The Upstaged Coroner

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  “Have you seen her wear it lately?”

  Denise expertly swept up the last few grains of rice on her chopsticks. “Perhaps earlier this week. Monday or Tuesday. She doesn’t wear it often.”

  Fenway nodded. “Great, Denise. Thanks. Oh—it’s opening night tonight, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is.”

  “Well, break a leg.”

  Denise smiled, wiping her hands on her napkin. “I appreciate the sentiment, though I can’t say I hold much stock in superstition. But thank you.” As Denise gathered her books and walked off with her tray, McVie looked at the line at Ernesto’s, which had shortened considerably. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s time for us to find out where Xavier is.” Fenway’s stomach growled. “And to order a super burrito.”

  Chapter Twenty

  McVie and Fenway stood in line at Ernesto’s, but didn’t see Xavier. The student center started to empty, and no one stood behind them. They patiently waited while the young man in front of them—dressed in board shorts and flip-flops even on this chilly November day—dithered between bistec and pollo asado for far too long, and then asked for an exhaustive list of ingredients inside the burrito before finally finishing his order and stepping to the side.

  The two of them ordered super burritos with horchata to drink.

  “I don’t see Xavier,” Fenway whispered to McVie as they stood off to the side, waiting for their food.

  “I don’t, either. I thought maybe he’d be in the kitchen.”

  After a few minutes, the chef placed two super burritos, wrapped in foil, onto a tray and dinged a bell. The cashier grabbed it and placed it on the counter, then ladled out horchata into two paper cups. He looked up at McVie. “It’s ready, sir.”

  “Thanks,” McVie said. “Say, is Xavier around?”

  The cashier shook his head. “He’s not scheduled today. He’ll be in on Saturday. The morning shift.”

  McVie nodded, picked up the tray, and walked over to the nearest open table, about thirty feet from the front counter. Fenway followed close behind.

  Fenway spoke to McVie in a low voice. “Makes sense. He’s the lead in the play—probably want to focus on his performance. So now what?”

  “Now we eat our burritos,” McVie whispered. “We’ve got some time before Cygnus’s office hours start.”

  Fenway sighed, a long, slow exhale.

  “Oh, please,” McVie said. “I know you’ve been wanting a burrito for hours. Be happy and take it.”

  “I need some salsa.” Fenway scooted to the side and started to get up.

  “Get me some too.”

  She looked at McVie out of the corner of her eye.

  “Please.”

  Fenway nodded and walked up to the salsa bar, spooning two scoops of habañero and a single scoop of mild verde salsa into squat clear plastic containers, snapped the tops on, turned around—and almost smacked into Dr. Pruitt.

  “Miss Stevenson!” he said, taking a step back and putting a hand up to his chest, probably to check for any spilled salsa on his suit or dress shirt.

  “Sorry!” Fenway said. “I was just grabbing some lunch before we, uh, follow up on some leads.”

  “Leads?” Dr. Pruitt said. “Getting closer to finding out what happened to poor Jessica?”

  The wheels spun in Fenway’s head. “Dr. Pruitt, maybe you can help us.”

  “Oh, of course.” But his face betrayed his lack of enthusiasm.

  Fenway went over to the table, putting the salsa down, and pulled her phone out of her purse.

  McVie looked up, chewing a big bite of burrito, but didn’t say anything.

  “We met a person of interest,” she said to Dr. Pruitt, tapping the photo app on her phone, “and we’ve got witnesses who put her with Jessica Marquez last week.” She double-tapped on the photo of Rose Morgan and her picture filled the screen. “Here you go,” she said, holding the phone up so he could see the picture. She stared at his face while he saw the picture.

  “Oh,” Dr. Pruitt said, his eyes flitting across the phone screen. He hesitated and then finally spoke. “No,” he said, sounding puzzled. “I, uh, wanted to say that she looked familiar, but I don’t know, a lot of the students here look so alike.”

