The Reluctant Coroner (Fenway Stevenson Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  Rachel was silent.

  “The county has a good health plan, right? You can see someone. Like a therapist. I bet it would help to talk to someone about this.”

  “Maybe.”

  Fenway shook her head. “No, not maybe. You need to talk to someone about this. A professional someone.”

  “Maybe,” she repeated.

  Fenway didn’t know what to do. She knew they had come to the end of the conversation, and Fenway had given her useful advice—although Rachel might ignore it—but she wasn’t sure she should just leave her.

  Fenway reasoned with herself that they really didn’t know each other; they had just met that day, after all, and Fenway now knew one of Rachel’s secrets that she hadn’t told anyone else—not her husband, not her family, not a single one of her friends.

  “Okay, well, I guess I should probably get going.”

  “I’m sorry, Fenway,” Rachel apologized, again. “I don’t know why I told you all that.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” Fenway said firmly. “And if you need to talk to anyone about it some more, you can talk to me.” She grabbed a pen and a notepad off the coffee table. “Here,” she said, scrawling her cell phone number on the notepad. “Any time you need to talk.” She handed it to Rachel, who took it gently.

  Fenway walked to the door. “I mean it. Any time.”

  “Okay.” Rachel walked her out onto the front step. “Okay.”

  Rachel went back inside and closed the door.

  Fenway hadn’t called a taxi or an Uber. She pulled up her address on the map on her phone and saw it was only two miles to her apartment. She decided to walk back, thinking it might clear her head.

  Fenway started walking out towards Broadway. She tried very hard not to think about her old Russian Lit professor, but he was all she could think about. She wondered what would have happened if she had owned a Smith & Wesson Model 41 back then; how it might have felt in her hand, how it might have felt to shoot him in the back on a deserted country road, how good it would have felt to see him dead at her feet.

  Fenway shook her head and kept walking.

  She was home a half hour later, just as the sun was setting. She was emotionally drained, but the crisp air energized her.

  She went into her closet and looked through a few of the boxes. She found the box with several of her mother’s paintings and looked for the one of the butterfly grove. She wanted to see how her mother saw the ocean; her confident brush strokes, the bold use of reds and oranges, and from it, Fenway wanted to know that she was strong enough. Strong enough to investigate Harrison Walker’s murder and hear Rachel’s story. She wanted to believe she could do it, but all she could think of was her old Russian Lit professor, who outweighed her by eighty pounds, on top of her in his office.

  She remembered that night, leaving his office when it was over, trying not to cry in front of him, not even hearing the saccharine compliments he was giving her, and running out into the plaza between the English department offices and the library. Her phone rang when she was crossing the Western Washington campus back to her dorm, and she had pulled her phone out of her purse—she hadn’t remembered taking her purse, but was glad she had—and saw Mom on the screen. Her mother was the exact person she needed to talk to, but she couldn’t bring herself to take the call. It went to voicemail.

  She threw everything on her bed when she reached her dorm room, grabbed a towel and her toiletries, a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, and, even though it was five-thirty in the afternoon, walked quickly down the hall into the showers. She turned the water on as hot as she could and pulled the curtain around the stall and used the rest of the bar of soap scrubbing herself. She stood under the showerhead, and she only vaguely realized the hot water wasn’t good for her hair; she’d have to use her avocado oil and shea butter and maybe a wrap that night. She thought of how no one would ever believe her, and how her friends would wonder why she wasn’t at dinner, and her mother would worry why she didn’t call back. And she had leaned her back against the tile, still cool to the touch, and had slid down until she was sitting on the floor, and she had sobbed, trying to be quiet so that no one would hear her and ask what was wrong.

  She went through all of the paintings in the box before she realized that the one she wanted was in storage back in Seattle.

  Fenway stood up and sighed. She eyed all the other boxes, some with clothes, one with books, one with linens, and decided to start unpacking. After working for a while, she had some grandiose thoughts of making herself something for dinner, but after going into the kitchen, she realized she didn’t have any food in the house except the leftover pizza.

