The Upstaged Coroner

by Paul Austin Ardoin

“Wait, wait, wait,” Nathaniel Ferris said. “You still don’t have your car back from evidence. I can’t have you taking an Uber in the middle of the night.”

  “It’s barely nine o’clock, Dad.”

  Charlotte turned to face Fenway. “Don’t be stubborn about this. Your dad and I have seven cars for the two of us. Borrow one of them.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Oh, please. It will make your life easier, and your dad and I will nag you less.”

  Fenway paused for a moment. “Okay, fine. But I don’t feel right borrowing the Mercedes. You love that car, Dad.”

  Charlotte nodded. “Then take the Porsche.” She said it properly, with two syllables.

  “I can’t take the Porsche—that’s too much.”

  “What do you mean, too much? It’s the cheapest car we own.”

  Ugh. Fenway had a habit of calculating just how much her father’s toys cost. She knew the Porsche 911 in the garage, hardly ever driven, cost over a hundred thousand dollars new. Maybe my father will let me keep it and I can trade it in for my college loans.

  “Fine,” Fenway said, and she heard the ungrateful tone in her voice. “I mean—I appreciate it. I’m just not used to the fancy cars.”

  “Good. I’m—I’m glad we could help,” Charlotte said, and smiled at her husband.

  He looked at Fenway. “I know you and I don’t always get along, Fenway, but you’re my daughter and you mean the world to me.”

  A lump started to rise in her throat and Fenway forced it back down. “Yeah, thanks for the offer, Dad. It will—uh, it’ll make my life easier.”

  Ferris nodded. “Remember—premium fuel only.”

  Fenway was used to driving her Accord, with the smooth, if soulless, continuous variable transmission. So when she turned on the engine of the Porsche 911 Carrera s and put the seven-speed manual transmission into gear, she was unprepared for the pure adrenaline rush from the raw power and control that coursed from the gearshift through her fingers. Sure, she had a manual transmission in the decade-old Nissan Sentra she had driven when she lived in Seattle, but the Porsche’s gearshift was buttery-smooth, visceral, sexy—a little dollop of magic between the front seats.

  After leaving her father’s driveway and slaloming down the twisty road toward the freeway, Fenway’s heart pounded with excitement. “I guess I know why my father likes his expensive cars,” she muttered, although part of her wanted to scold herself for enjoying it so much.

  She slowed down when Las Manzanitas Drive straightened out in its approach to the freeway. She passed a Volkswagen gti, and the driver eyed the Porsche enviously.

  She shot around a box truck as she took the exit onto Nidever Expressway and quickly arrived at the DiFazio Theater. She looked at the clock on the dashboard. Rehearsal should be over, and sure enough, several of the student actors were leaving the theater. She got out, locked the car, and rushed over to the lobby, avoiding the students until she could get in.

  There, at the back of the large room, with notes scattered everywhere, was Professor Virgil Cygnus, no students around him. She walked up to the desk and smiled. He looked up at her, and his gaze hardened.

  “Listen,” he started, “I already told you—no questions about Jessica until after the play is over.”

  If the direct approach hadn’t worked with him before, maybe a little sweetness would work. “I understand, Professor,” Fenway said, widening her eyes and nodding. “I had my share of Shakespeare classes in college, too. I’m a former lit major.”

  “Interesting,” Cygnus murmured, picking up his notes.

  “I never had the chance to do anything like this when I was in school. Making these plays work for a modern audience is tough.”

  “Hah. You don’t know the half of it.”

  “But you show everyone—every year—that you can still attract an audience with Shakespeare. I heard you even got a live monkey for last year’s performance.”

  “I paid a hefty political price for that one,” he said.

  “Was it worth it?”

  “Oh yes,” Cygnus said, a little more softly, and Fenway had him.

  “I bet it was,” she purred. “When you’re in the middle of a project like this, it’s the most important thing in the world.”

  “That’s absolutely correct.”

  “But, Professor, I don’t think you’re seeing what a help this could be to you.”

