The Reluctant Coroner (Fenway Stevenson Mysteries Book 1) Page 4

  “Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?” Fenway looked at Sergeant Trevino. He was stroking his beard absentmindedly. Fenway caught his eye, and he, too, shrugged.

  “Well, for me, it kinda depends,” Sergeant Roubideaux said. “Some people might like a coroner who’s so well connected. Me, I like a coroner who doesn’t fill out paperwork based on what other people want to hear.”

  Fenway looked at Sergeant Roubideaux, tilted her head a little to the side, and cleared her throat. “My dad and I have barely seen each other for twenty years. I don’t think I’ll be rubber-stamping anything for The Owner, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Roubideaux snorted. Fenway wasn’t sure if the snort was amusement or annoyance. Perhaps it was a little of both. “Even if you’re not rubber-stamping anything, Miss Stevenson, do you have enough experience to navigate these waters? You can’t be much older than Migs.”

  “I’ve been a nurse practitioner for almost five years in Seattle, I’ve studied forensics for the last two years, and I’m a fast learner. You’re right; I don’t have twenty years’ experience, and yeah, this job will probably be over my head at first. But I was under the impression that no one wanted to be appointed for a job they might not keep come November.” Fenway stopped for a second. She didn’t really want to challenge Roubideaux in front of everyone, but knew she needed to strike the right balance between tough and fair. She turned toward the others in the room. “Listen, I don’t want to go into a job where I’m in constant conflict with the team. I know for sure that you’ve investigated a ton more homicides, suicides, and accidental deaths than I have, considering I’ve never investigated a single one outside of my classes.” She looked at Roubideaux again. “If you—or anyone else in the office, for that matter—wants the job, I’ll step aside.”

  “Hell no.” Roubideaux was emphatic. “You couldn’t pay me enough to sit in that office.”

  No one else said anything.

  Sheriff McVie clapped his hands together. “Well, this has been a real treat, but Fenway just arrived in town last night, and needs to get back home to unpack and get settled.”

  “Thanks,” she said with a tight smile. “Nice to meet all of you.”

  “Listen,” Rachel said, “we’re meeting up for happy hour at Winfrey’s right after work. Do you want to come too?”

  “We’re still doing that?” Dez said. “With everything that happened?”

  “I think we should,” said Rachel. “We can drink to his memory. So, Miss Stevenson?”

  “Oh, please call me Fenway.” Fenway looked at McVie who tilted his head to the side, then turned back to Rachel. “I guess, if that would be okay.”

  “Is Piper coming, Migs?” Dez asked.

  “Shut up,” Migs mumbled.

  “Cool,” Rachel said. “You coming too, Mark?”

  “Gotta check with Randy,” Mark said.

  “Oh, come on,” Rachel said. “Isn’t he on tonight?” She turned to Fenway. “Mark’s husband is Pharaoh in Joseph. He absolutely kills ‘King of My Heart.’”

  Fenway thought she saw Mark blush a little.

  “Okay,” Dez said, “she doesn’t even work here yet and already we’re dragging her out drinking. This certainly bodes well, Sheriff.” She winked at Fenway.

  Everyone murmured goodbyes as Fenway and McVie left the coroner’s suite.

  McVie closed the door behind them. “All right?”

  “All right.”

  McVie raised his brow at her. “What did you think?”

  “Small office. Nice enough group of people. Sergeant Roubideaux is certainly, uh, engaging.”

  “Don’t let Dez get to you. She hates everyone.”

  “I don’t know,” Fenway shrugged. “I think she just says what she thinks.”

  McVie let out a chuckle. “If that means she’s a real pain in the ass, I agree. But you did well. Didn’t back down.”

  “Oh, she wasn’t looking to fight me or anything.”

  “That didn’t look like she was getting ready to sing ‘Kum Ba Ya’ around the campfire. Still, I thought you did well with her.”

