Although, she thought as she hastily pulled the dress on, maybe her father wouldn’t come. Maybe he was so distraught over Charlotte’s arrest he wouldn’t make it at all.
Of course, maybe he would come, and he’d drink too much and cause a scene. Maybe get into a fistfight with Klein. Maybe get into a fistfight with Ivanovich. Fenway smiled at the thought of her father standing up for her, even if it would be because he was drunk.
She hadn’t heard, either, if Dr. Ivanovich had publicly reacted to the news of his son in police custody. Would he stay above the fray, perhaps even disavow his son’s actions? Would he try to turn this on Fenway, saying she somehow brought this on herself? That would be a bold move, for sure, and it might backfire. But if that message were delivered with enough power and force and confidence, it could change the conversation. Maybe it already had.
She didn’t have time to listen to all of the messages Millicent Tate had left for her. She figured Millicent would be at the dinner and could give her the highlights then—and she would have something to do besides yell at Fenway for missing all the campaign events.
She put on her black heels, the ones she had worn six months before that had saved her life. She thought they might get her through this difficult night, like they had before.
She looked at herself in the mirror. The black dress went down mid-calf; it would have been ankle-length on a shorter woman. The sweetheart neckline had an inch-wide strap going from the front of her right shoulder around the back of her neck to attach behind her left shoulder. She turned around; the back of the dress hit her on the bottom of her shoulder blades. It was classy and elegant, but still had an air of sexiness about it. For the first time, however, she realized it might be one of the more revealing dresses in the room, and perhaps it wasn’t a great choice for a political event.
When she came out of the bedroom, Officer Todd Young was sitting on the sofa. In a tuxedo.
“Oh,” she said. “You do own a tux.”
“I sure do,” he said. “Wow, you look great.”
“You have a story to go with that outfit?”
“It’s boring,” he said. “When I lived in L.A. a few years ago, I was a seat filler at the Oscars. I was going to rent a tux, but I saw one on sale, and I tried it on, and I looked damn good in it, so I bought it.”
Rachel might have been uneasy around Officer Young, but he was right: he looked good in the tuxedo. He stood up; the coat was single-breasted and three-button.
“And that’s a real bow tie,” Fenway said. “Not one of those fake clip-ons like my prom date had.”
“My father taught me well,” Officer Young said. “Shall we head out?” He offered her his arm.
“Only fitting,” Fenway said, “that we show up for a black-and-white ball in a black-and-white.”
Officer Young laughed at Fenway’s attempt at levity. This evening might be salvageable after all.
Chapter Twenty
ALTHOUGH THE GEORGE Nidever Dinner officially started at seven o’clock, all the invitees were talking and milling around the large lobby in front of the ballroom at the university hotel. Nidever was a private university, and as Fenway looked at the chandeliers in the lobby, she realized Nidever students had a much different perspective on the world than a woman who had to get student loans to attend a public university like Western Washington.
“For crying out loud, Fenway,” Millicent Tate said, “you know even if you don’t have your phone on you, you can still call to get your voicemail.”
“Officer Young,” Fenway said, “would you mind getting us both a glass of champagne while I have a chat with my campaign manager?”
“Certainly,” he said, and turned and headed in the direction of the bar.
Millicent watched him go. “New boyfriend?”
“The cop assigned to protect me.”
“He cleans up nice,” Millicent said. “I hope you keep it under wraps if you have some Bodyguard-style hot romance.”
“You don’t have to worry.”
Millicent kept watching Officer Young walk toward the bar. “We’ve definitely lost some momentum today,” she said. “I didn’t know you weren’t going to make the senior center today. They were disappointed.”
“I’m sorry,” Fenway said, not sorry at all. “The family therapist my father and I see was murdered this morning. I found his body. I had to take care of a bunch of things.”
“Ugh,” Millicent Tate said, rolling her eyes. “I wish you were just a candidate, and not the sitting coroner. It would make things a lot easier.”
“I’ll make sure his family gets your heartfelt condolences,” Fenway said.
