The Reluctant Coroner

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  She walked for a few minutes and passed the first grove of trees into a small clearing. The mist in the clearing was thicker than in the trees; the branches and leaves were making a canopy, keeping the thick, soupy fog at bay. On the other side of the clearing was another patch of trees. Fenway passed a brown metal sign, identifying the trees as a monarch butterfly waystation. She looked up at the upper branches. If there were butterflies up there today, they weren’t making themselves known. She kept on the path, the white starbursts of milkweed on each side, and came out on the other side of the second grove into a grassy area that led to a short drop off, maybe five feet or so, to a sandy beach, and about three hundred feet farther out, the Pacific.

  Fenway walked to the edge of the drop-off and stopped. She had an odd feeling; she didn’t think she had been there before, and yet she remembered everything about the spot: the cypress tree, windblown into its odd shape, coming out of the rock formation; the drop-off, a barstool-height drop onto the mixture of sand, shrubs, and dirt; the black oil in spots on the sand from the offshore drilling—that her father was mostly responsible for. Fenway remembered the spot and closed her eyes. She listened to the clicking in the trees behind her. She listened to the sound of the waves crashing on the shore.

  She figured it out.

  It was one of her mother’s paintings: a four-foot wide by two-foot high canvas that her mother had hung above the dresser in the little house on 128th Street in Seattle. The dresser was in the moving van, with the drawers numbered on the bottom in her mother’s unmistakable handwriting, with one of her good charcoals.

  It’s a beautiful painting, Fenway thought. She had assumed it was near Seattle, maybe somewhere on the Olympic Peninsula, or maybe down further, near where the Columbia empties into the Pacific. She had never realized that her mother had painted a place in California—this place, of all places. Her mother loved that painting. Once people started buying her work again, they had wanted to buy that one, yet she had never sold it. Maybe, Fenway thought, that no matter how bad it had been for her mother in California, inspiration and hope were never far away. Her mother had found a beautiful spot overlooking the ocean, near a butterfly grove, around the corner from a coffee shop, and she made it hers, even when she was a thousand miles away.

  ◆◆◆

  Fenway spent more than half an hour walking along the beach in the chilly ocean air. When she went back to the apartment, just after 7:45, she saw a policeman at her door—possibly the sheriff Stotsky had said was looking for her the previous night. The policeman was in a black uniform with a black belt and boots. Although it wasn’t yet eight o’clock, he was already knocking. Fenway tried to be loud enough on her approach for him to hear her, but his full attention was on the door to 214.

  “Can I help you?” she asked aloud, once her other attempts proved futile.

  He jumped a little bit, but quickly regained his composure. “Hi there. I’m looking for Fenway Stevenson.”

  He was white and his skin was pale, with a smattering of freckles on his nose and cheeks, possibly Irish or Scottish, Fenway thought. He was tall—a good three or four inches taller than Fenway’s five-ten—and trim, but his short-sleeved uniform shirt showed off some healthy biceps. At first, Fenway thought he was probably in his thirties, but as she studied his blue eyes and his strong, clean-shaven chin, she realized he might be older, perhaps mid- to late-forties. His eyes were bright and round, but the laugh lines around them told of more life experience. His uniform was neatly pressed, and his hardware was shined up, as were his black boots.

  Fenway felt a little out of sorts being in workout clothes. She pulled off her headband and shook her hair out a bit, hoping it wasn’t too frizzy. “I’m Fenway Stevenson. Is anything wrong?” Fenway was uneasy. She still had no clue why the sheriff would be looking for her.

  He smiled easily, showing white teeth, a slightly crooked right front incisor, just enough to be cute, Fenway thought. He laughed a little, and it sounded surprisingly genuine. “Oh, sorry.” Fenway wondered if he had noticed her apprehension, or if he hadn’t been expecting the daughter of Nathaniel Ferris to look like she did. “Did Rob Stotsky mention that I came by last night?”

  “He did, and I guess I was a little worried. Is everything OK?”

