young woman on the right looked to be in her early twenties, with brown hair brushing the tops of her shoulders, large green eyes, and a pale, freckled complexion. She wore dark jeans and a billowy cream-colored blouse. But with folded arms, her demeanor, unlike her dinner companion’s, was hardly relaxed.

  Fenway handed the phone back to McVie and spoke in low tones. “If Annabel and Maggie are having an affair, they’re having a fight.” She glanced quickly at the younger woman, who pursed her lips while looking across the table.

  “A lovers’ quarrel?”

  “Maybe.” Fenway squinted. “Mathilda could be wrong, you know. This might just be a fight about their soccer team.”

  McVie chuckled. “And how can you tell the difference?”

  “I don’t know. The start of training camp can be tough. Annabel’s at the end of her career. Maggie’s the next big thing. Maybe Annabel’s trying to give Maggie the benefit of her experience and Maggie’s being an arrogant prick.”

  “More photos,” McVie said, handing the phone back.

  Fenway cocked her head, a smile playing on her lips.

  “Please,” McVie finished.

  “Sure.” Fenway took the phone and snapped another photo. She always enjoyed any excuse to eat at Maxime’s, but the specter of McVie’s assignment hung oppressively over the table. Why did Mathilda Montague hire McVie, anyway? She’d read the “50 Most Powerful Women” articles—surely Montague had a security detail to follow her wife around.

  McVie cocked his head. “Is there anything suggesting they’re involved?” He was tenacious; that much was clear. And perhaps that’s what Mathilda Montague wanted: a bulldog private eye Annabel wouldn’t recognize so she’d let her guard down.

  “They’re two athletes going out to dinner.” Fenway handed the phone back. “Even if they are sleeping together, they probably know better than to show it in a place like this.”

  McVie placed the phone above Fenway’s place setting. “Why don’t you hang onto this? If they do anything—”

  “Unless she wants thirty pictures of her wife eating lettuce, there’s nothing to see.”

  “Not yet, maybe.” McVie leaned back. “I wish I could hear their conversation.”

  “They’re not talking,” Fenway said. She leaned forward and smiled. “We could use this time to pretend that you and I are on an actual date.”

  McVie grinned. “Of course.”

  Fenway sat back in her chair. “You know, we haven’t done a whole lot since I—since I got back from L.A.” She ran a hand over her head; her hair was finally starting to grow back. “Dinner every so often, and I stay over a lot, but we haven’t even been to a movie or gone out dancing.”

  “We went to Magic Mountain for the weekend.” McVie chuckled. “And you like roller coasters way more than I do.” His face pinched slightly. “But I know what you mean. I’ve been swamped with the demands of the business.” He looked up at her. “And I figured you needed the break. You do look more rested since you got back.”

  Fenway scoffed. “After what I went through? There was only one way to go.” And even before she’d been accused of murder in L.A.: the car bomb that had almost killed her, her father jumping in front of a bullet meant for her—Fenway looked down at the table.

  “I just meant,” McVie said quickly, “that it’s good to see you happier.” He motioned to the table behind him with his head. “Maybe I could whisk you away to Vegas and take you to a Neons game.”

  “Also on your client’s dime?” Fenway picked up her fork and examined it, then set it back down. “Have you heard any rumors about the Neons?”

  McVie sat up straight. “Like what?”

  “Like—if they’re for sale?”

  He picked up his wineglass and took a small sip. “Are you suggesting my client might want to buy the Neons, and that’s why she’s having me—”

  “Not her,” Fenway said. “Dad.”

  McVie set his glass down. “Nathaniel Ferris—buying the Las Vegas Neons?”

  Fenway cleared her throat. “Okay—my dad has been asking me about owning a sports team.” She leaned forward. “At first, I just laughed—I mean, he’s rich, but all the baseball and basketball teams are way out of his price range. But now—well, with the Neons holding training camp here, I realized he might be talking about a team in the AFF.”