  The two walked over to Pizzeria Santa Lucia on Fourth Street. At the counter, Fenway ordered a beer—a local pale ale made in Paso Querido. McVie ordered a Spello Special pizza for the two of them, and a Coke for himself.

  “Still on duty, officially.”

  Fenway and the sheriff sat down at one of the smaller tables—smaller, even though it was still a fairly large picnic bench-style table with an inexpensive red-and-white tablecloth.

  “So, Fenway, are you interested?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” Fenway put her hands flat on the table. “The group seems good. Sergeant Trevino was pretty quiet, so I’m not sure I got a good read on him, but Migs, Rachel, and even Sergeant Roubideaux seem like people I can work with.”

  “Do you think you can supervise them?”

  “Well, I guess you know I’ve never supervised anyone before. But I’m a quick study. I’m sure there’s a ‘for Dummies’ book I can buy or something.” She started to take a drink of her beer.

  “You haven’t read your dad’s book on management?”

  She stopped in mid-drink, and then finished her swig before setting the pint glass back on the table.

  “My dad’s book on management,” she repeated, tasting her words.

  “You do know that your dad wrote a book on management, right? Pretty popular. A couple of business schools even teach it.”

  “Of course they do.” Fenway smiled wistfully.

  “So, I take it you don’t know the book?”

  “No.” Fenway tapped her fingers on the side of the pint glass. “Did your bio of me mention that he and I haven’t seen each other for twenty years?”

  “It mentioned that, yes. Still, I thought you might keep up.”

  Fenway shook her head. “Can’t say I do.” She took another drink of the pale ale. “Have you read it? Is it any good?”

  “I bought a copy.”

  They were both silent for a minute. Fenway turned sideways and propped her leg up on the bench. She could feel her calves and hamstrings stretching out. The muscles in her legs were still a little sore from the drive. “So, what does the job entail on a day-to-day basis?”

  “Well, the main thing is investigating any deaths. And by that, I mean deaths that don’t happen in front of doctors or medical staff. Lots of what we call ‘hospice deaths,’ especially because the coast is a nice place to retire to. But any homicide or suicide, you’ll be investigating. Any accidental death, you’ll be investigating. Car crashes, people falling off ladders or roofs putting up their Christmas lights. The sergeants are usually the first on call, and they call you when something weird is up.”

  Fenway put her leg down and squared herself to the table again. “Will I be investigating Mr. Walker’s homicide?”

  The sheriff exhaled loudly and sat back. He put his hands behind his head. Fenway noticed his soft eyes stare off into space for a minute. “We’re going to have you do a few things in particular, just because there’s such a conflict of interest.”

  “Conflict of interest?”

  “Yeah,” McVie said, focusing back on Fenway and resting his arms on the table. “All of the crime scene techs—both here and in San Miguelito county—were working with Walker on something. Open case files, all that stuff, maybe something that points to the reason why he was killed. A lot of the initial investigative work has been put off, like going through Walker’s office.”

  “What do you mean, ‘going through his office’?”

  “Fingerprinting. Looking for missing files or equipment. Stuff like that. I thought I was going to have to maybe bring in a couple of techs from L.A. or something.” McVie smiled at Fenway. “But you’re here now, and you don’t have a conflict of interest.”

  Fenway noticed McVie’s hands, flat on the table. They looked strong. The gold band around his ring finger was the only jewelry on his hands or wrists.
“Would I be working with a homicide investigator?”

  “I’m taking point on this. We’re a small group, and there just aren’t that many people who can investigate homicides.”

  “Mark or Dez aren’t going to take the lead?”

  “Oh.” He shook his head. “No. Not only is there a potential conflict of interest with the files, but investigate the murder of their boss? No. They’d have to interview each other, and lines can get a little blurry. A lot blurry. It’s not a good idea.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice just above a whisper. “Plus, they hated his guts.”

  “Ooh.” Fenway raised her eyebrows and leaned forward too. “Dramatic.”

