The Incumbent Coroner Page 9

  “Yeah, McVie told me,” Dez said. “The William Matisse connection. But I couldn’t talk for very long. Did he have a connection with Rachel, too?”

  Fenway said, “He’s got a prescription for buprenodone. And he couldn’t find his brand-new prescription bottle. So there’s that.”

  “You know,” Dez said, “I hate to get all conspiracy-theory on you, Fenway, but doesn’t it seem awfully convenient that the murder victim’s son just happens to have a prescription for a seemingly unrelated crime?”

  Fenway nodded. Her phone rang and she pulled her phone out of her purse, glancing at the screen. “Oh, it’s the M.E.”

  “I’m not here,” Dez said.

  Fenway looked at Dez quizzically, and picked up. “Hi, Dr. Yasuda.”

  “Hi, Fenway. We got a hit on the fingerprints on the prescription bottle. Fletcher Jenkins.”

  “I wondered about that. Were his fingerprints on the suicide note too?”

  “Strangely, no,” Dr. Yasuda said. “No fingerprints at all. Like the person who wrote it wore gloves.”

  Fenway paused. “Why would Fletcher use gloves when writing the note but not on the pill bottle?”

  “I don’t want to speculate on that,” Dr. Yasuda said. “But the fingerprint evidence on the pill bottle strongly suggests that Fletcher Jenkins’ buprenodone was used to poison Rachel.”

  “Does it suggest that he’s the one who poisoned her?”

  “That’s less suggestive, Fenway; you know that. The fingerprints don’t have a time stamp on them.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, of course. Thanks, doctor. Oh—Melissa said she suspected the Gatorade had the buprenodone in it. Have you tested that yet?”

  “Yes. It tested positive. A high concentration, too. Certainly enough to kill her. It’s a good thing she didn’t drink any more of it than she did.”

  “That sure looks like attempted murder to me.”

  “That’s a theory that certainly fits the available evidence,” Dr. Yasuda agreed. “Okay—I’ve got another autopsy to do—not a murder victim, thank goodness.”

  They said their goodbyes and hung up.

  Dez looked at Fenway. “Fletcher’s fingerprints were on the pill bottle, but not on the suicide note?”

  “Right.”

  “The conspiracy theory doesn’t sound so crazy now, does it?”

  Fenway crinkled her nose up. It didn’t sound crazy at all.

  “All right,” Dez said, “I’m going to head home. I’m beat.”

  “Oh—before I forget, Dez.” She paused, and then decided to just say it directly. “Dr. Yasuda told me to tell you that she’s sorry. She said that you’d know what she means.”

  Dez narrowed her eyes. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

  Fenway opened her mouth to say something, but then clamped it shut. Dez turned, got in her car, and started it. Fenway walked through the parking lot toward the Mercedes, figuring she’d mind her own business.

  She opened the door of the Mercedes and sat for a moment, basking in the warmth of the sun reflecting off the black leather. But after just a few seconds, the leather seats radiated too much heat and the stifling air made her feel claustrophobic. She turned the car on and turned the air conditioning to high. She pulled her phone out again and called her father.

  “Nathaniel Ferris.”

  “It’s Fenway, Dad.”

  “Hi, sweetie. You still in San Miguelito?”

  “No, I’m back. I just saw Rachel. She regained consciousness.”

  “Oh, I’m glad to hear it.” She heard him take the phone away from his ear. “Everett, that PR officer I told you about? The one they found poisoned? She’s regained consciousness.” She heard the phone being muffled, then some conversation in the background, then a sound like a hand sliding over the mouthpiece, then her father came back on. “I’m putting you on speaker, Fenway.” The background noise got suddenly louder. “Fenway, I’m going to tell Charlotte. She’ll probably want to send flowers or something. I bet she remembers Rachel at our wedding—just a teenager at the time, of course, but not one of those sullen teens. She was polite and engaging; Rob told me how proud he was of her.”

  An awkward silence fell over them; Ferris had brought up the wedding again, as well as the previous coroner’s killer, currently awaiting trial.