Millicent turned toward Fenway and folded her arms. “Your father is paying me to run this campaign, Fenway. He’s not paying me to feel bad about murder victims, or to hold your hand and nod sympathetically. He’s paying me to win.” She sighed. “You know, I get that your dedication to the job makes you the right candidate for it, but it’s hard with you not campaigning.”
“It must be a little easier when my opponent’s son spray-paints shit on my car.”
Millicent slapped Fenway on her bare shoulder. “If you’re going to play the family card, remember you’re the one whose stepmother was arrested for murder.”
Fenway winced.
“Yeah, you didn’t think of that, did you? You thought because you and she almost never spoke, none of the voters would associate you with her?”
“Uh—no, I guess I didn’t.”
“Did you see the ads that Ivanovich’s been running on Channel 12 today?”
Fenway gasped. “Oh no—he mentions Charlotte?”
“No, he talks about his stance on tax shelters.”
“Really?”
“No, you idiot, of course it’s all about Charlotte! They’ve got a picture of her, and it’s not a picture of her feeding orphans either. It’s one where she’s got a nasty look on her face, boobs hanging halfway out, a tequila shot in one hand, and a damn tiara on top of her head. A tiara!”
“Oh.” Fenway said. She had seen the picture before.
“What, do you know the picture I’m talking about?”
“It was her bachelorette party,” Fenway said. “Lots of women wear tiaras at their bachelorette parties.”
“Well,” Millicent said sardonically, “once we explain it’s merely a bachelorette party to the voters, it should all be great. They should get right on board with us.”
Fenway ignored her tone. “Have we run anything? Any counter ads?”
Millicent looked around and lowered her voice. “We’re divided on what to do. You were supposed to be the deciding vote.”
“What were you going to run?”
“We have a picture of your car with the spray paint on it. We have a picture of your window after the brick was thrown through it. We have a voiceover talking about how Dr. Ivanovich thinks he can use white supremacist intimidation tactics to scare you out of the race. How you weren’t scared to take on your father’s head of security, you weren’t scared to take on the head of the most powerful pharmaceutical company in California. We were hoping to get you in the studio, maybe even in your dress blues, saying, ‘I’ve taken on the most powerful men in the state. I’m not scared of anybody calling me names.’”
“Oh,” Fenway said. “That would have been good.”
“Yeah, you think?” Millicent’s voice was thick with sarcasm. “Maybe that’s why your dad pays me the big bucks.”
“I mean, part of me doesn’t want anyone to see the N-word spray-painted on my car. You show that to white people and they freak out. Even people who say they’re allies get all uncomfortable. But I like the tough stance on stuff. Makes people realize I’m my own person. I don’t answer to my father for anything.”
“Or your stepmother.”
“Right.”
“Plus, it helps to have a different, uh, last name.”
Fenway shifted her weight from foot to foot. “And skin color, y
ou were going to say.”
Millicent hesitated, but nodded. “Yes. Because you don’t look anything like Charlotte. You don’t have the same name, you don’t have the same skin color or hair color. People will see you, taking a tough stance, and they’ll think, ‘Oh, yeah, another old rich white guy who dumped his wife for a hot girl half his age. Like his daughter is going to let that bitch get away with murder.’”
“You know I think she’s innocent, right?”
“Fenway, listen to me. For the next seventy-two hours, I literally don’t give a damn if she committed murder or if she tried to poison the water supply. I care about getting you elected.” She laughed. “Your dad is paying me so much I don’t care if you committed murder. It doesn’t matter what the truth is.”
Fenway’s eyes widened.
Millicent Tate smirked. “That’s right, Little Miss Idealism, it doesn’t matter what the truth is. Not for the next seventy-two hours, it doesn’t. It only matters what the voters think.”
It only matters what the voters think.
And with a shock, Fenway realized she had been looking in all the wrong places for the killer of Jeremy Kapp.
