“Ugh,” Blair said. She went back to her phone, head down, both thumbs moving like lightning.
Fenway leaned against the wall and looked at Donovan. He sat back down in his chair and kept playing the game on his phone. The waiting area was silent for a few minutes, and Fenway got up and began to pace. There were no magazines or plants, only a few clusters of uncomfortable chairs.
Fenway sat down, away from both of them, and cleared her throat. “Doesn’t sound like you two were close to your dad.”
Donovan glared at her. “Doesn’t sound like you’re close with your dad, either.”
Fenway nodded. “Sure, fair enough.”
“What?” Donovan said. “You think it’s weird none of us are sobbing, crying, oh, Daddy’s dead, poor us?”
Fenway shrugged. “A little, I guess. People usually do. But I was a nurse before this. It’s not unusual. People react to death in all kinds of different ways.”
“You were a nurse, huh?”
“Yep.”
“You seen people die?”
Fenway thought first of her mother in the cancer ward. Then the motorcyclist. Then the woman with the aneurysm. And the murderer whom she had killed defending herself at the house in the mountains three months before. “Yeah,” she said carefully, “I’ve seen people die.”
“So they probably taught you all about the five stages of grief.”
Fenway nodded. “Of course. One of the basics.” Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.
“Yeah,” Donovan said, “well, my first stage of grief is playing video games. And Blair’s is texting her boyfriend.”
“Jasper’s a freshman at USC,” Blair offered. “Pre-law. He’s brilliant.”
“All right,” Fenway said.
Donovan stared at her, challenging her to say anything else, for about thirty seconds. She took the bait.
“So, do either of you know anyone your dad was seeing on the side?”
Blair scoffed. “That’s rude.”
Donovan kept staring at Fenway. “And you should talk.”
Fenway cocked her head to the side. “What do you mean?”
“Everybody knows my father liked to bang his rich clients’ wives.” A slow smile spread across Donovan’s face. “And your dad is the richest client he’s got.”
Chapter Seven
MCVIE AND FENWAY WERE halfway through their baingan bharta when she brought it up.
“So, Craig,” she began.
“I know, I know,” McVie said. “I shouldn’t have left you out there with the two kids. But I had to get the information somehow. She didn’t want to talk in front of them.”
“Plus,” Fenway said, “I think she has a little crush on you.”
McVie smiled. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I’m sure I wouldn’t use that knowledge to my advantage when trying to get information out of her.” He paused, breathing through his mouth. “You sure this is medium?”
“Medium-spice.”
“Medium-spice? Not spicy?”
Fenway shrugged and ate another bite, then took another piece of garlic naan, chewed and swallowed. “I don’t make the rules,” she said. “I just know it’s Swaadisht.”
“Okay, seriously, what does that mean? And don’t tell me it means ‘too hot for whitey.’”
Fenway laughed. “It means delicious in Hindi.” She dipped the naan in mint chutney. “Did the sensitive and delicate Mrs. Kapp identify Charlotte as her husband’s mistress?”
“No.”
Fenway paused, waiting for him to continue. Instead, McVie took a long drink of his mango lassi.
Not wanting to wait any longer, she spoke. “Charlotte wasn’t mentioned by name, or Mrs. Kapp denied it?”
McVie shook his head. “Not by name. After you told me about that earring, I thought for sure Cricket would identify her.”
Fenway shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. I heard her name.”
“What do you mean, you heard it?”
“I mean Donovan told me his father was having an affair with Charlotte.”
“What? How does he know?”
“He says he was at home one day cutting class, and his father and Charlotte showed up and thought they were alone, and had sex in their living room.”
“He saw it all?”
Fenway shrugged. “He says he heard it.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I don’t have any reason not to,” Fenway said. “But something feels weird. Maybe he didn’t much care for me. Part of me thinks he was trying to get under my skin.”
“That’s a pretty ballsy accusation for Donovan to make if he just wanted to piss you off.”
Fenway shrugged.
McVie looked up from his plate. “Maybe your gut is telling you he should be a suspect.”
Fenway screwed up her face. “He was home. He saw his mother with Zoso.”
“Zoso? Isn’t he the painkiller pusher?”
“Yes.”
“You know, just because he said he was home doesn’t mean he was there. She was pretty out of it.”
“That’s true. Okay—I’ll reach out to Zoso to see if he can confirm he was there with Mrs. Kapp. Maybe he saw the kids there too.”
“Do any of them have an alibi?”
“They were all home. Donovan saw his mom and Zoso, and Blair says she was texting with her boyfriend all night.”
“What about Blair? Do you believe her?”
“I believe she’s capable of texting all night, if that’s what you mean.” Fenway was about to take another bite, then stopped short. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop working on the case. If my stepmother is involved with the victim, it’s a huge conflict of interest.” She put the bite in her mouth.
McVie nodded. “And I’m sure I’d have to recuse myself too. Remember that case a few years ago where the sheriff arrested his own brother-in-law? It looked like an open-and-shut case. But the defense attorney went on the offensive. Turned out the brother-in-law owed the sheriff and his wife about five thousand dollars. Made it seem like revenge right out of the gate. Hung jury.”