  Ferris cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’m really glad she’s okay.”

  “Give her my best, too,” Everett said.

  “Sure,” Fenway replied.

  Everett’s voice lowered slightly; he spoke directly to Ferris. “Did you get the name of the hospital so Charlotte can send flowers?”

  “Oh—no, I didn’t. Say, Fenway, what hospital is Rachel at?”

  “She’s at St. Vincent—but, Dad, she’s in the ICU. They don’t allow flowers in there.”

  “Of course,” Ferris said. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

  Fenway heard rustling as Ferris moved the phone. “Thanks for telling us about Rachel, sweetie.”

  “Sure, Dad.” Fenway paused. “So, listen, I’m finished with the car.”

  “But you don’t have the Accord back, do you?”

  “No—but I’m not driving the Mercedes all around town.”

  The sound changed again; Ferris had taken Fenway off speakerphone. “Why not? I’ve got plenty of other cars.”

  “Because, Dad, it wouldn’t look right. And you already gave me the Accord.”

  “Fenway, come on, don’t be like that. Let me help you out.”

  “You’ve already been a big help today, Dad.”

  “Listen, if you would just—”

  “Dad! I’m done talking about this. You can pick the car up whenever you like.”

  “How about you come up to the house for dinner? You can drop the car off.”

  “Then I wouldn’t have any way to get home.”

  “I think we can give you a ride home. Or take an Uber if you’re all high and mighty about me helping you.”

  Fenway sighed. “All right, Dad. What time? Seven?”

  “That’s perfect. See you then.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Mercedes’ engine purred as she exited the parking lot, a pleading note telling Fenway not to stop driving. She needed to go by the sheriff’s office, though, and see if McVie had returned so she could give him the M.E.’s information. The more Fenway thought about it, the less she liked that Alice Jenkins and Rachel had gotten attacked in the same twenty-four-hour period. And it may have been the medication talking, but Rachel dodged questions about talking to the mayor, and Fenway tried to work out why in the world she would do that.

  Fenway decided to stop by Rachel’s office and see if anything on her desk or in her notes would ring any bells. Maybe Fenway could take anything suspicious over to the hospital for Rachel to see; that might actually force her hand. It might have been grasping at straws, but she didn’t really have any other leads.

  She pulled into the parking structure and parked far away from the other cars there. She killed the engine and walked across the street to the sheriff’s office.

  She greeted Officer Huke at reception. He smiled but not his usual jovial grin. This city was grieving for Alice Jenkins.

  Fenway saw McVie in his office, working on paperwork, head down, concentrating. Fenway watched him for a moment; his square jaw, his intelligent, kind eyes soaking in the information on the page. Fenway mentally kicked herself for feeling this way about someone so much older—and married to boot. She closed her eyes and willed herself to think of Akeel—those abdominal muscles, the electricity between them when they touched. She opened her eyes and knocked on McVie’s door.

  He looked up from his paperwork, and the flash of recognition landed on his face with a smile that put Akeel’s abs to shame. He motioned her in. She opened the door and took the seat across from him.

  “Hi, Fenway,” McVie said. “Any news?”

&nbs
p; “Rachel’s awake.”

  His head popped up. “Oh, thank God. That’s great news. Does she remember anything?”

  Fenway shook her head. “We think someone slipped the buprenodone in that big bottle of Gatorade in her refrigerator while she went to the gym yesterday morning. Probably after Mayor Jenkins’ murder.”

  “So that’s a different time than the alibi that Fletch gave.”

  “True,” Fenway said. “But we didn’t ask for an alibi for 10 or 11 that morning. We asked for the early afternoon. Because that’s when we thought she drank it. Or at least when we thought the bottle had been dropped to make it look like a suicide.”

  “What do you think of Fletch for the attempted murder?”

  “I don’t know, Sheriff. I just found out the pill bottle had a ton of fingerprints from Fletch on it.”

  McVie nodded. “And with the empty box at his house, I think we can assume the bottle is his. That’s pretty damning.”

