The Candidate Coroner
Page 1
Also by Paul Austin Ardoin
Fenway Stevenson Mysteries
The Reluctant Coroner
The Incumbent Coroner
The Candidate Coroner
The Upstaged Coroner
The Courtroom Coroner (Coming Soon)
Fenway Stevenson Mysteries Collection
The Fenway Stevenson Mysteries, Collection One
Standalone
Bad Weather
Watch for more at Paul Austin Ardoin’s site.
THE CANDIDATE CORONER
BOOK THREE
OF THE FENWAY STEVENSON MYSTERIES
Paul Austin Ardoin
THE CANDIDATE CORONER
Copyright © 2019 Paul Austin Ardoin
All rights reserved.
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-949082-06-7
Cover design by Ziad Ezzat of Feral Creative Colony
Author photo by Monica Toohey-Krause of Studio KYK
Information about the author can be found at http://www.paulaustinardoin.com
Table of Contents
Part I Thursday
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Part II Friday
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part III Saturday
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Part IV Sunday
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Part V Monday
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Part VI Tuesday
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Part I
Thursday
Chapter One
THE SKY THREATENED rain as Fenway Stevenson walked through the gate into the Hanford Women’s Prison. She had an appointment to see the woman who had tried to kill her.
She carried her purse over her left shoulder, and her right hand held the envelope she had received the previous day. She put both in the plastic basket, walked through the metal detector, collected her things, and joined a line of people in front of a stark white counter staffed by two bored-looking guards.
While she waited, she opened the envelope, pulled out the letter, and read it again.
Dear Miss Stevenson,
I’ve had a lot of time to think, and now I know I was wrong. You didn’t help cover up the death of my husband.
I need to apologize. I shouldn’t have threatened you with the gun. I knew it was wrong when I did it, but I thought it was the only way I’d get to the truth. But now I’ve got proof you’re not going to rubber-stamp everything your father wants.
I’m writing to apologize, but I’d also like your help. You must think I have a lot of nerve, asking you for help after threatening you. You don’t owe me anything, and I won’t be able to repay you. Instead, I appeal to your sense of justice.
My husband didn’t get justice when he died in that hallway in the refinery. And I may be able to help get him the justice he deserves.
Please meet with me in person. I’m at the Hanford Women’s Prison. I can talk more then.
Sincerely,
Lana Cassidy
Fenway wondered if it had been a good idea to reschedule that afternoon’s campaign speech at the downtown association to drive all the way out here.
When she got to the counter, Fenway handed the guard her paperwork, her county identification card on top.
The guard saw her identification and the bored look in his eyes disappeared. “Fenway Stevenson? You’re the county coroner, right?”
Fenway nodded.
He flipped through her papers. “You here to interview Ms. Cassidy?”
“Yes,” Fenway said. “She has information pertaining to a cold case.”
The guard narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t Ms. Cassidy try to kill you a few months ago?”
“That’s correct.”
“Isn’t that what she’s in here for?”
Fenway held up the letter. “Looks like she’s remorseful for her past actions. And wants to help.”
The guard nodded. “All right. We’ll bring her out to room four.” He cleared his throat. “You have any trouble with her, you push the red button next to the table and a guard will be in immediately.” He pointed at a corridor behind Fenway.
She nodded and turned to walk down the corridor, brightly but soullessly lit with fluorescents, before she opened the last door on the left.
The room was bare except for a metal table and two straight-backed chairs. Two windows along the back wall looked out into another hallway. Fenway put her purse down on a chair and paced around the small room.
After a few minutes, the door on the other side opened, and a different guard brought in the prisoner. The last time Fenway had seen Lana Cassidy, she had vibrant blonde hair; now it was a mottled light brown with streaks of gray. Lana sat down at her side of the table.
“Do you want me to stay in the room?” the guard said.
Fenway shook her head. “We need to talk privately.”
The guard looked at Fenway, perhaps measuring her up. She then looked over at Lana, who avoided eye contact.
“Okay,” the guard said. “You call me with that red panic button if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” Fenway said. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
Lana looked up and nodded. The guard left the room and closed the door behind her, taking up a station outside the window.
“Okay,” said Fenway, moving her purse to the floor and sitting across the table from Lana. “I got your letter. I requested a meeting with you, like you asked?”
Lana pressed her lips together, her eyes shut tight, as if readying herself for battle. Then she opened them and took a deep breath. “Miss Stevenson—first, thank you for meeting me. I know you didn’t have to.”