  “Yes. Well, you’re not in any trouble, if that’s what you mean.” His face grew serious. “But I’ve got some matters I need to discuss with you. Can we go inside to talk?”

  Fenway hesitated. “Well, we could, but there’s nowhere to sit. I literally drove in last night, and I haven’t even brought anything from the truck. My dad said he’d send a couple people to help me bring stuff in today—I think they’ll be here in about an hour.”

  The sheriff shifted his stance from one foot to the other. “How about this—have you had breakfast yet?”

  “Just coffee.”

  “Well then, how about we go to Jack and Jill’s and I buy you breakfast, and you can call your dad to tell him to get his people to start unpacking the truck. I’ll even get a couple of my guys to help unload the truck so most of it will be done when we get back.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “McVie.” He gestured to the name badge on his chest. “Sheriff Craig McVie, at your service.”

  Fenway pulled out her phone and called a number, almost without thinking.

  Her father answered on the first ring. “Nathaniel Ferris,” he said gruffly, like he wasn’t expecting it to be a personal call.

  “Hi Dad, it’s me.”

  His tone brightened. “Fenway! You made it! Did you meet Rob? Did he treat you all right? Listen, I’ve got two of my guys coming to—”

  “Hang on, Dad,” Fenway cut him off. “The sheriff is here. Sheriff McVie.”

  “Ah, Craig’s there already.”

  “You know why?”

  “Yes.” His tone grew concerned. “Listen, he’s got to talk to you about something serious. I know you just got in last night, but it’s important. And I mean that it might help the whole community.”

  Fenway paused, trying to decipher her father’s words. She gave up. “What does that mean?”

  “You’re going to have to talk to Craig about this.”

  Fenway looked over at Sheriff McVie, who was looking back at her, watching her exchange. “Okay, Dad. He wanted to explain something to me at breakfast and let a couple of his deputies help unload the truck.” She paused. “I guess I was calling you to make sure this isn’t some elaborate scam to steal my ten-year-old mattress and Mom’s dining room set.”

  Her father laughed. “Seriously, Fenway? Craig’s on the up-and-up. Listen, we’ll have your stuff all set up in the apartment for you by the time you get back. Hopefully we’ll put the silverware in the right drawer and everything. It’s the least I can do.”

  “I’d really rather—” Fenway began, and then stopped. As much as she didn’t want her father rummaging through her stuff without her being there, she knew that her father considered himself much too important to even show up to help—much less do any of the manual labor. She thought about the different possible scenarios, and her options otherwise. She’d rather be present when they showed up, but it still beat lugging furniture up a flight of stairs alone, without her father’s help. Besides, if she wanted her silverware in a different drawer, or her plates in a different cabinet, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. And, Fenway reasoned, there was always the off chance they’d actually get it right. Or close enough, anyway.

  Plus, the conversation would end a lot faster. “Sorry. I’d love the help. Getting the place set up sounds great. Thanks, Dad.”

  “You’re welcome.” He paused. “Fenway, I know this is awkward.”

  “Yeah—but listen, the sheriff is waiting for me. We can talk later.” Fenway closed her eyes for a moment, hoping the two of them would never have the conversation about how uncomfortable it was for her to be back in Estancia, but realizing she was likely only postponing it
until later.

  “Sure, sure. Yes, I understand. Hey—Craig’s taking you to Mimosa’s, right?”

  “No, some place called Jack and Jill’s.”

  “Oh, for the love of—tell him I say to take you to Mimosa’s. They have a fried egg with hazelnuts, chanterelles, green garlic, and blackberries. It’s to die for. Jack and Jill’s is just a glorified Denny’s.”

  “Sure, Dad.” Fenway’s stomach rumbled; a glorified Denny’s sounded excellent. “Thanks for the help, I appreciate it.”

  She hung up.

  “Everything cool?” asked the sheriff.

  “Apparently your choice of breakfast places doesn’t meet with his approval.”