  It was dark—a few minutes past eight-thirty—but she decided to walk down to the corner where the Coffee Bean was. Once there, she looked down to the right and saw a burrito place. She headed in and got a veggie burrito before strolling back toward home. She passed a liquor store on the way back and grabbed a six-pack of a beer brewed by the same company as the one she had at lunch. She made it back to her apartment before the burrito lost its heat, and cracked open one of the beers. She drank a second beer as she unpacked the boxes of clothes and books.

  Fenway kept working until every box was unpacked, and by then it was a little bit past ten-thirty. Three of her mother’s paintings were hanging on the walls. Her toiletries and cosmetics were in the bathroom, and her clothes were hung up in the closet and folded in her drawers.

  Her phone rang just as she was breaking down the last moving box. She hoped it wasn’t her father. She saw McVie’s name flash on her screen and eagerly picked it up.

  “Hey, Sheriff,” she said, a little too much enthusiasm in her voice.

  “Hey, Fenway,” he said. “Am I calling too late?”

  “Nope. Just finished unpacking.”

  He asked if she could be at city hall at seven-thirty the next morning to answer questions in front of the Dominguez County board of supervisors.

  Fenway felt a pang of disappointment that he was calling about business—but then, she reasoned, why else would he be calling? “7:30? That’s pretty early.”

  “Most of the people on the board have day jobs. They need to get this done and still be at work by 8:30 or 9.”

  She drained her second beer. She had taken too long to drink it and it was warm. “So, what’s the story with meeting the board? Is it like a Senate Confirmation Hearing? Will I get grilled on my views on digital forensic tools?”

  McVie laughed. “Well, not really. They don’t actually have to confirm you, and they don’t actually have veto power. It’s totally left to my discretion. But any time we have any city position that is an appointment, it’s been tradition to give them a chance to meet with you and ask questions.”

  “Kind of like how the British Prime Minister meets with the Queen.”

  “I guess.”

  Fenway paused. “Do I need to be worried?”

  “I don’t think so. I just want to prep you a little bit.”

  “All right,” she said. “What kind of prep do we need to do?”

  She could hear McVie start to choose his words deliberately. “I’m going to let you know which councilmembers are particularly wary of your dad. I can probably guess a couple of the questions you might get.”

  “Okay.”

  “And just to make sure—earlier it sounded like you were leaning toward accepting the appointment. You still leaning that way?”

  “I know I was a little hesitant at first, but I’m actually kind of excited about it now.” Fenway set the bottle next to the other one in the recycle bin.

  “Well, it’ll certainly make it easier to appoint you if you want to do it.”

  They made small talk for a few minutes, and Fenway found herself laughing at McVie’s jokes—and he laughed at hers, too. She agreed to meet him for an early breakfast so they could go over the potential questions from the council. Jack and Jill’s opened at six.

  Fenway hit End on her mobile and sat staring at
her phone. She craved her mother’s advice. Was taking the coroner position the right thing to do? It was the path of least resistance, and she really felt comfortable with McVie, but it put her in the direct path of her father’s influence.

  Fenway thought that there was something she needed to uncover about Rachel’s story, too. Many of the pieces fit together, but the USB sticks still bothered her. Rachel put one where her husband could easily find it; did he see Walker try to rape Rachel on video, and did he do something about it? Did Rachel tell someone else? Someone might have followed Walker to the office that night and seen it all firsthand. Fenway also thought there were more security cameras in that building than just the small webcam that Rachel had set up—a security camera might have seen it all and more.

  She turned her PC on and did about an hour of research on the board of supervisors, the previous county coroners, the previous meeting minutes—she wanted to be as prepared as she could be with less than twelve hours’ notice.