The money laundering, the phantom oil supertanker—Fenway realized none of that was why Jeremy Kapp was killed. Uncovering those crimes had completely distracted her from looking at personal motives. But the fake emails, the doctored photos, the clumsy setup of Charlotte—those weren’t the work of a professional.
Jeremy Kapp’s murderer wasn’t the ruthlessly efficient killer who blew up Rory or bludgeoned Dr. Tassajera—or ordered the death of Carl Cassidy, for that matter. Jeremy Kapp’s death was from an amateur hand. His death exposed a lot of people in the money laundering scheme, for sure, and might have been the root cause for the latest murders—but, if Fenway was right, she needed to look at the people closest to Kapp.
She had to talk to Dez.
“Fenway?” Millicent snapped her fingers. “Where did you go?”
Fenway’s eyes came back into focus. “Sorry, sorry. I just had a thought about the case.”
“Pay attention, Fenway!” Millicent barked. “Keep your mind on the campaign for more than thirty seconds! Are you onboard with the ad or not?”
“I’m onboard with the ad,” Fenway said.
“Great. We can get in the studio tonight after the dinner.”
“Are you okay if I just step out for a second to make a call?”
Millicent’s eyes went wide. “Oh, there’s the camera from Channel 12. Turn around and smile. Pretend you haven’t been receiving death threats.”
Fenway turned, saw the camera, and smiled.
“You’ll obviously have to change,” Millicent continued. “A pantsuit or something. I mean, we can shoot you from the waist up, so maybe someone can run by your apartment and pick up a blazer.” She took a step back and examined Fenway with a critical eye and frowned. “This dress makes you look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment. People don’t want to vote for an ingénue, they want to vote for someone reliable and competent. Maybe we can get your blazer sooner rather than later.”
“This is a black-tie dinner,” Fenway pointed out.
“And I have three dresses back at the campaign office picked out that are much more appropriate for a politician,” Millicent said. “But at least you’re not showing too much cleavage, and at least you didn’t do anything fancy with your hair.”
“At least,” Fenway said. “Listen, I’ll make one quick call and I’ll be right—"
“Hang on,” Millicent said, staring over Fenway’s shoulder at an older white, blonde woman standing about twenty feet away. “That’s Cynthia Schimmelhorn. I wonder what she’s doing here.”
“Cynthia Schimmelhorn?” Fenway asked, surprised. “Isn’t she on the board of directors of Ferris Energy?”
“Yes,” Millicent said, lowering her voice. “She has an agenda—and she sure doesn’t like your dad.”
“My father said she called for a vote of no confidence for him in the last board meeting.”
“And if your father hadn’t been so charming, he’d be out of a job right now.”
“Yeah, I heard that too.”
“So is she some big hotshot at the university?” Millicent said, mostly to herself, as she pulled her smartphone out and started tapping on the screen. “Oh, look, she’s one of the star alumni.”
“Wait—from Nidever University?” asked Fenway.
“She sure is,” Millicent says. “Hey, did you know Abby Herrick graduated from here two years ago?”
“Who?”
“Abby Herrick,” Millicent replied. “You know, the pop singer.”
Fenway briefly remembered the tee shirt Donovan Kapp was wearing the first time she saw him. “Oh, right, I know who she is.”
Millicent kept scrolling on her phone.
“What are you doing?”
Millicent tipped a little more champagne into her mouth. “Research,” she said, winking at Fenway. “You might as well get to know her a little more since she’s practically standing behind you.”
“Abby Herrick’s behind me?” Fenway started to turn around.
“Don’t look!” Millicent hissed. “And no, you idiot, Cynthia Schimmelhorn.”
Fenway stopped.
Millicent lowered her voice. “Where did you get your undergrad? Wasn’t it Western Washington?”
Fenway nodded. “Go Vikings.”
“Well, so did Cynthia Schimmelhorn’s daughter.” Millicent scrolled a little more and her eyes went wide. “Who names their daughter Nerissa?”
Fenway paused, trying to search her brain for where she had heard the name. “Oh—that’s from Shakespeare.”