  “Aw, crap, did he say Mimosa’s? I hate Mimosa’s. It’s too hoity-toity.”

  “He wanted me to get eggs with hazelnuts and blackberries. And green garlic.” She made a face. “I don’t even know what green garlic is.”

  “Yeah, it’s out of my league, too. The most exotic thing Jack and Jill’s has on their menu is French toast.”

  “I won’t tell him if you don’t.” Fenway felt the corners of her mouth turn up slightly.

  “Deal. Need anything from inside before we go?”

  Fenway shook her head.

  Sheriff McVie led the way down the set of concrete stairs to the parking lot, where the green and white police cruiser was waiting for them.

  He opened the passenger door for Fenway and she got in. She ran her hand over the dash. “It’s nice to ride in the front seat of one of these,” she said.

  He started the car and glanced over at her. “You’ve ridden in the back?” He reversed out of the parking space.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s the story with that?” He turned onto the main road, heading the opposite direction from the Coffee Bean.

  “It was a long time ago. Well, maybe not that long. It was in college.”

  “Drunk and disorderly?”

  Fenway snorted, half-laughing. “No. Boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.”

  “Funny, you don’t have an arrest record.”

  Fenway looked sideways at McVie. “My father had you check up on me?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Well, I talked my way out of that one. The cop said I reminded him of his daughter. I had to promise him not to see my ex-boyfriend again.”

  “And did you?”

  “Of course not, Sheriff. I wouldn’t lie to the police.” She smiled as coquettishly as she could at McVie.

  The sheriff smiled back, but it was a sad smile, and he shook his head. “I wish my daughter wouldn’t lie to the police. She’s sixteen and I’ve already caught her lying about being with her boyfriend. I don’t think I want to know any more details about you and your ex.”

  “Oh. No. Definitely not.” Fenway glanced over. McVie had a band of gold around his left ring finger. She felt a pang of disappointment.

  They rode in silence until they arrived at Jack and Jill’s. The restaurant was on a frontage road next to the main highway. Fenway thought it looked like it had started its life out as an IHOP, complete with the telltale A-frame roof. The two of them walked in. The interiors were heavy on maple paneling. Fenway felt like she was in a seventies-era Alps ski-lodge, more appropriate for a restaurant based on the Hansel and Gretel fairy tale rather than the Jack and Jill nursery rhyme. Fenway looked at the walls and other decorations—not a pail of water or broken crown to be seen.

  The smells of bacon and coffee were strong by the front register where Fenway was waiting behind McVie. She was glad they had gone there instead of the fancy breakfast place.

  The rosy-cheeked server came up to greet them. “Table for two?” she cheerfully asked the sheriff. She grabbed two menus and seated them in a booth by the window that had maple benches with wooden backs, and green cushions on the seats.

  “Your server will be right with you,” she said, turning away.

  Fenway opened the menu and turned her coffee cup right-side-up. “So, what did you want to talk with me about, Sheriff?”

  McVie turned his cup over too, but kept his menu closed. “Well, it’s kind of a delicate matter. And it’s not really breakfast conversation.”

  Fenway gave a tight smile. “I have a pretty strong stomach.”

  “That’s what your dad told me. You’re a nurse, right?”

  The server came up, a coffee-skinned woman of about thirty, with her black hair pulled back in a severe bun. She took their coffee order and stepped away, nearly bumping into a man dressed just like the sheriff.

  “Hey, Sheriff,” the man said.

  McVie looked up. “Hey, Callahan.”

  “I need the keys if we’re going to unpack Miss Ferris’s truck.”

  “Stevenson,” she corrected, before fishing the keys out of the pocket of her sweats.

  “What?”

  “Stevenson,” she repeated. “My mom’s last name. I’m Miss Stevenson, not Miss Ferris.”

  “Sorry, Miss Stevenson. I didn’t know.”

  “No problem, officer. Thanks for unloading the truck. It’s a big help.”

  Callahan tipped his imaginary hat in acknowledgment and left. The sheriff watched him walk out then turned back to Fenway.