Fenway swallowed. “I wouldn’t want that to happen to us. No one would have to dig far to find out my stepmother and I don’t get along.”
McVie shook his head. “No, they’d find out your dad is bankrolling both of our campaigns. I think the judge would throw the case out before it even saw the light of day.”
“See? I hate Charlotte so much I didn’t even think of the campaign.” Fenway took a drink of her mango lassi. “Who’d take over the case?”
“Dez,” McVie said.
“Dez? But she reports to me.”
“She wouldn’t for the duration of the investigation.” McVie tried to clear his throat but he coughed lightly instead. Perhaps the spices were a little too heavy for his first Indian food experience.
“Who would she report to? Not you. You’ve got a conflict too.”
“Gretchen Donnelly.”
“Oh, gotcha. And assigning her a high-profile case like this, right before the election, means your implied approval.”
McVie laughed lightly. “Not that she needs it. There aren’t any other serious contenders for sheriff.”
“She’s got big shoes to fill.” Fenway paused. “Is Gretchen going to mind transferring from the P.Q. office?”
“If she gets elected, she’ll certainly like the higher paycheck.”
“And you’re okay with everything?”
McVie paused. “I don’t know. I like being sheriff. I wish I didn’t have to give it up to run for mayor. But I can only run for one office at a time. I guess we’ll see.”
“When do we have to officially stop being on the case?” Fenway asked.
“Officially? We don’t. There’s no law or anything saying we can’t investigate Charlotte, or your dad, or even my dad. But if we make an arrest, the defense will have a field day with it. I don’t want to be responsible for unnecessary
reasonable doubt.”
Fenway murmured in agreement and took another bite of naan. She looked at McVie. He had beads of sweat on his forehead.
“We can order something else if this is too spicy,” she said.
“Nonsense,” McVie said.
Fenway caught the server’s eye and he came over. “An order of raita, please,” she said. “And another mango lassi.”
McVie took a bit of the naan. “What’s raita?”
“It’s a yogurt sauce. Cuts the spice.”
“I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“The tikka masala is good here,” Fenway said, “but the baingan bharta is the best I’ve ever had.” She didn’t want to start McVie slowly with a gringo dish like tikka masala or butter chicken. “You get used to the spice.”
“We’ve already been gone from the office long enough,” McVie said, “and besides, I’m getting full.” He looked around the restaurant, with the white linen tablecloths and the shiny gold-plated and jewel-encrusted statues of Ganesh and Bodhisattva. “I thought for sure you were taking me to a buffet.” He wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
Fenway smiled. “They don’t do buffets here.” She took her last bite, savoring it. The server came back with a large ramekin of raita. McVie looked at the raita gratefully, dipped his naan in it, and looked relieved when it hit his tongue.
Fenway insisted they order galub jumun; the syrup and dough relieved McVie even more than the raita and mango lassi had.
“Dammit, Fenway,” he said as they walked out of the restaurant, “you cannot order medium-spice there again with me unless I’ve lost a bet.”
Fenway laughed but felt a pang of remorse for going full-throttle.
“We can go back to the M.E.’s office before we hit the road,” said McVie. “The gun had its serial number on it. That happens so rarely, I’m thinking about playing the lotto tonight.”
“Yeah, I’d like to see if they’ve caught any prints yet. I know it’s only been a couple of hours, but even if something preliminary points us in the right direction—and away from Charlotte—we might be able to get the case moved forward before we hand this off to someone else.”
It was a short drive back to the M.E.’s office, and they headed down to the lab, where Kav was looking at the earring with a loupe.
“Hey, Kav,” McVie said.
“Hi, Sheriff.”
“We finally tried Swaadisht,” said Fenway.
“Best Indian on the Central Coast. Hope you liked it.”
McVie looked at Fenway out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t know. I don’t have Indian food often.”
Kav looked a little surprised. “What did you order?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t pronounce it.”
Fenway shifted her weight uncomfortably. “Um, the baingan bharta.”
Kav looked at Fenway disapprovingly. “Oh, you’re not serious. You couldn’t ease him into it? You had to go with the spicy eggplant?”
“I love that dish,” Fenway said defensively.
“It’s like introducing someone to The Beatles and playing Revolution Number Nine.”
Fenway paused. “Isn’t that one of their big hits?”
“No, no, you’re thinking of regular old Revolution. The one I’m talking about is more than nine minutes of sound effects, traffic noises, and Yoko Ono screaming about getting naked.”
“Oh,” Fenway said. “You mean the track I always skip on The White Album.”
Kav nodded. “And you served Revolution Number Nine to the sheriff for lunch.”
Fenway screwed up her mouth. “Sorry, Craig.”
“It was an adventure,” said McVie gruffly. “So the gun we recovered from the ocean. Have you run it through the computer yet?”
“Yes, a few minutes ago.” Kav said. “First of all, the preliminary findings would suggest it’s the murder weapon. One bullet spent out of the magazine. Caliber is consistent with the size of the wound, but obviously we won’t know for sure until we retrieve the bullet from Mr. Kapp’s, um, head.”
McVie nodded.