  After shutting down, Fenway got ready for bed. As she brushed her teeth, she thought she’d have trouble sleeping after her talk with Rachel, and after finding out she’d have to get grilled in front of the board of supervisors the following morning, but she was so tired that she fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  Chapter Five

  The alarm on her phone went off at five a.m. and Fenway was startled awake. She considered hitting snooze, but she knew she’d have to rush to get ready for McVie to pick her up at six. Reluctantly, she swung herself out from under her covers and padded her way to the bathroom.

  She was ready a full five minutes before she saw McVie’s headlights on the road, and she was out the door as he made a right turn off the street into the apartment complex’s driveway. She was waiting for him in the parking lot as he pulled into a space.

  “You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning,” McVie said when she opened the door of the cruiser.

  “Aw, thanks, mister!” She curtsied to him, playfully. “You going to tell me the early bird gets the worm too?”

  “I was just going to say you clean up good.” McVie’s voice was a little gruff. The morning before, Fenway had been in sweats, no makeup, hair pulled back—not exactly the desired look for a job interview. Fenway glanced down at her outfit. She didn’t consider herself especially dressed-up: knee-length gray wool skirt and matching blazer, with a navy blouse. She was trying to look professional, down to her bone-colored flats, but she had to admit it was certainly a big change from her look the day before.

  The coastal fog was a little lighter than it had been on Tuesday, and the sky was lightening as they drove to Jack and Jill’s.

  Fenway got scrambled eggs and sourdough toast, thinking it was a breakfast order she wouldn’t spill on herself. McVie just had coffee. He took her through each of the members of the board of supervisors.

  There were five county supervisors. Two were retired, including the mayor of Estancia, Alice Jenkins. She was the elder statesman of the group, the first African-American judge appointed in Dominguez County. She was serving her fourth term as mayor, McVie said. Fenway bit her tongue; her research from the night before said Jenkins was in her fifth term.

  The youngest member was Barry Klein, a forty-year-old optometrist who, according to McVie, was the one who didn’t trust Fenway’s father, and the one who most likely would run for coroner again in November. McVie told Fenway to try to casually mention to Dr. Klein that she hadn’t seen her father in years. McVie also told Fenway that Dr. Klein would be the one to grill her the hardest on her background. “Klein might take issue with your lack of experience, or you being short a class for your forensics degree. Probably because he’s going to look at this interview as the start of his campaign. He’ll want the rest of the board to focus on his experience and medical background.”

  “Klein always votes against anything related to Ferris Energy,” Fenway stated. “He’s going to do whatever he can to disrupt me.”

  “Well, he doesn’t have a veto,” McVie said, eying her. “And how do you know how he votes?”

  “There’s this thing called the internet.” Fenway smiled and sprinkled some hot sauce on her eggs. “Whatever they ask me, I’m just going to be honest. If there’s a better candidate for appointment out there, I don’t want to seem like I’m going to get in the way of that.”

  McVie took a drink of coffee. “Well, you can be honest, but I don’t think there’s a better candidate for appointment than you. And you need to know that you do have enough knowledge and background to do the job. You know that, don’t you?”

  She swallowed her mouthful of egg. “Sheriff, I have no idea. I think I have the book knowledge, for sure. I think there is a good group of people in the coroner’s office who know what they’re doing. They seem competent, at least from the twenty minutes I spent with them. I’m a fast learner, and I think I’ll be able to get the coroner’s office through to the next election.”

  McVie nodded. “Okay. I think that would be good for them to hear. I guess you’re ready.”

  They parked in the same spot in the garage as they had the day before, but instead of going to the building with the coroner’s office, they crossed the street to City Hall. The fog had continued to burn off, and Fenway noticed the sunshine start to filter through. “Wow, it’s going to be beautiful today.”

  “Be a lot more beautiful after we get through the supervisors’ meeting.”