  “A nurse practitioner,” she said.

  McVie tilted his head. “What?”

  “You asked if I was a nurse. I’m actually a nurse practitioner.”

  “Okay.” He smiled. “I’ll cut to the chase—we have a problem that came up the day before yesterday. I think that you can really help us out because of you being a nurse. Nurse practitioner. Your background in the emergency room. The fact that you’re just one class away from a forensic nursing degree.”

  Fenway set her jaw. Of course her father had an agenda for helping her out in Estancia. She had been halfway prepared for the agenda to reveal itself—maybe in the awkward conversation with him that she was hoping to avoid. Maybe after a couple of months of the “reduced rent” that she thought might be held over her head. But she wasn’t prepared for the agenda to show itself before she had even started unpacking.

  She opened her mouth to respond, but the server appeared with the coffee and asked if they were ready to order. Fenway had been thinking a simple two-egg breakfast, but if she had to start figuring out her father’s agenda and start to play family politics through the sheriff, she deserved something a little pricier. So, she purposely ordered the most expensive thing on the menu, a smoked salmon benedict. She would have ordered a full lobster if it had been on the menu.

  McVie ordered bacon and eggs.

  After handing their menus back, she looked McVie right in the eyes. “So, did my dad give you all that background on me?”

  “Yes. Most of it.”

  “I didn’t think my dad knew much of anything I’ve done for the last twenty years.” She tried to keep the edge out of her voice.

  “Well, he does. He’s done his research.”

  “What, did he hire a private investigator or something?”

  McVie looked into Fenway’s eyes, held them for a moment, then broke into a grin.

  Fenway broke McVie’s gaze and shook her head. “Listen, Sheriff, I know my dad, so I was kind of expecting the mortifying invasion of privacy. I just didn’t realize it would start so soon.”

  “Well, before you get too upset, let me tell you the reason why we’re even having this discussion.”

  “Fine.”

  “The county coroner was found murdered two nights ago.”

  “Oh.” Fenway paused for a moment and felt a pang of regret for the expensive breakfast order. “I’m sorry. Were you close?”

  “We were co-workers. I’d have a beer with Harry after work a few times a year, mostly with other folks around. But that was it.” The sheriff took a drink of his coffee. “His name was Harrison Walker. Your dad was actually a little closer to him. He bankrolled his first campaign for Coroner about six years ago.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

 
“Late Sunday night,” McVie said, “Walker’s body was found face down on the side of Highway 326, just before it goes into Coast Harbor State Park.”

  “That’s awful. And you said he was murdered?”

  “Shot in the back.”

  Fenway hesitated a second, but pressed on. “So, where exactly do I fit into the equation?”

  “Well, Coroner is an elected position in Dominguez County. And one of my responsibilities as sheriff here is to appoint people to vacant positions—and we’ve got a vacancy for the county coroner.” He took another sip of coffee. “As hard as it was to do yesterday, I had to start thinking about who to appoint until the next election in November.”

  “Six months from now? Doesn’t California have an election in June?”

  He shook his head. “Well, we do have primary elections the first week of June, but the deadlines passed last month. We wouldn’t be able get the coroner position on the ballot now. November is the next available date to hold an election.”

  “You know, Sheriff, for saying you’d get right to the point, you’re sure taking a long time.”

  “Fair enough.” He cleared his throat. “It’s come to my attention that you, Fenway, might be the perfect appointee.”

  “Perfect?” Fenway scoffed. “There must be a dozen other people more qualified.”

  “I’ll admit that we had a couple of other names come up. One of the county supervisors, an optometrist, has been angling for the position. He lost to Walker in the last election. There’s a vice president at Carpetti Pharmaceuticals who I heard was interested, too.” McVie shook his head. “But neither of them can take the job right away. The optometrist has patients to see, and he’d have to sell his business. The Carpetti VP is in the middle of getting a new pain medication approved by the FDA. They’ll probably both run for coroner in November, when they’ve tied up their loose ends.”