  “Help? You intend to distract me from my life’s work, and you have the nerve to call it help?”

  “Oh, Professor,” Fenway said, leaning forward on the desk, “at this very minute, Nidever parents are wondering why you haven’t made a statement yet. The Guild office remains closed. You must keep parents on your side. After all, before you were here, this was just a stupid little liberal arts campus. You must have enough actors to continue your life’s work. People should flock to your London trips, not wonder why you won’t talk to the police, no?”

  “Well, I—”

  “It’s a great tragedy, Professor. One of your employees was found murdered, and we can’t clear your name yet. Listen, Professor, you’re done for the evening, right?”

  “I need to sleep. Opening night is tomorrow, and I have to—”

  “We can spend another twenty minutes arguing, or we can take ten minutes and be done with it.”

  Cygnus ran his palm from his forehead over his face to his chin. “Let it never be said that you’re not tenacious.”

  “Perseverance, my dear Lord, keeps honour bright.”

  “Oh, Troilus and Cressida.” Cygnus laughed. “You’re both tenacious and charming.”

  “That’s nice of you to say, Professor.”

  “I just call them like I see them. You have your ten minutes.”

  Fenway smiled. “I’ll make this quick. I just need to know your whereabouts between eleven o’clock and two o’clock on Tuesday night, or Wednesday early morning, if you prefer.”

  Professor Cygnus nodded and rubbed his chin. “Eleven o’clock?”

  “Yes.”

  “On Tuesday night, you say.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Cygnus acted like he was stalling for time, but then he dropped his hands to his side and spoke confidently. “I daresay that was just about an hour after rehearsal ended. I believe I had my things packed up by about ten thirty and I was on my way.”

  “Did anyone see you leave?”

  The professor shrugged. “I turned the lights off and locked the doors,” he said. “I walked to my car and drove home. Then I got ready for bed, quietly, so I wouldn’t wake my wife, and then I was in bed until morning.”

  “Did you stop anywhere?”

  “Stop anywhere? At ten thirty at night?”

  “Fast-food places are open. Maybe you were hungry. Long rehearsal and all.”

  He chuckled. “I intend to be studying the Bard on my hundredth birthday, and I won’t do that by eating burgers and fries.”

  Fenway smiled back. “No,” she said, “I’m sure you won’t. You didn’t stop for gas, either?”

  The professor laughed. “Had I known I’d need an alibi, I wouldn’t have been so careful to be quiet around Judith, would I?”

  “No,” Fenway said, “I suppose not. I wonder—would you be able to tell if anything is missing from The Guild’s office?”

  “On the second floor?” Professor Virgil Cygnus shrugged. “I’m not sure. To be honest, I don’t go there too often.”

  “But you’re the executive director.”

  “I’m also a full professor here,” he said, “but I only teach this single class in the fall, yet I get paid a full salary. Sometimes titles can be deceiving.”

  Fenway nodded. “By my watch, we have seven minutes left of the ten you’ve agreed to give me. Let’s go up and see. It’ll be good for us to see it through your eyes. I mean, you’ve been doing this so long, you must have those offices memorized like the back of your hand.”

  “I doubt that,” th
e professor said. “When you only see the office a couple of times a month, it’s quite unfamiliar.” He coughed. “And, as you can see, it’s late, and I don’t want to be tiptoeing around my bedroom again, stubbing my toe on the nightstand.”

  “I believe you agreed to ten minutes, Professor,” Fenway said.

  Professor Cygnus looked at Fenway, then heaved a sigh. “Very well,” he said. “Let’s take a trip up to the second floor and see what we can see.”

  The two of them turned and walked to the side of the lobby to the entry of the stairwell where Jessica Marquez’s body had been found. Fenway pushed the door open, and the professor went through.

  Fenway noticed that for a sexagenarian, Professor Cygnus was in excellent shape—and it wasn’t just the muscles in his arms. The professor raced up the stairs like a man half his age; Fenway took the stairs a little slower. Cygnus took the last three steps to the second-floor landing all at once and opened the door for Fenway. She tried to keep up.

