The Reluctant Coroner, Paul Austin Ardoin [comprehension books TXT] 📗

When Fenway woke, it was still dark, and McVie was no longer next to her. She checked the clock—it was a quarter to six. She pulled back the curtain beside her bed and saw the fog blanketing the apartment complex, making ghostly halos around the orange lights between the buildings.

She walked through the small apartment in seconds, and there was no McVie to be found, but there was a note that read F—Thanks for last night. See you at the office. Service for Walker at 5 PM.—Craig

Fenway wasn’t sure she liked that he left early, but she thought it was a good sign that they stayed on a first-name basis. Or a first-initial basis. She thought briefly about what her mother would say, and she knew a relationship with a married man (even if he had been wronged) would have disappointed her mother greatly. But, strangely, Fenway wasn’t feeling bad about it. She figured she’d be able to act professionally around him, as if it hadn’t happened. She told herself she knew what she was getting into.

She looked at McVie’s note again and decided she would attend Walker’s memorial service that evening. She pulled a black dress out of the closet; it was sleeveless, a little short and a lot low-cut—more appropriate for a club, or dancing, than a professional environment. For a second, Fenway pictured herself walking into the sheriff’s office with that dress on and seeing Craig’s jaw drop. She found the heels she had bought originally to go with the dress. They were the highest heels she owned, strappy and sexy.

Fenway hung the dress back on the rod; it certainly wasn’t appropriate for a memorial service, and she knew it. She selected a more modest dress in the closet, with a higher neck, the hem ending at the knee, and cap sleeves. She thought it would look good with the gray cardigan near the top of her sweater stack. Both pieces were only a little wrinkled, but she hung them up in the bathroom while she showered to freshen them up a bit. She paired the dress and cardigan combo with some black flats that were a little scuffed, finished getting ready, and ate a bowl of cereal. She noticed a bowl washed in the kitchen sink, figuring McVie had probably had a bowl of cereal too, before he left.

She picked up her car keys—to her new Honda—but before she went out the door, she changed into the strappy high heels.

The new car was nice. It was much nicer than her old Nissan she had driven in Seattle; much nicer than anything she would have gotten for herself. The leather seats were not as buttery as her father’s S500, but they were comfortable, and the heated seats took the chill off the foggy morning. The engine roared to life on the first turn of the key, and the odometer read 000036, a number that had never been so low on a car Fenway owned. It wasn’t flashy, it wouldn’t draw attention, but it was nice, and it was hers.

She drove to the office and parked in the structure. The fog was already starting to thin, and Fenway thought it would be another beautiful day. She left the gray cardigan in the car and went to Java Jim’s to get herself a latte. She also ordered a large drip coffee for Dez, whom she expected to already be at the office. It was nearly seven thirty when she walked into the building, and, sure enough, Dez was already there, behind her desk.

“Hey, Dez. Isn’t it a beautiful—” Fenway stopped when she saw the grim look on Dez’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Dez raised her head. “Fenway, Dylan Richards was found dead in his cell this morning.”

Fenway set the cups down, slowly, on the counter and felt a knot of sympathy in her stomach—not for Dylan, but for Rachel. “What happened?”

“It looks like he hung himself with a nylon cord.”

“Oh no. Who found him?”

“Sheriff McVie.” Dez looked at Fenway pointedly. Fenway felt the sergeant’s eyes boring through her. She knows, Fenway thought, she knows the sheriff stayed with me last night, and she doesn’t want to believe it. Fenway didn’t know how Dez knew—was she that transparent?

She broke her eyes from Dez’s stare. “Has the body left yet? Are they sending it to Dr. Yasuda?”

“I’m not sure. CSI is probably still on the scene.”

“Why didn’t they call me?” Fenway said. “I’m supposed to be in charge of the physical evidence.”

“I’m not sure why the sheriff didn’t call you. Although he was busy trying to resuscitate the victim, and then assisting the crime scene unit; he might not have thought of it.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” Fenway snapped at Dez.

Dez looked up, displeased. “Now, honey, you know you don’t want to take that tone with me.”

Fenway looked down at the floor. “Sorry,” she mumbled. She passed the cup to Dez. “Here, I brought you some good coffee.”

“Thanks, honey.” She stood up and took the cup from Fenway as if nothing had happened.

“Do you think I should I go over to the jail?”

“Probably not a bad idea. You are the coroner. Though you’re dressed a little fancy to get in front of the inmates.” She glanced down. “Especially in those shoes.”

“Walker’s funeral is this afternoon. My flats were all scuffed up.”

Dez screwed up the corner of her mouth, suppressing a smile that made Fenway nervous.

The county jail was behind the sheriff’s office. Fenway went back to her car and got her cardigan. No sense in poking the bears, she thought. She walked as quickly as she could across the street and to the entrance of the jail. She had to go through the metal detector, sign in, and then wait at the entrance for the guard. As she saw the guard approach, she saw McVie walking behind him.

The guard buzzed him out. “You coming in?” he asked her.

She looked between the guard and the sheriff. “I don’t know—one second. Sheriff?” She stepped toward him. “Anything for me to see in the cell?”

He shook his head. “Techs are cleaning up now. Body’s on the way to San Miguelito.”

“Is Dr. Yasuda doing the autopsy?”

He nodded.

“Thanks,” she said to the guard, “but it looks like I don’t need to go in after all.”

The guard tipped his hat and closed the gate.

McVie looked shaken. Fenway touched his hand. “You okay?”

“Not even close.” He pulled his hand away and ran it through his hair. “That kid shouldn’t have died. And a nylon cord! How the hell did he get that in there?”

“He was hanging from the ceiling?”

“From the top bunk. I’ve read about prisoners hanging themselves from the top bunk before. It’s never happened in this jail before, though.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“And not only am I upset Dylan killed himself, I’m pissed off he did it on my watch and I didn’t stop it.” He shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of what he had seen. “But, if I’m being completely honest, I’m having a little pity party for myself too, because I’m screwed about twenty ways from Sunday.”

Fenway held the door open for him and they stepped outside.

“Let’s not go back to the office for a minute. Let’s take a walk.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Fenway regretted the suggestion; her shoes were not made for comfortable walks. “Maybe to the plaza. Find a place to sit and talk this out.”

McVie was so beside himself with anger he was walking and seething aloud. “It’s going to come out that Dylan was having sex with my wife, and it’s going to come back and bite me in the ass.” He fumed. “Arresting him on circumstantial evidence, having him fill out a car theft form and then arresting him anyway. Looks bad. If that comes out, people are going to question if it was really a suicide—they’re going to think I had something to do with it.”

“You know I’ll vouch for where you were last night.”

McVie pursed his lips. “It can absolutely not get out that we were together last night.” McVie looked around as they entered the plaza, but no one was nearby. He looked Fenway right in the eyes, seriousness radiating from him. “How is it going to look that I slept with the woman I appointed coroner? Not to mention, my wife would kill me. My daughter would kill me. Your father would kill me.”

Fenway crossed her arms. “Thanks. I had a great time too.”