The Upstaged Coroner

by Paul Austin Ardoin

“Yeah. It was a whole thing. Don’t get McVie started.” Dez straightened up. “Anyway, the offices of the North American Shakespeare Guild are on the second floor. They’ve got an outer office and a back office—that back office was for Jessica Marquez, and the outer office is where the students work and have their computers and files.”

  “Files?”

  Dez nodded. “Yeah. They coordinate a London theater trip every summer, and they take checks for it. Professor Cygnus is kinda old-school, I guess.” She leaned forward. “Click on the photos labeled 13a through 13k.”

  Fenway did. Immediately, eleven pictures of two ransacked offices came up. Files were spread across the floor, desks were overturned, trophies were knocked over, papers were strewn everywhere. On the wall was a large poster of The Taming of the Shrew, with stylized illustrations of Petruchio and Katherine holding hands with handcuffs encircling their wrists. The art was flat, like an old woodcut from the native Chumash. Fenway wondered if there had been some thematic purpose to the choice of artwork. The back office—Jessica’s—had also been tossed, with drawers open, chairs on their side, and papers covering the floor.

  Fenway looked through four pictures, marveling at all the bills and checks and file folders on the carpet. “They didn’t keep any of those files on computers?”

  “Oh, of course they did, but, you know, all those signatures, receipts, tickets—a lot of the information is still done by paper.”

  “What a mess,” Fenway murmured.

  “I’ll tell you, the university president sure didn’t like seeing those offices tossed,” Dez said. “He looked like he was ready to kill somebody.”

  “Did they take anything?”

  Dez shrugged. “It looks like there’s a missing laptop, but we don’t know if anything else is gone. We had to hustle Dr. Pruitt out of there. He wanted to come in and assess everything, but it was a crime scene, and we couldn’t let him. We took pictures, and csi was there fingerprinting, but we have to wait for a student who works there to tell us what’s missing.”

  “When is that happening?”

  “Late this afternoon, I hope. Dr. Pruitt is supposed to make the arrangements. The girl’s name is Amanda Kohl, but we want to interview her first.” She paused. “I think Dr. Pruitt believes we’ll speak to all the students in a group.”

  “But we’re not.”

  Dez shrugged. “I didn’t want him to deny us access.”

  Fenway nodded and turned back to the pictures of the office. “Anything of Jessica’s in there?”

  “Her purse was there. Everything seemed to be in it, but it looked like someone had gone through it—things not in the right place, the clasp of the wallet undone—stuff like that. But she had a spot for a laptop, and no laptop. Not that we’ve been able to find, anyway.”

  Fenway brought photograph 13j to the front. It was a wide shot of Jessica Marquez’s office. It, too, was a mess, although some of the shelves behind the desk were less untidy than the others.

  “See, this is why I keep my apartment in a state of constant upheaval,” Fenway said. “Anybody who comes in to toss the place will think they got there after someone else has already ransacked it.”

  Dez grimaced. “Don’t quit being coroner to do stand-up.”

  “You’re right, Dez, this job is so much more glamorous.”

  “Oh, bring up the photos in set fourteen.”

  Fenway clicked and saw three photos of an award.

  It was a weighty, impressive piece of rock and heavy glass. The base was black onyx, with silvery veins running through it. The clear top was chunky, inch-thick crystal, in a kind of trapezoidal shape, but set at an angle into the base. Etched into the crystal were a logo and some lettering. Fenway clicked on another picture that had zoomed in on the inscription.

  West Coast Theater Educators

  Third Annual Shakespeare Awards

  “The Bardies”

  Professor Virgil Cygnus, Director

  North American Shakespeare Guild

  Macbeth

  Best Shakespeare Production

  Fenway clicked through the pictures of the award. The onyx base was scuffed, and the crystal had a large scratch across its face, which almost certainly wouldn’t be fixable. But it looked like the damage had been done by something metallic, certainly not a human skull, and there was no blood on the award.