“I don’t care if it was spelled out in rose petals on the ground at the moment of conception—it’s an awful name. Like ‘narcissism.’” She stopped scrolling and looked up. “Okay, so that short guy who was talking to her walked away. Now’s your chance.”
Fenway grabbed Millicent’s arm. “You’re coming with me, aren’t you?”
Millicent rolled her eyes. “Fine, I guess so. Wouldn’t hurt to have someone else in my contact list who could singlehandedly bankroll a congressional candidate.”
“Gee, thanks,” Fenway said.
“What?” Millicent said. “A girl’s gotta eat.” She strode purposefully over to Cynthia Schimmelhorn, who was putting her empty champagne glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “Ms. Schimmelhorn?” she asked, in a voice far more polite than anything Fenway had heard come out of Millicent’s mouth.
Cynthia Schimmelhorn looked up. “Yes?” She looked like a well-preserved fifty, although Fenway wouldn’t have been surprised if she was much older. Her skin was smooth and untouched by signs of aging; her blonde hair brushed the tops of her shoulders—and yes, she was wearing a sleeveless evening gown, with a graceful V-shaped neckline that managed to be both sexy and demure. Fenway felt envious; she hoped she looked that good at whatever age Schimmelhorn was.
“It’s good to meet you,” Millicent continued. “I’m Millicent Tate.”
“Ah,” Schimmelhorn said. “Of course. You’re the magician behind some of the crazy electoral upsets in our great state.”
“That’s me,” Millicent said. “And the architect of Fenway Stevenson’s win, if I know my stuff.”
“And I’m sure you do,” Schimmelhorn said, turning to Fenway. “Miss Stevenson, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Fenway said, feeling underdressed and awkward.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of my little dust-up with your father,” Schimmelhorn said. “I’d apologize for it, as it seems the polite thing to do, but the truth is, I’m not at all sorry. And you, of all people, should know his personal judgment has been, shall we say, subpar the last several months.”
“I think he’s starting to regret pulling the strings to get me appointed coroner, for sure,” Fenway agreed.
Cynthia Schim
melhorn smiled. “I do so enjoy seeing young women stretch themselves beyond the orbits of the men who have taken them under their wing,” she said, chewing on her words as if they were fine chocolates. “Sometimes those wings can be less a shelter than a holding cell.”
Fenway could only gape at her.
“I must say, you’re doing an exemplary job,” Schimmelhorn said, placing her hand on Fenway’s arm and giving it a maternal squeeze. “I always appreciate when the truth wins out over familial loyalty. Blood ties are so often confused for the gospel truth.”
Fenway cleared her throat. “I, uh, I appreciate that, ma’am,” she stuttered.
“Oh, please. Call me Cynthia. There’s too much work we have to do to overcome the poor social and business positions we often find ourselves in to bother with formality.”
“Sure,” Fenway said. “Cynthia.”
“And for what it’s worth,” said Schimmelhorn, “I’m appalled by the ugly business with your opponent’s son.”
Fenway cocked her head to the side. “With his son—how did you—”
“Oh, my dear,” Schimmelhorn said, “those secrets don’t keep as well as you’d like, I’m afraid. You must know by now I’m well-connected. Let’s just say I’m sorry about it. Maintaining one’s composure in a political campaign is difficult enough without having to deal with these, shall we say, extraneous issues.”
Fenway was unable to mask her discomfort, but Millicent broke in and changed the subject.
“I understand your daughter and Fenway both went to Western Washington, Cynthia. Fenway thought it was a great nursing school.”
A shadow fell over Schimmelhorn’s face. “Ah, yes. You’ll have to excuse me, I see—"
Just then, several of the staff began chiming their tiny xylophones, announcing that the dinner was about to begin. Schimmelhorn turned and glided away.
“That was weird,” Millicent said.
“Maybe they’re estranged,” Fenway said. “Like me and my father.”
“Or maybe she was disappointed Nerissa didn’t pick an Ivy League school.”
The Candidate Coroner Page 23