  “He wants to own a women’s soccer team?”

  Fenway shrugged. “Ever since Ferris Energy sold, he hasn’t had a lot to do. I think he’s romanticizing team ownership, but I understand the appeal.” Fenway gave McVie a half-smile. “He likes being a big fish in a small pond. If he bought the Vegas Neons, he’d be the biggest fish in the league.”

  The server brought their entrees, a large steak for McVie and seared scallops for Fenway, who widened her eyes as the dish was placed in front of her.

  “Lovely,” Fenway murmured.

  “I’m glad you finally fi
gured out Maxime’s has other things on the menu besides pheasant.”

  “Perhaps one day,” Fenway said, a wry smile crossing her face as she picked up her fork and knife, “I’ll be adventurous as you are.”

  McVie stared at his bone-in ribeye. “Are you saying—”

  “You get the same steak every time we come here? Yes.” Fenway put a scallop in her mouth and chewed. Buttery, garlicky, fantastic.

  McVie picked up his fork. “Besides your dad’s sudden interest in women’s soccer, have you heard anything else that makes you think the Neons are for sale?”

  Fenway swallowed. “No. But after Sandra Christchurch’s husband passed away, there’s been talk that her heart isn’t in it anymore.” She lifted a forkful of potato to her mouth. “Plus, with those two behind you on the team—this is the year to sell high. Annabel Shedd is still on cereal boxes.”

  Fenway ate a few more bites as she kept one eye on the table behind McVie. Maggie Erskine was withdrawing more and more into herself. She hadn’t taken a bite of food in several minutes. Annabel leaned forward, talking, but Maggie crossed her arms and didn’t meet Annabel’s eyes. Hmm—maybe this was a conversation about their relationship.

  “What’s going on?” McVie asked in a low voice.

  “It looks like Annabel is telling Maggie something she doesn’t want to hear,” Fenway said. “Maybe Maggie is being an asshole.”

  Annabel stopped talking, set her fork down with a sigh, and got up from the table.

  “Oh—she’s leaving the table.”

  “Who? Maggie or—”

  “Shh!” Fenway hushed sharply. Annabel walked quickly past their table, her footsteps solid, shoulders tense as she ran a hand over her face and exhaled slowly.

  “Excuse me,” Fenway said, shoving another scallop into her mouth. Ooh—it was delicious. Maybe even better than the pheasant. “I need to go to the restroom.”

  McVie reached across the table and took Fenway’s hand. “Don’t make it obvious you’re following her.”

  Fenway gave McVie a sly smile. “It’ll look like I want her autograph.” She pushed her chair back and stood. She hated to leave at the beginning of the meal—hopefully her food wouldn’t be cold when she got back.

  She wound her way between the tables to the back, where she ducked into a hallway with a subtle and elegant “Rest Rooms” sign. Annabel stood halfway down the hall with her back to Fenway, about ten steps past the door to the women’s restroom.

  “I swear, if you don’t do something about Maggie and that monster, I will,” Annabel hissed into her cell phone. Fenway barely heard Annabel’s words, but fortunately, the hallway’s plush carpet deadened the noise coming from the dining room. She walked as slowly as she dared toward the women’s restroom, then opened the door quietly. She didn’t think Annabel noticed—and that was good. She wouldn’t have to pretend to be a fan who followed her into the restroom.

  Once inside, Fenway paused, listening carefully. The door was too thick to make out anything Annabel was saying in the hallway. She turned the corner, finding a large, comfortable area with marble sinks with elegant brass fixtures on the right side and a row of stalls with dark wooden doors on the left.

  Fenway had left her purse on her chair: a rookie mistake. She couldn’t pretend to be fixing her makeup. She took a deep breath and turned to the mirror.

  McVie was right: In the two months since Fenway had cleared her name, she looked happier. Less exhausted, anyway. The bags under her eyes were almost completely gone. Of course, it helped that her workload had been light for the last eight weeks.