  Fenway looked at the award again and noted the year. She clicked on the photo with the piece of bloody crystal.

  “What do you think, Dez? Could the shard of crystal have come from this award, or is this one of those acrylics that look like glass?”

  Dez leaned forward on the desk. “It’s crystal for sure, and it might match, but there isn’t a chunk out of this one. At least—I don’t think there is. No blood that I could see. The lab will be able to tell for sure.”

  “If this Shakespeare program is supposed to be so incredible, maybe there’s another award like this that does have a piece missing.” She opened a web browser and typed West Coast Theater Educators Shakespeare and hit Search. The first link listed confirmed her suspicions.

  “Last year,” she said to Dez. “The Guild won for The Merchant of Venice. Did you come across that award too?”

  Dez shook her head.

  Maybe that award was the murder weapon.

  A knock sounded at the door and McVie stuck his head in. “Hey.”

  In one fluid motion, Fenway tossed McVie’s keys to him. He flinched and they bounced off his chin, landing on the floor.

  Dez snickered. “This is why I didn’t want you on my intramural basketball team, Sheriff. You might be able to hit those fadeaway jumpers, but you’re a liability on defense.”

  He opened the door a little more, squeezing his shoulders inside and leaning over to pick up his keys. “You ready to go, Dez?”

  “Where? Nidever? Already?”

  “I got us a meeting with Professor Cygnus, too. He might be able to shed some light on things.”

  Dez shook her head. “I’m picking up the search warrant for Jessica Marquez’s house, and I was going over there as soon as I could. csi is meeting me there. I thought the students were meeting us later this afternoon.”

  “Oh,” McVie said. “Well, never mind. I can go by myself. Although it’s always good to have a couple of people interviewing.”

  “Maybe I could head over to Marquez’s house.” Fenway jutted her chin out, as if it were a substitute for raising her hand.

  Dez shook her head. “I think you’ll do better interviewing those kids.” She stood up. “Besides, I had to dig through all the file cabinets in my brain to keep up with the Shakespeare references they made this morning. You can talk about that shit in your sleep, Fenway.”

  “Yeah,” Fenway said, the two open homicides from the week before still bothering her. Then she remembered—delegate. “Okay. Let me get Mark working on the Tassajera case. I’ll meet you at the car in about ten minutes.”

  “I’m taking a cruiser. Meet me in the yard.”

  Mark was eager to dig into the Tassajera case, and a weight lifted from Fenway’s shoulders—she hadn’t known where to start, but Mark immediately jumped on the computer to request phone records—with a zest she hadn’t seen for a while.

  She jogged across the street, squinting against the drizzle, and walked through the sheriff’s office toward the transportation yard. All through the building, people congratulated her on the election win. I didn’t realize so many people liked me. She chuckled. Maybe they just hated my opponent.

  McVie was waiting for her at the edge of the transportation yard, a cruiser idling a few feet away.

  “You ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You look more relaxed.”

  Fenway bobbed her head. “I took your advice and I’m handing things off. Mark was more than happy to take on the Tassajera case. I don’t know why I hadn’t done it before.”

  McVie smirked, and Fenway shook her head. It was smart of him not to say
anything.

  They were quiet in the car as they got on the George Nidever Expressway. Fenway turned to McVie a couple of times but couldn’t think of anything to say.

  McVie licked his lips and finally spoke. “Pruitt wasn’t easy to deal with, you know, but he wound up getting to where we were.”

  “Not easy to deal with?”

  The sheriff nodded. “Right. He’s protective of the Shakespeare program. I don’t know if you were old enough to remember, but Professor Cygnus put Nidever on the map. It used to be a tiny, rich-kids’ liberal arts college. Cygnus and his grandiose ideas made national headlines a couple of times. People started recognizing the name. I mean—it’s not Stanford, but it isn’t tiny anymore. And the famous alumni haven’t hurt, either.”

  “But Pruitt was uncooperative?”