Kav turned to his computer monitor, clicked on a few items, and read from the screen. “The gun is in the system. Registered to a Charlotte Ann Vosovic.”
Fenway closed her eyes.
McVie shook his head, disappointed. “That’s your stepmother’s maiden name, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Fenway said. “Yes, it is.”
“And I guess this is where we have someone else take over the case.”
THE FIRST PART OF THE ride back to Estancia, McVie said nothing to Fenway. She searched his face, but he was lost in thought.
The last couple of months had been strange for both of them. After McVie asked her out—the day after officially filing the separation papers from Amy—the timing hadn’t worked out. First, Fenway had made the excuse she needed her broken hand to heal a bit before they went on a date. Fenway had stayed home from work for a few days and binge-watched a few bad period dramas and time-travel shows. After a couple of weeks, McVie had asked her out for a Saturday night dinner and movie, then had to cancel as he had to attend his daughter’s softball tournament in Fresno.
It was right about then when Barry Klein finally convinced fellow doctor and golfing buddy Richard Ivanovich to run against Fenway—and that’s when Nathaniel Ferris had set his political machine in motion. He hired Millicent Tate to run Fenway’s campaign, and hired an up-and-coming politico named Gene Dennett to run McVie’s campaign. Overnight, their personal lives were sacrificed for phone banks, voter registration drives, precinct walking, meet-and-greets at the local restaurants—Fenway was even starting to get sick of Jack and Jill’s—and dating seemed like an impossibility.
After the first week of the full-blown campaign, Millicent had told her the perils of dating in their situation. “You absolutely can’t do it,” she had said. “You and McVie are too high-profile, and his separation is too recent, for you two to start dating now.”
“High-profile?” Fenway had protested. “This is a county with only half a million people. Literally no one cares about this coroner race except for my father—and maybe Barry Klein.”
“I’ve seen the number of people who support you,” Millicent said. “You’re taking this far too lightly. The people of this county see you’re not under your father’s thumb like, well, the rest of the county is. They like that. Even if you are related to him. They see through his bullshit, and they’re glad you call him on it. Dating your father’s hand-picked candidate for mayor—a married man twice your age—would get everyone focusing on your relationship, not your candidacy.”
Fenway wanted to say McVie wasn’t twice her age, nor was he officially married any longer, but she knew Millicent had a point.
And the last two months on the outs with her father took its toll, even though he still bankrolled her campaign. The fight they had had—in the middle of the mayor’s murder investigation, no less—had ended with Fenway saying some hurtful things to her father.
No, she corrected herself—they were true things. They were said in harsh way, perhaps, and the truth was difficult for her father to hear.
It probably also didn’t help that the board of directors for Ferris Energy had started to call his judgment into question. Based on the two high-profile murders in the last year—and given how close Ferris was with the killers—the directors had doubts. First his director of security, then his handpicked coroner candidate.
Ferris had turned on the charm, battled through a couple of contentious board meetings—and had escaped, still CEO of the company, still president of the board. He had accepted a “censure”—but that was to appease Cynthia Schimmelhorn and a couple of the other board members who were the biggest doubters. And Fenway strongly suspected she was one of the reasons Nathaniel Ferris was still atop his eponymous energy company—his support of her showed her how Ferris had a foot in the good guys’ camp.
But this—his wife being a murder
suspect—would be a different song and dance altogether. One murder was an anomaly; two was a coincidence.
Three was a pattern.
Fenway looked back over at McVie driving. With a start, she realized she still had to deal with her car, and Rory’s minivan, and the whole unpleasant situation.
She shook her head. That’s what her father would have called it—an unpleasant situation. She wanted to call it a hate crime. But she pictured Millicent Tate in her head—I’m glad it’s nothing serious. And she closed her eyes.
When McVie finally spoke, Fenway startled awake. “You okay with me doing this?”
“What?”
“Sorry, were you asleep?”
“No. Maybe. Am I okay with you doing what?”
“Officially handing the case over to Dez,” McVie said.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
McVie looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Some people have a sense of ownership.”
Fenway shrugged.
“And you know where the evidence is leading, right?”
“Well, it’s Charlotte’s earring, and Charlotte’s gun, right? So Dez will probably need to pick up Charlotte for questioning.”
“And if Charlotte doesn’t have a good alibi, Dez may have to arrest her.”
Fenway’s eyes widened.
“What? Don’t tell me you’re surprised. You just mentioned the gun and the earring. We don’t need any more to hand this over to the D.A. And if there’s even a hint of gunshot residue on her hands or her clothing, Charlotte will be leaving in handcuffs.”
“But it’s all circumstantial evidence,” Fenway said. “We haven’t uncovered any witnesses yet.”
“You uncovered Donovan Kapp saying his father and Charlotte had an affair.”
Fenway looked down. She knew Charlotte was the lead suspect, yet she didn’t like how the pieces fit together.
“Come on, Fenway, you know the chances are good that Charlotte was Mrs. Potemkin—she was the one in the hotel room.”
“Villa,” said Fenway automatically.
“Whatever. We should go back to Belvedere Terrace—I’m sorry, Dez should—and show Charlotte’s picture to the front desk clerk.”
The Candidate Coroner Page 8