  Fenway reached for the light switch on the hallway wall but had trouble finding it. The professor reached out with a practiced hand and turned the light switch on with ease. The second-floor hallway lit up, and they walked down the corridor until they came to the office of the North American Shakespeare Guild.

  “Professor?” Fenway asked. “Do you have a key?”

  Cygnus pulled a key chain out of his pocket and quickly unlocked the door. It swung open, revealing the mess inside.

  Fenway watched the professor’s face closely, looking for any telltale signs of surprise, of remorse, or of playacting.

  But she didn’t see any clues that the professor had seen the room in such a state of disrepair. Professor Cygnus’s eyes narrowed into two slits behind his glasses, and he took a deep breath and released it in a loud exhalation.

  “I can’t imagine who would have done this,” the professor murmured. “I don’t know this office as well as I should, but these files hold letters from Shakespearian actors, directors, stage managers. Others hold interview transcripts. The Guild’s most prized possessions. Is anything specific missing?”

  “We don’t have an inventory of what’s supposed to be in here,” said Fenway. “We didn’t come across any letters, but we did, for example, discover one of your awards from the West Coast Theater Professors.”

  “Educators,” the professor said automatically.

  “Right, Educators. It was for Macbeth. Was that the only award of theirs you won?” She wondered if the professor had The Merchant of Venice award somewhere else.

  The professor shook his head. “Those awards are all window dressing. Trying to get us to join their sham of an association. They don’t care about Shakespeare; they just want me to pay my thousand dollars in dues every year.”

  “Did you have any awards displayed that you did appreciate?” asked Fenway.

  “Sone are in my study at my home,” said the professor. “I’m sure there must have been something worthwhile here, besides the letters, I mean.” He scrunched up his face in thought. “I know we applied for a grant with a national Shakespeare theater association, but I’m not sure what happened to the application. Surely I would have been told if we had won, but I don’t think we ever received a trophy or a plaque.”

  “Professor,” asked Fenway, “would you take a look through the office—and Jessica’s as well—and see if anything is missing?”

  “Oh, I don’t know if that will help. As I’ve said, I don’t come into the office often, and when I do, I don’t stay long.”

  “Even if you took five minutes, it would help.”

  The professor shook his head vigorously. “I know I promised you a full ten minutes, but once I get started, I’ll most assuredly get wrapped up in some piece of memorabilia, or I’ll come across an old photo, or I will think about poor Jessica, and I’ll get sidetracked, and my concentration for opening night will wane.” He pressed his hands together as if he were onstage thanking the audience. “Now, if you’ll be kind enough to excuse me, I must collect my things and head out. I’m well on my way to being a grumpy old man, and if I don’t get my beauty sleep, I’m afraid I’ll turn from lovingly irascible to a plain old pain in the ass.”

  III

  Friday

  Chapter Sixteen

  As odd as it felt to have McVie wake up in her bed on Thursday morning, Fenway was equally out of sorts when he didn’t spend the night.

  She was up early and went for a run, but her knee twinged in pain after a mile. She hadn’t even made it to the butterfly waystation. She walked home, took her time getting ready, and while brushing her teeth, typed out a text to McVie.

  How was Megan’s volleyball game?

  Was that too needy? If she didn’t send it, would it seem shallow, or that she didn’t care about his daughter?

  Exasperated, she tossed her phone on the bed without sending the message and decided it was the day for one of her favorite dresses, one that she had been waiting for the weather to get cold enough to wear: a purple knee-length long-sleeved knit sweater dress with a generous cowl neck. She finished getting ready and walked out to the parking lot, startled by the Porsche 911 parked in her space.

  Fenway forgot how difficult sports cars were to get into wearing a dress, but she managed. She got to the office in record time, a few minutes before seven, and walked straight to it.

  Piper, wearing the same clothes as the day before, had three large paper coffee cups in front of her keyboard, next to a stack of printouts three inches high.