  They were early. It had taken less time to run through the prep at breakfast than Fenway expected, and the restaurant service had been prompt. She and McVie found themselves with about fifteen minutes to kill in the lobby area outside the council chambers. McVie was pacing. Fenway thought he was more nervous about this than he had originally let on. She wondered if he was just worried about Klein’s reaction, or if there was something he wasn’t telling her.

  Fenway started talking to McVie to calm him down, or at least distract him. She asked about the last concert he had attended, as that seemed to be his thing. It was a local band that had a national hit, and he had gone with his wife, Amy. She was the vice president of a real estate firm over in Paso Querido. In the middle of telling her a story how everyone in the audience was singing along to their hit song, he looked over her shoulder at the front doors, set his jaw, and shook his head.

  Fenway turned her head to look at the front door. Her father was coming in, taking off his sunglasses. His hair was salt-and-pepper instead of the dark brown that she remembered, and he had laugh lines around his eyes. Other than that, she thought that he didn’t look much different from when her mother took her away from Estancia twenty years before.

  Nathaniel Ferris had on a stylish and expensive looking gray suit—the color, Fenway noticed, not much different than her skirt and blazer. He, too, had on a navy-blue dress shirt, open at the collar and without a tie. He was followed by a very tall, heavyset man in dark suit, white shirt, and a dark gray tie, reminding Fenway of a Mafioso and his bodyguard. She thought the bodyguard looked a little familiar, too. She turned back toward McVie.

  “Sorry,” he said under his breath.

  Fenway closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. She turned around to face her father.

  “Hi, Dad!” Her voice went up half an octave, and, she hoped, was enthusiastic and warm.

  “Fenway!” Ferris opened his arms wide. She stepped next to him and turned her shoulder, giving him a side hug. “Ah, Fenway, I’m sorry it’s taken so long for us to meet up since you arrived.”

  “It’s okay, Dad.” She stepped away from him and smiled widely. “I know how busy you are with work. Hey!” She pointed at his suit. “I see you got my message on what to wear today. We still doing the hip-hop dance routine in front of the council?”

  Confusion came over Ferris’s face until he realized that she was joking about their coincidentally matching outfits. Then he laughed.

  “See, Rob?” Nathaniel Ferris tur
ned to the giant next to him, and Fenway suddenly recognized her building manager. “I told you Fenway was something else. Well, when she hasn’t been driving for two days straight. Fenway, you met Rob Stotsky the other night when you drove in. Rob is in charge of a few of my apartment complexes, but his day job is Ferris Energy’s head of security.”

  Rob Stotsky put out his large hand and Fenway shook it as firmly as she could.

  “Good to see you again,” he said.

  “Rob and I had a meeting downtown this morning, and I thought I’d come here and tell you you’re going to do great. The board is gonna love you.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” She felt Ferris put his arm around her back. The smile she had plastered on was taking more effort than she thought. “I just want to tell you thank you for letting me know about the apartment.” She stepped out of from under his arm. “And I know we need to catch up.”

  He looked at her and his eyes softened. “Happy to do it, Fen. You know I’m happy to do it. And yes, I’d love to catch up. Can I call you tonight and maybe we can have dinner?”

  “Sure. Dinner.”

  He smiled thankfully at his daughter, then clapped his hands together. “Okay, I don’t want to interrupt any more than I already have. Good luck.” He put his sunglasses back on, patted Rob Stotsky on the shoulder, and turned to go out the same way he had come in. Stotsky followed him out the door.

  Fenway exhaled. Her heart was racing. She hoped it didn’t show.

  She turned back around, and McVie was looking at her with an unusual gleam in his eye.

  “Who was that?”

  “Who was what? My father? You know my father. Don’t you know his head of security too?”

  “No.” McVie started to smile. “I wasn’t talking about them. I was talking about you. You transformed into a different person.”

  “Please.” Fenway rolled her eyes. “You of all people should know how my father wants people to deal with him.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. And I think you’re going to do just fine.”

  “So, is that what you were worried about? My father coming in to ‘support’ me this morning?”