  Fenway almost said something. She noticed—and Xavier had pointed out—how the Nidever students lacked diversity. She looked around the student union. Had Xavier been working, he would have been one of maybe four or five black students in the whole building, and just like Xavier, Rose Morgan would have stood out like a sore thumb. “Take a closer look, Dr. Pruitt. She looks young, but she’s actually not a student.”

  “Oh, that’s surprising. She looks like a senior, or maybe a grad student.”

  “Nope, she’s twenty-eight. She’s got several years of experience as an accountant. Maybe you know her in a professional capacity? Maybe she interviewed for a position in the finance department?”

  Dr. Pruitt laughed. “You know, that must be it. I must have seen her in the building when she was interviewing.”

  “That’s great,” McVie said, standing up, his burrito half finished in the foil. “I appreciate the hr department being so forthcoming with Ms. Marquez’s records, although the records were sadly incomplete—we didn’t even find a résumé or a filled-out job application. Do you think we can stop by and see if there are any records of this woman?”

  Dr. Pruitt blanched. “I honestly don’t even know if we’d keep records of anything like that.”

  “That’s okay,” McVie said. “I can ask your hr director.”

  “Um… sure,” Dr. Pruitt said. “I’ll make sure that the director knows to make any files available to you. Can’t make any promises, though.” He coughed. “I don’t think we keep records on people who just interview if they don’t get the job.”

  “Yes, you said that,” Fenway replied, nodding.

  “Oh—did I? Well, it’s true. We may have had some trouble in the past of records getting into the wrong hands—”

  “The wrong hands? You mean someone stole the records?”

  “Uh—no, not that,” Dr. Pruitt stammered. “I mean, we suspected—that is, it turned out—oh, it doesn’t matter.”

  “What did you suspect?”

  “No, no, forget it.” A trickle of sweat ran down Dr. Pruitt’s forehead. “I’m just thinking out loud. Of course, I’d be happy to get you whatever we have on Miss Morgan.”

  “We’d appreciate it,” McVie said.

  “Hang on,” Fenway said.

  Both Dr. Pruitt and the sheriff looked at her.

  “We didn’t mention her name.” Fenway looked in Dr. Pruitt’s eyes. “We just said she talked with Jessica Marquez last week.”

  All the color drained out of Pruitt’s face. “No, no,” he said, “I’m sure you mentioned it.”

  “She didn’t,” McVie said.

  “So, Dr. Pruitt,” Fenway continued, “you do know who she is. You just don’t want us to know that you are familiar with the accountant for Central Auto Body.” She set her jaw. “And that makes me think you have something to hide.”

  “Now, just wait.” Dr. Pruitt held up his hands in front of him. “I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

  McVie’s jaw clenched. “You’ve already given us the wrong idea by lying to us, Dr. Pruitt.” He took a step forward. “We’ve been nothing but accommodating. You didn’t want classes on the second floor interrupted the day before yesterday, so I brought an extra crime scene tech on the scene so we could finish faster. You didn’t want us to disrupt the rehearsal schedule that Professor Cygnus put in place, so we’ve worked around it—which, if I can be frank, might have jeopardized the investigation.”

  “I appreciate it,” Dr. Pruitt mumbled.

  “I don’t think you do,” McVie said. “I think you’ve taken advantage of your political clout to get yourself some distance from whatever it is you’re trying to hide.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to get ri
d of evidence, Sheriff,” Fenway suggested. “I wonder if a judge will think there’s enough here to approve a forensic accountant going through Nidever’s—”

  “Now, there’s no need for that!” Dr. Pruitt drew himself up to his full height, although his eyes still looked up at Fenway. “If you want to get attorneys involved, sure, keep talking about forensic accountants.”

  McVie took another step forward. “Forensic accountants? Do you think that’s all we’ll do? You’re already in danger of an obstruction charge, and now we’ve got a person of interest who might connect Jessica Marquez’s death to some other recent murders in this town. This would be a good time to start talking.”