Fenway noticed Lana didn’t call her Miss Ferris; it was a welcome change from the first time they had met. “How can I help?” She hoped she was able to mask the curiosity on her face.
“You know my husband was killed in that refinery accident last year.”
“Yes. You said Carl didn’t get the justice he deserved.”
Lana nodded. “Some things about the accident don’t add up.”
Fenway paused, leaned forward, and put her hands palms down on the table. “We’ve caught the man who killed your husband. Robert Stotsky authorized the venting of the poisonous gas into that hall
way. Maybe he wasn’t charged for it, but he’s serving two consecutive twenty-year terms for the other murders. He’ll be ninety-two when he gets out.”
Lana looked down and sighed. “I know—I know he’s one of the people responsible.”
“You’re saying there are more?”
“Yes. Carl had stumbled onto something—along with Lewis Fairweather. Stotsky pulled the trigger, but he wasn’t the one behind it.”
“Behind what?”
“That’s the problem. I know something else is going on. It’s still going on.”
Fenway nodded. “What do you think it is?”
Lana lowered her voice. “I think it’s something big. I think it has to do with oil.”
Fenway grimaced. “Ferris Energy is an oil company, Lana. Lots of things they do have to do with oil.”
“Let me start at the beginning,” Lana said. “Carl worked on the team that coordinated the available space at the Estancia port. Space in the holding tanks, space at the docks, everything.” She leaned forward. “About six months before the accident, Ferris Energy took two of their large holding tanks offline. They said it was a maintenance issue, but Carl saw a big oil tanker—not one he ever saw before, and not one on any of the manifests—dock at Ferris Energy, right in front of the tanks that were supposed to be offline. It was late at night. When Carl told me, I thought he suspected that something was going on. Something illegal.” Lana took a breath.
Fenway tapped the table. “I’m not sure it means much. Oil tankers come and go, don’t they? It could have been there for lots of different reasons.”
Lana shrugged. “Carl never told me about any tankers showing up unannounced before. Anyway, two weeks before he was killed, he stayed late again, just as late as he had the first night he saw the tanker. And when he came home, he told me he saw another tanker. Then he was real quiet. I don’t think he ever got to sleep that night.”
Fenway pressed her lips together. “And then the ventilation accident happened.”
Lana nodded. “And Carl and Lewis were both dead.”
“This isn’t much to go on,” Fenway said.
“I know,” Lana said. “But I think you can be trusted to follow where it leads.” She looked hard at Fenway. “You’re not afraid to take on your father. You’re the only person in this county who isn’t.” She leaned back. “Maybe your dad didn’t have anything to do with it. But it was someone high up at Ferris Energy.”
Fenway thought for a moment.
Lana swallowed hard and leaned forward. “My husband’s death is still an open case, right?”
Fenway nodded.
“Maybe you could look into it a little. Dig around. Like you did for the mayor’s murder. Like you did for the former coroner’s murder. If you find something—I mean, you don’t want anyone else to end up dead, right?”
Fenway set her jaw. “What if I find out my father’s innocent? How are you going to feel then? Will you come after me?”
Lana winced and looked down. “I deserved that. But I’ve changed. I’m not angry with you anymore.” She leaned back, dropped her chin, and wiped her eyes. “You’re kind of my last hope, anyway.”
Fenway closed her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t promise anything, Lana. It’s a week before the election, I’m up to my eyeballs in the campaign, and the office is still shorthanded.”
“Even if you did an hour of research, it would help,” Lana whispered.
“I can’t promise anything,” Fenway repeated, standing up and putting her purse over her shoulder. “But I’ll see what I can do.” She walked over to the window and rapped her knuckles against the glass. The guard opened the door. “We’re done,” Fenway said.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Lana said.
Fenway nodded, then turned, strode across the room and left through the door she came in.
FENWAY THOUGHT HARD about Carl Cassidy on her way home from Hanford. Lana had a point: Stotsky probably didn’t act on his own. He may have made the final decision—pulled the metaphorical trigger, as Lana said—but he wasn’t behind the reason those two men died in that hallway.
Her phone rang, and the display on her dash read Nathaniel Ferris. She pressed the answer button on her steering wheel to pick it up.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, Fenway. Just wanted to see if your campaign events were finished in time for you to make our session this afternoon.”
“Oh.” Fenway hesitated. “I had to reschedule my afternoon event, actually.”
“Reschedule? What for?”
“I had to go see a—a witness. I got on the road about fifteen minutes ago. I’m coming up on the Windkettle exit.”
“You’re all the way out in Windkettle? You sure you’re going to make it?”
“You’re still making it, right?”