  A server appeared with their pizza.

  Fenway and McVie reached for a slice at the same time. Their fingers touched. Fenway glanced in McVie’s eyes; a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  “All yours, Sheriff,” she said through a smile.

  “Oh, no, I insist,” he said.

  Fenway took a slice and put it on her plate. He took the next slice over.

  “Why didn’t they like him?” Fenway asked.

  McVie took a bite, but the pizza was hot. He looked comical for a few seconds as he tried to get air in his mouth to cool it down without looking like he was chewing with his mouth open, all the while trying too hard to pretend it wasn’t painful. Fenway caught his eye and started to laugh.

  “I’m trying to show you that I’m down to earth,” McVie said through the mouthful of pizza.

  Fenway shook her head, her curls moving side to side. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, although she thought it was cute. She set the pizza down on her plate to let it cool, and wiped her mouth with her napkin.

  McVie swallowed with effort. “It’s pretty simple, really.” He took a sip of his drink. “He was a micromanager. Told everyone they were doing everything wrong unless it was his idea.” He shook his head. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but I think he especially hated working with Dez and Miguel. He didn’t want to hire either of them, but there was a committee, and they were by far the most qualified.”

  “Ah. Gotta be twice as good for half the respect.”

  “Well.” McVie shifted in his seat, but met Fenway’s eyes. “I wish that weren’t true, but in Walker’s case, it probably was.”

  Fenway nodded.

  “Oh, and I heard an earful when he found out Mark was gay.”

  “The guy sounds like a prince.”

  McVie took another bite of pizza.

  Fenway touched her slice. It had cooled down enough to eat. “You think any of them had something to do with it?” she said before she took her first bite.

  “Me? Well, everyone who worked with Walker needs to be looked at until we establish more facts of the case. I’ve already started with the phone and financial records for the office; see if anyone was calling people they shouldn’t, if anyone was having an affair, if anyone was skimming money.” He took a drink of his Coke. “The memorial service is Friday. I’m going to pay my respects, of course, but if we haven’t made a lot of headway, I’ll also be looking to see who shows up and acts weird.”

  Fenway wiped her hand on her napkin. “So, you still want to appoint me?”

  McVie didn’t miss a beat. “Yes. And honestly, more now, after I’ve met you. I mean, I wish you had more experience managing people.” He smiled warmly. “But you couldn’t possibly be any worse at supervising staff than Walker was. And not only will it be seen as a reasonable choice by the public—someone with medical experience who grew up here—but after talking with you, and seeing you in the office, I think you could do a pretty good job.”

  He took the final bite of his slice and stared thoughtfully into space again. “I expect some people won’t like it, of course. They’ll say it’s nepotism, the daughter of one of the most powerful men in the county.”

  “It is nepotism.”

  McVie shrugged. “If I appointed my daughter it would be nepotism. This is just kind of convenient.”

  Fenway opened her mouth to disagree but thought better of it. She realized it wasn’t really prudent to argue over semantics with the sheriff—particularly if the point she was arguing was going to hurt her chances of being appointed.

  McVie picked up a second slice. “And also, it’s a favor for your dad, and it’s always good to have one of the most powerful men in the county owe you one back.”

  “The Owner.”

  “He does own a lot of stuff.”

  They finished about half of the pizza, and McVie insisted Fenway take it home. “You haven’t been grocery shopping yet. You might need this for dinner tonight. Or breakfast tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.”

  Chapter Four

  Fenway was grateful that McVie offered to go with her to drop off the rental truck. She liked his company, and she liked his easy conversation. McVie waited with her while the paperwork that “will just take a second” took fifteen minutes. She worried that he’d think it was a waste of time, but he cracked jokes and talked about books while they waited. He was a fan of spy novels and political intrigue, which, while not Fenway’s preferred genre, was a lot better than not reading at all.