  Dr. Pruitt’s mouth opened and closed several times. Finally, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Let me take care of a couple of things, and then we can speak in my office. Meet me there in forty-five minutes.”

  He spun on his heel and left Fenway and McVie standing there in disbelief.

  “What do you think?” Fenway asked McVie.

  “I think Dr. Pruitt’s got a lot of explaining to do.”

  “Do you think he killed Jessica and he’s trying to escape?”

  McVie shook his head. “No. I don’t think he killed Jessica, but I think he knows more than he’s letting on about the money laundering.”

  “Do you think he went back to his office to get rid of some evidence?”

  McVie thought for a moment. “I think what he has to say to us is more valuable than whatever evidence he thinks he can get rid of. If he does get rid of evidence—especially if it’s on his computer—we can find it in no time. If we follow him over there, he’ll definitely clam up.”

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t follow him to his office?”

  “No—especially since I’ve already made some bad judgment calls in the last couple of days. But it’s my best guess.”

  Fenway nodded. “Then before we go over there, I think we should talk to the students—and to Professor Cygnus—again.”

  McVie looked at his watch. “Forty-five minutes. That’ll be two o’clock. We’ve got enough time to follow up with Amanda Kohl.”

  “Isn’t she working in The Guild office today?”

  McVie shook his head. “The office is officially closed until further notice. Still a crime scene.”

  “Shall we go to her dorm?”

  “Yep. Plus we can look for that Kendra Quinlan blouse. Even if it’s not missing a button, maybe I can see where she bought it. You never know—perhaps I can save myself some money on Megan’s Christmas gift.”

  “This is turning into quite the adventure.”

  McVie elbowed Fenway and grinned. “And you thought having lunch in the student center would be a waste of time.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The two of them trekked across campus with McVie consulting the map on his phone, until they arrived at the San Sebastian Residence Hall. Just as they came upon the walkway, Fenway’s phone dinged. It was a message from Dez.

  “Shit,” Fenway said.

  “What?”

  “Rose Morgan. Her lawyer got there and insisted they leave. No information, no discussion.”

  McVie’s phone dinged next. He glanced at it and grimaced. “At least Dez keeps us both in the know.”

  They walked into the residence hall, and a rosy-cheeked young blond woman at the front desk greeted them brightly.

  “Hi, officer! Welcome to San Sebastian Hall. Can I help you with something?”

  “Good afternoon,” McVie said. “I’m Sheriff Craig McVie and this is Coroner Stevenson.”

  “Coroner?” the woman said, her smile faltering.

  “We’re here to talk with Amanda Kohl. I understand her room is in this residence hall.”

  “It sure is,” she said. “I can call up and have her come down.”

  “No need.” McVie held his hands up. “We’d prefer to go up ourselves.”

  “Um, hang on.” The woman picked up the phone and turned halfway in her chair, lowering her voice. Fenway couldn’t make out more than a word or two—sheriff, privacy, student, and rights. After a couple of minutes, she hung up and turned to them, her smile back on her face.

  “Someone will be right with you to take you up.”

  “We can find it ourselves,” McVie said.

  “Our elevators need card keys to work,” the woman said. “I’m sure you understand.”

  McVie smiled.

  A minute later, an equally rosy-cheeked young man appeared. His face bore the remnants of acne on his pallid skin, but he radiated enthusiasm. He strode toward them with his hand out. “I’m Toby, one of the resident advisors here at San Seb. I hear you’d like me to take you to a resident’s room?”

  “Amanda Kohl,” McVie said, his voice pleasant enough, although Fenway detected frustration a layer underneath. In most people the equivalent would have been gritted teeth.

  After an elevator ride to the sixth floor, they stood in front of a door. 618 was prominently affixed about five feet up, and the sign on the wall, next to the door at doorknob-height, said kohl / jensen.

  “Well, Sheriff, here it is,” Toby said. “Shall I leave you to it?”

  “Thanks, Toby,” McVie said, taking a step forward and knocking loudly on the door.

  Toby hustled down the hall and went around the corner before the door opened.