Ferris sighed. “Right.”
A month earlier, she and her father hadn’t spoken for weeks. He had still rented the campaign headquarters, and his money bought the lawn signs and the radio ads and the billboard on Ocean Highway. But everything was communicated through email or text, or indirectly through Millicent Tate, after she was officially hired as Fenway’s campaign manager.
Then, in the early morning hours after her birthday celebration with Rachel, Dez, and McVie, Fenway awoke, in a cold sweat, from a hauntingly vivid dream of performing an autopsy on her father. She saw the images every time she closed her eyes to try to get back to sleep. She had called her father the next morning and told him they needed to see a family therapist. Insisted on it, in fact.
At first, it was uncomfortable and odd. Fenway thought Dr. Jacob Tassajera was fine—not great, not even better than average, but fine. She would have preferred a female therapist, since she knew she’d have to talk about a lot of issues in her past—especially the incident with her Russian Lit professor. But she also knew her father would prefer opening up to a man, especially someone like Dr. Tassajera, who was into golf and scotch. Fenway was wary, saying little of consequence the first two sessions. She kept reminding herself he was getting paid to help them have a decent father-daughter relationship. And Ferris had canceled the previous week’s session because of a business trip.
“I’ll see you at Dr. Tassajera’s,” Fenway said.
“Hang on, Fenway. I’m paying for your campaign, and Millicent Tate doesn’t come cheap. I know you don’t like campaigning, but you just can’t blow off events like this.”
“I’m not blowing them off.”
“I think you are.”
Fenway frowned. “You canceled our session last week. Did you blow it off, too?”
Ferris paused. “No. Of course not.”
“Really? Because you didn’t have a very good excuse. Dr. Tassajera is the only reason we’re talking to each other without screaming. And it doesn’t seem like you want to go.”
“Of course I want to—” Ferris started. Then he hesitated and sighed. “No. Dr. Tassajera said you and I need to be honest with each other, so I’ll say it. Of course I don’t want to go. Definitely not every week. I never thought I’d have to go to therapy for anything. I want rights to an oil field, I negotiate for it. I want to buy another company, I go in with a plan. It’s not about what I did ten years ago, or about the other company’s feelings.” He paused. “So it pisses me off that I’ve got to talk about all the shit we’ve gone through to get to this point.”
Fenway didn’t say anything. This was the most she’d heard her father talk about his feelings in a long time. Maybe ever. Although she didn’t like that her father compared his relationship with her to an acquisition target.
She cleared her throat. “But you will be there, right?”
“Yes,” Ferris said immediately. “Yes. I will be there.”
“Good, because for a minute it sounded like you were going to flake again.”
“I didn’t flake last week. It was an important meeting. Give me some credit—I’m trying the honesty thing. I don’t want to go. But I’m goin
g to go because it’s important to you.”
“It’s not important to me that you go to this, Dad. It’s important for us. You and I need to fix our relationship, and these therapy sessions are how we’re going to do it.”
“I promise I’ll be there,” Ferris said.
Then her mother’s face appeared in Fenway’s head, and she felt a lump in her throat. “Okay,” she said. “I’m going into the hills now. See you at Dr. Tassajera’s.” It wasn’t true—the Cuesta grade wasn’t for another ten miles up the highway—but she didn’t want her father to hear the weakness in her voice. He was all she had left of her family now.
“All right. Bye.”
Fenway hung up. She took a couple of deep breaths, and got ahold of herself. She turned the radio on, hearing the last notes of A Tribe Called Quest’s Check the Rhime, and the traffic report came on. There was a jackknifed big rig on the Cuesta grade. Fenway groaned.
A few minutes later, traffic slowed to a crawl, and Fenway had to get on the shoulder to go past the accident. It delayed Fenway so much she didn’t think she had time to stop at her apartment to change. But if she drove straight there, she’d likely have a few minutes to spare.
The imposing yet strangely elegant smokestacks from the Ferris Energy refinery came into view as she crested the hill. She looked to her right: the highway was meeting the ocean for the first time in fifty miles, and, not for the first time, Fenway saw a secluded beach on the other side of the highway. She wondered if she had ever been to that beach, but she didn’t think so.
The closer she got to the Broadway exit, the stronger she felt the pull of a change of clothes and comfortable shoes. But she gritted her teeth as the exit passed, and she pulled off the freeway onto Vicente Boulevard instead, driving two blocks and turning into an office complex.
She pulled into a parking space in front of a sign that said Vicente Professional Park, looked at the clock on the dash, and sighed. She was twenty minutes early.