  “Right,” Fenway said, “but the suicide note didn’t have any fingerprints on it at all—not Fletch’s, not Rachel’s, not anyone.”

  McVie stroked his chin thoughtfully. “That certainly underscores that Rachel didn’t write the note, but it doesn’t let Fletch off the hook. Fletch could have put gloves on before going into Rachel’s apartment, but forgot that he had handled the pill bottle many times before.”

  “True.”

  McVie paused. “When we talked to Fletch last night, though, it sure seemed like he was shocked that his bottle of meds went missing.”

  Fenway nodded. “But maybe he’s a good liar.”

  “His wife seemed pretty convincing too, though. What are the odds they’re both good liars?”

  “Maybe she didn’t know what he was up to.”

  McVie shrugged. “The evidence all points at Fletch right now, though. I usually trust my gut, but I don’t have any other explanation.”

  “What do you think about the mayor’s murder? Do you think Fletch is involved in that too?”

  McVie shook his head. “All we have to connect him is the name William Matisse on the hotel room reservation.”

  “And he doesn’t have an alibi. Not a good one, anyway.”

  “It was one in the morning,” McVie pointed out. “No one has a good alibi at one in the morning.”

  “But isn’t it a little too coincidental that both Rachel and Mayor Jenkins were both attacked within twenty-four hours of each other?” Fenway thought about adding that she thought Rachel evaded her questions, but without anything more than a hunch to go on, she decided not to mention it. “So I’m headed over to Rachel’s office. I thought I could take a look in there and see if anything gives me a clue where to look next. Want to join me? Maybe get some lunch?”

  McVie stretched his arms above his head and smiled. The muscles in his arms flexed, and Fenway saw the cute crooked front tooth he had. Fenway mentally kicked herself—again.

  “That sounds great,” he said. “I could use a change of scenery. I’ve been working on the M.E.’s report that Yasuda sent over on the mayor, trying to see anything that would point me toward the murderer. There’s nothing—no fibers, no DNA.” He stood up and came around the desk. “Or I should say, there’s plenty of fibers and fingerprints and DNA in that motel room—but nothing that stands out. So far, I’ve got print matches on about thirty people who are in the system, but none of them seem to be attached to Mayor Jenkins. I’ll start interviewing them if I don’t get any promising leads.”

  “Have you looked to see if any of those thirty people are attached to Rachel?”

  “No. I suppose that would be the next item on the agenda.”

  They walked out, past the front desk, across the plaza. The sun pounded the sidewalk—it was shaping up to be one of the few truly hot days in Estancia. McVie put on his sunglasses; they were a classic design that looked good on his face.

  Rachel’s office was in the City Hall building next door. They took the long way, through the plaza, enjoying the shade of the elms, and walked down the sidewalk, past an ice cream vendor—good day for it, Fenway thought—and walked through the glass doors of the City Hall building and into the blast of air conditioning. They walked past the County Clerk’s office and down a hallway on the ground floor. They stopped at a mahogany door with “Public Information Officer” etched into the smoked glass. McVie tried the door; it swung open easily.

  A Filipino woman in her early forties sat behind the desk and a young black woman, who looked about twenty-five, stood on the other side of the desk; they looked to be deep in conversation. “Oh, good afternoon, Sheriff, Fenway,” the woman behind the desk said. “I didn’t expect anyone here on a Sunday.”

  “Hi, Natalie,” McVie said. “A lot of people are putting in extra time with everything that’s happened this weekend.” He looked expectantly at the young black woman.

  “Hi, I’m Sascha Abrams with the Estancia Courier,” she said, holding her hand out to McVie.

  The sheriff shook her hand warily.

  “I’ve been assigned to the story about Mrs. Richards,” Sascha explained. Fenway found herself distracted by the Mrs.—she knew that’s what widows were called, but Rachel seemed far too young to be married, much less a widow.