  After the truck drop-off was finally done, and they were walking back to the cruiser, McVie told Fenway he’d get everything prepped for the appointment at City Hall the next day, and would probably need her in person for the actual form signatures and application info. She put her hand on his shoulder and thanked him. She hoped it came off as genuine as she felt.

  She thought it was all happening fast, but, if she were honest with herself, she could hardly ask for a situation that would be better for her: getting paid—in a relevant field, to boot—while taking care of all her unfinished business.

  He took Fenway back to her new apartment and pulled into her assigned space.

  “It was great to meet you, Miss Stevenson,” he said, shaking her hand and looking in her eyes. “Kind of a whirlwind of a day. Thanks for rolling with it.”

  “Great to meet you too, Sheriff,” she said, nodding before she got out. “Will I see you at happy hour?”

  He shook his head. “That’s kind of a coroner’s office thing, and I’ve got a late night tonight anyway. Know how to get to Winfrey’s?”

  She shook her head.

  “The number 14 bus I was telling you about? Picks you up right in front of the Coffee Bean? Take that. It’s only about four or five stops. The one right after City Hall—it’ll drop you off right across the street. Old Victorian building. They painted it bright aqua. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff.”

  He winked at her. “You’ll do great.” He reversed out of the space and drove off.

  She took the stairs a bit slowly, head swimming with the possibilities of a new job using the forensic techniques she had been learning for the past year and a half. She unlocked her door and was met with the unfamiliar sight of her new apartment—the furniture and kitchen appliances were correctly arranged, and most of the boxes she had carefully packed had disappeared. There were still several boxes near the entrance of her bedroom, labeled Clothes and Office, and she decided that before she did anything else, she’d set up her computer on the bedroom desk.

  She pulled out the cords and cables, lifted the monitor from its box, and had everything powered up in about fifteen minutes. She found Stotsky’s business card on the kitchen counter, and, using the network information on the back, logged into the wi-fi. Within a few minutes, she had the number 14 bus schedule, and was getting two-fifty in change out of her purse. The 4:50 bus would put her at Winfrey’s a few minutes after five.

  ◆◆◆

  The Dominguez Transit buses were newer than the King County Metro buses she often rode in Seattle, although there were far fewer of them—there weren’t even twenty bus routes in the entire county. The bus was about ten minutes late, which meant she would be significantly late to happy hour.

  Even that close to rush hour, thou
gh, the bus wasn’t crowded. She easily found Winfrey’s—the garish aqua color was, as McVie had said, hard to miss. There were only a handful of customers this early, and the coroner’s office team was gathered around the corner of the bar, with a couple of appetizer platters between them. They were all there, even Sergeant Trevino. Rachel caught Fenway’s eye and waved.

  “One more!” she said to the bartender.

  “Hey everyone,” Fenway said. “What are we drinking?”

  “A toast,” Sergeant Trevino said soberly. “Shots of Johnny Walker to remember Harrison Walker.”

  “And it’s Johnny Walker Red,” Dez said, raising her shot, “because he was a cheap bastard.”

  “And because they didn’t have any whiskey called Racist Asshole,” Migs said quietly.

  “Hear, hear,” said Rachel. The bartender gave her the extra shot and she handed it to Fenway.

  They all drank.

  “Was he really that bad,” Fenway said to Dez, making a face at the harsh taste of the cheap scotch, “or are you all just heartless jerks?”

  “Oh, Fenway,” Dez said, putting her arm around her shoulders, “can’t it be both?”

  “You know the plan is for me to be your boss, right?”

  “I’m not worried. We’re union, and you’ll be gone in six months. Have a spring roll.” Dez handed Fenway the roll and laughed. “Seriously, though, you would have hated Walker too. Nothing we did was ever good enough. He wanted to review everything we did.”

  “Especially the legal stuff,” Migs added. “Walker didn’t have a clue about the legality of half the stuff he did. He was always second-guessing me.”

  “The last coroner’s assistant quit,” Rachel said. “She couldn’t handle it.”