  Amanda Kohl’s face appeared in the opening between the door and the jamb. “Oh—hello.” She was mostly in shadow, but she had on a crisp white-collared oxford shirt over black leggings. Her feet were bare.

  “Hi, Amanda,” Fenway said, smiling as genuinely as she could. “I hate to bother you, but we have to get this investigation moving, and those students who were closest to Jessica Marquez are next. I was hoping we could continue our conversation from yesterday morning.”

  “Uh… sure, I guess.”

  “Mind if we come in?”

  Amanda took a step back and looked around the small dorm room. “I don’t know—this is my roommate’s stuff too….”

  “We just want to have a private conversation,” Fenway said, taking a step forward.

  Amanda let go of the door and took a backward step into the dorm room. “It’s kind of a mess. With opening night and all.”

  Fenway pushed the door open. A few clothes lay on the floor, and one of the beds wasn’t made, but the room was otherwise tidy and clean. Even the nightstand was organized, with a vintage-style alarm clock, a small art deco lamp, and a Magic 8 Ball artfully arranged on it. Fenway looked at the closet at the foot of the unmade bed; its door was pulled shut.

  “We figured you’d be available since you were scheduled to work,” McVie said, following Fenway inside.

  Amanda laughed nervously. “I suppose that makes sense.”

  Fenway nodded. “I wondered how you got along with Jessica.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you worked for her, didn’t you? What kind of boss was she?”

  “Fine, I guess. She gave me hours, which was great, since I was saving up to go on that theater trip. Of course, she slept with my boyfriend, too, which wasn’t great.”

  “But you didn’t know until yesterday?”

  “No.” Amanda’s shoulders slumped. “I get it. He and I weren’t exclusive. I just—I guess I thought we were heading that way.”

  Fenway nodded sympathetically. “I still have to ask about what kind of boss she was, though. Was she demanding? Was she friendly?”

  Amanda shrugged. “She wasn’t that demanding. It’s not like we were working on world hunger or anything. I’d open the mail, I’d update the website, I’d keep track of who signed up for the trips and whether they’d paid or not.”

  “That pretty much sounds like accounting work.”

  “I guess some of it was. Jessica oversaw the books, too, I think.”

  “You think? What did she do for The Guild?”

  Amanda looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “We
ll, if she had the students do the majority of the work for her, what did she do all day?”

  Amanda sat on the unmade bed and grabbed the Magic 8 Ball off the nightstand. “I don’t know. I assume she had to do some fundraising, or maybe coordinate the actors visiting the groups in London. We had Carter Henson do a version of Christmas in St. Louis last year; I know she did a lot to coordinate the venue, the flights to get Mr. Henson here from New York, stuff like that.” Amanda thought for a moment, turning the Magic 8 Ball over in her hands. “Although I think a student picked him up from the airport.”

  Fenway nodded and took a breath. “Are you sure you didn’t know about Jessica and Xavier? Other students knew.”

  Amanda took a sharp breath. “I didn’t know for sure. I didn’t—I didn’t want to believe it.”

  “Did you ever talk to Jessica about her sleeping with Xavier?”

  Amanda bowed her head again.

  “If I open that closet door, Amanda, will I find a Kendra Quinlan blouse with a button missing?”

  Amanda looked up, surprised. “I, uh…”

  McVie stood up and pulled the closet open.

  “Hey!” Amanda shouted. “You need a warrant to do that!”

  McVie shook his head. “Not in a university-owned dormitory. You signed a bunch of paperwork when you agreed to live here.”

  Amanda’s eyes turned dark, but she said nothing more.

  “Oh,” McVie said, turning to the closet, “my daughter wanted this exact blouse.” He pulled out a black-and-white tulip-sleeved blouse with a large collar and four large buttons with the kq logo down the front. “But I seem to remember there were five buttons on it.”

  Fenway piped up. “That fifth button ended up in the second-floor hallway, outside of the stairwell where Jessica’s body was found, Amanda.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”