  “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Fenway said. “You worked all night?”

  Piper nodded. “Jordan signed off on the overtime yesterday, and I’m taking full advantage of my access while I have it.” She looked at Fenway and grinned. “In fact, I’ve been getting double-time since two this morning.”

  “What a way to spend your last day,” Fenway said.

  “You can take me to lunch next week,” Piper said. “I’ve got a ton of research to finish and only nine hours left.”

  “You packing your personal effects?” Fenway asked.

  “I’ve got some photos and some knickknacky-type stuff. Less than a box. It’ll take me ten minutes.”

  “When are they making you leave?”

  “Five o’clock, although I’m sure they’ll start breathing down my neck after lunch.”

  “That’s a big pile of research,” Fenway said, eyeing the stack on Piper’s desk.

  “I’ll need to go over it with you,” Piper said. “Explain what some of it means.”

  “You’ll have time this afternoon?”

  “No. I’ll talk you through it over the weekend. Or next week.”

  “But you won’t be working for us.”

  “I’ll explain it to you for free. Maybe you can buy me lunch and dinner on Saturday.”

  “You can’t go over it with me this afternoon?”

  Piper clicked her tongue. “I won’t have access to this computer system after five p.m. I will have access to my brain after that. I can explain this stuff to you after I lose computer access.” She looked at Fenway. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve got a ton of shit to do and you’re distracting me.”

  Fenway was a little taken aback. “Oh, sorry.”

  “No problem. Hey, can you go to Java Jim’s and get me an extra-large drip?”

  “Uh—sure.” Fenway leaned forward and squinted at the screen. “Is that a list of the automated payments that went into Grayheath’s account?”

  “Uh—yeah.” Piper looked up at Fenway. “So, that coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  Piper stared at Fenway’s face.

  “Oh, now?”

  “I’ve been up all night, Fenway. Working on your investigation.”

  “Yeah, yeah, of course. Large drip coffee.”

  “Extra-large.”

  When Fenway delivered the coffee, Piper grunted thanks but didn’t invite her to stick around. As Fenway was leaving the it office, her phone d
inged: it was McVie, asking her to meet at Jack and Jill’s. The promise of a decent breakfast—and, to be honest, seeing McVie again—put a smile on Fenway’s face. She sent an affirmative reply and sped over to the diner. She parked the Porsche on the other side of the lot, far away from the other cars, and walked in with her laptop bag over one shoulder. McVie was already there, a steaming mug of coffee in front of him, looking at papers spread on the table.

  The server gave her a knowing smile and mouthed “Coffee?” to her as she sat down.

  Fenway nodded and turned to McVie. He had three file folders on his right, next to the salt and pepper shakers, and he looked up.

  “Wow,” he said, his eyes widening slightly. “You look fantastic in that dress.”

  “Thanks,” Fenway said. “Thirty bucks.”

  “So look at this,” McVie said, tearing his eyes away from Fenway and sliding the folder over to her. She opened the file and the photo of Rose Morgan stared back. “Look at her college records and work experience.”

  Fenway looked at the papers inside. Before she worked as the accountant for Central Auto Body, Rose had grown up in San Luis, New Mexico, and had attended the University of Texas El Paso as an accounting major.

  “Right, accounting,” Fenway said. “That all tracks with her hr file.”

  “No,” said McVie. “It didn’t say utep in the hr file. That file said she got an associate’s degree at pq Community.”

  Fenway furrowed her brow. “Why would you say you have a lower degree than the one you actually have?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s suspicious, isn’t it?”

  “Okay, yes, that’s suspicious.” Fenway scanned down the page at Rose’s work history.

  “Petrogrande. They’re—what, Venezuelan?”

  McVie shook his head. “Colombian.”

  “But she worked out of Houston.”

  “Right. About twenty years ago they were bought by Van der Meer Energie, and they’ve got their American operations in Houston now.”

  “Van der Meer—they’re Dutch, right?”