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

plaza didn’t look like a serious theater space, though Fenway could envision a local Shakespeare in the Park production there on a hot summer day.

On the other side of Fifth Street were a pair of utilitarian-looking four-story office buildings, reminiscent of Spanish-style architecture. The police car turned into a short parking structure after the second building, and Sheriff McVie pulled into a designated spot for law enforcement vehicles.

“Here we are.”

They emerged from the parking structure. The air was still cool, but the sun warmed Fenway’s face as McVie led them to a building across from City Hall.

“Hey,” Fenway said, “we didn’t get pizza.”

“We will afterward. There’s a great place on Fourth.”

“Does it have good beer?”

“I’m glad you’ve got such intense focus on this job,” McVie said, smirking. “I feel good about recommending someone whose priorities are aligned with the people of this county.”

“You promised me food and then denied me,” Fenway pointed out. “I’m not responsible for what I say when I’m hungry.”

“Duly noted.” He held open the front door for her and smiled. Yes, that crooked front tooth was definitely adorable. “The coroner’s office is Suite 150. First door on the left.”

She opened the door and found the office in full swing. A young white woman carried a stack of papers to an older black woman in the center of the office. The older woman wore the same dark uniform as McVie. Two phones rang at the same time, and a thin Latino man in a burgundy shirt typed furiously at a desk to Fenway’s right. An older white man with a short white beard was on the phone in the back. He wore a gray sportscoat.

“Good, everyone’s back from lunch,” McVie said, following Fenway in. She looked around. The suite, about a thousand square feet, had a bar-height counter near the door serving as a reception area and four modern office-style desks behind it. Beyond the desk where the older woman sat, another door led to a small, glassed-in conference room.

Three six-foot-wide metal filing cabinets lined the wall between the back window and the reception area. Fenway’s eye caught the bright yellow police tape across the closed wooden door of the glass-walled office at Fenway’s left. She squinted. A faux-wood nameplate next to the door was inscribed with “H. Walker” and “County Coroner” in smaller letters underneath.

Ah. Even though the body was found two nights ago, they must be waiting for someone to go through Harrison Walker’s work effects. Through the windows, the office looked elegant, with dark walls, a large mahogany desk with a huge flat-screen monitor, and a commanding yet comfortable-looking brown leather chair. It was a masculine office.

But why was it still sealed?

To be fair, it had only been a day and a half—if the coroner’s body had been discovered late Sunday night, perhaps they hadn’t gotten to it yet. Then it hit her. Any homicide, suicide, accidental death—if it doesn’t happen under medical supervision, your team will investigate it.

But who investigates the death of the death investigator? Everyone in this office reported directly to the dead coroner. In the early stages, maybe they all had to be treated like suspects.

That’s why she needed to get on board so quickly. They didn’t just need her to fill a vacancy. They needed someone to investigate Walker’s homicide.

Talk about trial by fire.

The sheriff interrupted her thoughts. “Most counties on this part of the coast have a combined sheriff/coroner position. We’re the only county that has the two positions separated. It’s been almost ten years now.”

“Did this happen pre-James Brown or post?” Fenway said.

“The election was right after the show, in fact. They’ve been voting for both a sheriff and coroner ever since.” He cleared his throat and addressed the room. “Everyone, sorry for the interruption, but I’d like to introduce you to Fenway Stevenson.”

Fenway held up her hand in greeting.

McVie indicated the young man on the right side. “This is Miguel Castaneda, our paralegal.”

The young man stood up and stepped forward. His burgundy long-sleeved dress shirt was a size too large, but his black-and-gray striped tie, black slacks, and Oxfords looked professional. He had short black hair, spiked a bit on top. “I go by Migs.” He shook Fenway’s hand, firmly but not too hard.

“Migs makes sure we’re not doing anything to get us in trouble,” McVie explained. “He’s getting his law degree at night.”

“So he can figure out how to get the criminals we catch off on a technicality, and make a shitload of money doing it,” piped up a woman behind Fenway. It was the older black woman who’d been at the desk in the center. Her keen eyes twinkled; she was probably just giving Migs a hard time. Her features were striking: large but jaded eyes, dark umber skin, hair short and cropped close to her head.

“And this is Sergeant Desirée Roubideaux.” McVie gritted his teeth a little.

Sergeant Roubideaux shook Fenway’s hand, then turned to McVie. “I thought you were bringing in The Owner’s daughter today.”

“Shut up, Dez,” Migs said quietly.

“Oh,” she said, drawing the syllable out while looking Fenway up and down. “Sorry. I was expecting a white girl.”

Fenway smiled sweetly at Roubideaux. “Yeah, so were my first boyfriend’s parents.”

Roubideaux laughed. “You’re all right, Miss Stevenson. Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me. I never met a black girl named after a baseball stadium before. It threw me off my game.”

“Awesome,” grunted McVie. “A paragon of decorum as always, Roubideaux. All right. Over there is Sergeant Mark Trevino.”

The bearded man stood. The gray sportscoat was over a white polo shirt. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

“And I’m Rachel.” The short white woman behind the counter raised her hand. “I’m the coroner’s assistant.” She must have realized she was still sitting on a work stool and awkwardly got to her feet. She wore a crushed velvet blazer and dark slacks. She reached over the counter to shake Fenway’s hand. At five feet tall, she was at least a head shorter than Fenway, with high cheekbones and light brown hair. She couldn’t be a teenager, although her height and slender build made her appear so.

“And that’s the office,” McVie said. “Two sergeants to investigate, an assistant, and a legal advisor. It’s small, but it’s about par for the course for these coastal counties.”

“Pleased to meet you all.” Fenway smiled what she hoped came across as a heartfelt smile with a touch of sympathy. “And I’m sorry for your loss.”

McVie cleared his throat and addressed the room. “As you might have heard, with the tragedy that hit us Sunday night, I’m obligated to appoint an acting coroner. I’m hoping I can convince Miss Stevenson to accept the appointment so the coroner’s office can get back up to full speed.” The sheriff turned back to Fenway. “And, as Sergeant Roubideaux has already clued you into, folks around here already know you’re Mr. Ferris’s daughter. So.”

Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Sergeant Roubideaux sniffed. “Some people might like a coroner who’s so well-connected. Me, I like a coroner who doesn’t come to official conclusions based on what other folks want to hear.”

Fenway narrowed her eyes at Sergeant Roubideaux and tilted her head. “My father 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 what your daddy wants, will you be able to stand up for us? 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 no one wanted to be appointed for a job they might not keep come November.” Fenway stopped. She’d started to challenge Roubideaux in front of everyone, but no—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 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. “This has been a real treat, everyone.” He shot Roubideaux a disappointed look, and the sergeant pointedly looked away. “I hope we’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Fenway 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 how about it, Miss Stevenson?”

Fenway looked at McVie who tilted his head to the side, then turned back to Rachel. “Absolutely. I’d love to join you.”

“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.’”

Mark might have blushed a little.