  “From the reports I’ve seen, it looked like an attempted suicide,” Sascha continued. “I hoped you could help me figure out—”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Abrams,” McVie said firmly, “but the reports you’ve seen don’t provide a final conclusion. We’re still investigating what happened, and right now, I’m not at liberty to disclose where we are in the investigation.” He took a couple of steps forward, inserting his muscular six-foot-two frame in between the reporter and Natalie. “Now, Ms. Andrada might think we’ll get a bad story written about us if she kicks you out of this office, but as some of your colleagues at the Courier can attest, I don’t have a problem appearing rude and risking bad press in order to protect an investigation.”

  Sascha looked at Natalie, but Natalie averted her eyes.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be contacting you later today, Sheriff. I hope you have something you can give me. I have other sources, but I’d love to get the official word on what happened to Mrs. Richards.”

  McVie nodded curtly. Sascha stepped behind Fenway and out the door, closing it behind her.

  McVie turned to Natalie. She had a round face and prominent cheekbones, with a shock of hair, short at the back but partially over her forehead and eyes, dyed a bold shade of violet, an almost garish hue that nevertheless complemented her mocha skin. She looked strong, with biceps that almost rivaled McVie’s. She had several spreadsheets printed out in front of her, and a meeting planner spread open to Monday’s date. A table clock sat on the desk, about a foot high with an American flag on one side and a Marine flag on the other, and a globe with an eagle, wings spread, on top. Etched in a gold band on the bottom was Cpl Natalie Andrada.

  “Hope you didn’t mind that, Natalie,” McVie said.

  “Yes, thank you, Sheriff,” Natalie said. “I cleared Miss Richards’ calendar, to see what could be rescheduled for later in the week. I came back from church, and I was sitting at my house with everything that’s happened running through my head, and I just had to do something. I got here in the early afternoon, and then that reporter came in a few minutes ago, trying to get information about Rachel. She tried to dig for background on why Rachel wanted to commit suicide.”

  “Maybe we should have mentioned to the reporter that someone staged the scene,” Fenway said.

  McVie shook his head. “I don’t want whoever staged it thinking that we’re onto them.”

  “I don’t want Rachel’s reputation dragged down if the public thinks she can’t handle being the youngest public information officer in California.”

  McVie gave Fenway a look that said, Not here. Fenway knew McVie disagreed, but it dawned on her that he respected her too much to escalate this and mak
e the department look bad in front of the public—and that included people like Natalie.

  “But I understand that catching whoever did this is probably the priority,” Fenway said lamely.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Natalie said, “Rachel called me about ten minutes before that reporter showed up. She said the doctors weren’t letting her go until Monday.”

  “At least,” Fenway responded.

  “I know what it’s like to be stuck in the hospital, not being able to get anything done,” Natalie said. “So I came here to try to get a jump on tomorrow.”

  “Rachel said she usually sends out meeting minutes.”

  Natalie nodded. “Seemed like I needed to do something besides think about who would do that to Rachel.”

  “Rachel told you about the forged note?” Fenway said.

  Natalie nodded again.

  “Listen, Natalie,” McVie said, leaning casually against her desk. “We’re trying to figure out who poisoned Rachel and staged it to look like a suicide attempt. We wondered if she had appointments with anyone last week, or maybe the week before, with anyone who might be tied to some of the people of interest.”

  Natalie pushed the meeting planner in front of McVie. “You’re free to look if you’d like.”

  “You have Rachel’s planner?” Fenway asked.

  “No, this is mine. Miss Richards keeps hers on the computer. I still like the feel of pen and paper.”

  Fenway nodded. “Do you have a visitors’ sign-in log?”

  Natalie hesitated. “We keep it out here during business hours, but I put it in Rachel’s office after we close up for the day. I don’t like to keep it out in the open, even if we do lock that first door.”

  “Can we see it?” asked McVie.

  Natalie paused, drumming her fingers on the desk. “I’m not sure it’s a hundred percent accurate,” she said. “Sometimes people sign in on the wrong day, or don’t sign in at all.”

  “It’ll still be helpful,” McVie said.

  Natalie hesitated, the wheels spinning in her head.