  And she and McVie were having fun—and maybe more than that. They’d gone away for the weekend—yes, only to Magic Mountain for a couple of days, but she hadn’t gone on a vacation with a boyfriend for—well, she couldn’t say for sure she’d ever done it. She smiled at her reflection. Her hair, finally getting long enough to style a little, was behaving exceptionally well. She hoped McVie wouldn’t have his mind on his client too much tonight.

  The door opened.

  Fenway stepped forward to the sink and washed her hands as Annabel walked in. Fenway stole a glance as the soccer star stood next to her, lips pursed, her eyes staring daggers at her own reflection.

  Fenway cleared her throat. “Hey, I’m sorry, I know you’re out to dinner and all, but—you’re Annabel Shedd, aren’t you?”

  Shedd startled and seemed to notice Fenway for the first time. “Oh—uh, yes.”

  “I watched you score the winning goal in the World Cup. You’re fantastic.”

  A tired smile crossed Shedd’s face. “Thanks.”

  “Not often we get celebrities all the way up in Estancia.”

  “Sure,” Shedd said easily. “The Neons have their training camp over at the university this year.”

  “Oh, Nidever University, right? I think I remember reading about that.” Fenway gave Shedd what she hoped was a warm smile, then went for the kill. “This is such a romantic restaurant, isn’t it?”

  Annabel furrowed her brow. “Is it?”

  “Well—I’m here with my boyfriend. Hasn’t taken me anywhere in a while, so I think a place like this is his way of making it up to me.”

  “I hope you’re enjoying your night. Always nice to meet a fan.” She turned and went into a stall, signaling the end of the conversation.

  Fenway took a paper towel and dried her hands. She’d been hoping to get some kind of reaction with the romantic restaurant comment. Maybe Annabel would be startled that dinner with Maggie might be seen as romance. But no, Annabel hadn’t been flustered at all. No information.

  Perhaps Annabel was thinking of something else: If you don’t do something about Maggie and that monster, I will.

  It’s possible that Maggie had a problematic ex, or maybe a stalker. Or maybe Annabel was trying to convince Maggie to get out of an abusive relationship. Fenway’s shoulders were tight as she walked out of the restroom.

  She walked back through the main dining room. Maggie slumped forward with her elbows on the table, not touching her food. Fenway sat and looked at McVie’s plate; his enormous steak was half-eaten. Fenway scooted in and ate another scallop. It was, fortunately, still warm.

  “Well?”

  Fenway chewed and swallowed, then leaned forward, her voice low. “Annabel was on the phone. She said something about keeping Maggie away from ‘that monster,’ and said she’d do it herself if she had to.”

  McVie pursed his lips. “Not exactly a smoking gun for their affair.”

  “No.” Fenway took another bite. “And when Annabel came into the bathroom, I gushed about Maxime’s being a romantic restaurant. Hoping to get some sort of indication one way or the other.”

  “Like a guilty reaction?”

  “Right. I was hoping she’d react like she’d been caught cheating with Maggie.” Fenway crinkled her nose. “But that was a no-go. She acted surprised that it was considered romantic, then wished me a good evening.”

  McVie scratched his chin. “That doesn’t help either way. I don’t know—Matilda is convinced Annabel is having an affair.”

  Fenway frowned. “Does she think Annabel is cheating on her with Maggie specifically, or was it a feeling she was sleeping with someone else?”

  “She mentioned Maggie specifically.”

  “If Annabel is trying to get Maggie out of a bad situation,” Fenway said, “I can see how it might look like an affair. How a spouse hundreds of miles away might get the wrong idea.” Fenway put another bite of food on her fork and stared at it for a moment. She used to be like Montague too, she was sure. Jealous. Insecure about all the relationships she’d ever been in, even friendships. For a long time, it had been Fenway and her mom against the world, and Fenway didn’t trust anyone to look out for her.