  McVie looked thoughtful. “Maybe uncooperative is too strong of a word. He sure didn’t want to cordon off the hallway on the second floor, that’s for sure, and he went ballistic when he saw that The Guild’s office was tossed.”

  “The Guild?”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry, that’s what the Nidever people call it—not the North American Shakespeare Guild, or the nasg, or anything like that—they call it ‘The Guild.’” McVie affected Pruitt’s thin, reedy voice. “‘Really, Sheriff, disrupting a whole morning of classes—is that necessary?’”

  Fenway smiled. “Not that you were looking for ways to be a pain in the ass.”

  “That guy.” McVie grimaced as he turned onto a university road. “He gets under my skin.”

  They pulled into the parking lot behind the DiFazio Theater and McVie turned the wipers off. “Okay,” McVie said. “The first interview will be with the professor—Virgil Cygnus. He’s been here for over thirty years, and he thinks he runs the place.”

  The image of her father’s smug smile flashed in her head as they got out and walked quickly through the heavy mist toward the theater entry. “Don’t worry. I’m used to dealing with people like that.”

  McVie looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “We’ll be okay as long as we keep Dr. Pruitt out of our—”

  The entry door swung open, and Dr. Alfred Pruitt stood in the doorway, taking a step out and folding his arms. Next to him stood a man who looked to be in his sixties, with straight white hair touching the tops of his shoulders, where it curled under slightly, like a medieval pudding-basin cut. He had small, keen brown eyes behind thick black-rimmed glasses, thin lips, and a strong jaw. He wore a polo shirt in spite of the cold weather, and his muscular arms stretched the sleeves around his biceps.

  “Good morning again,” McVie said. He didn’t break his stride as he walked up to the pair, turning to the white-haired man. “You must be Professor Cygnus. Thanks for making the time to meet with—”

  Pruitt stood between them and put up a hand. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a bit on talking with the professor.”

  “Two days before opening night allows me no time for anything else but study and direction, Sheriff,” Professor Cygnus said. “I’m afraid Dr. Pruitt overstepped when he promised my time to you.”

  “It won’t take more than half an hour, Professor.”

  Cygnus put his hands out, palms up. “I don’t have a half hour, sheriff. I may have some time on Saturday. I’ll have all the time in the world after we close in two weeks.”

  “Not even to discuss the death of your general manager?”

  “Not even for that,” Cygnus said. “For the next two weeks, I will think of nothing but Othello. I wish it weren’t this way, but I’m not one to multitask. Forgive me.” He backed out of the doorway and turned, walking surprisingly quickly through the lobby.

  “Professor—” Fenway called, but he was already through the theater doors.

  McVie set his jaw. “Dr. Pruitt, this is a murder investigation. We can’t allow Professor Cygnus to simply not make himself available.”

  Pruitt shook his head. “I don’t believe that’s necessary. I can tell you unequivocally that Professor Cygnus had nothing to do with—”

  “With all due respect,” McVie said, “you’re not in a position to tell us what’s necessary in a murder investigation.”

  Pruitt glared at McVie.

  Fenway took a step forward. “No one is in a better position to give us information on Ms. Marquez’s background and her relationship with the people she knew at Nidever than Professor Cygnus. He’s first on the list.”

  Pruitt scoffed. “You saw his reaction. I’m afraid meeting with him is impossible right now. Surely you know how much Professor Cygnus and the North American Shakespeare Guild mean to this community.”

  Fenway cocked her head. “I moved here only six months ago, Dr. Pruitt, I’m sorry.” She caught herself apologizing and clamped her mouth shut.

  Dr. Pruitt looked at her above his glasses, and he clicked his tongue. “Professor Cygnus is quite possibly the most renowned American Shakespeare scholar alive. It was quite a coup when he agreed to teach Shakespeare here—and more than that, direct a play every year. Are you quite sure you’ve never heard of The Guild?”

  Fenway set her mouth in a line. “Quite sure.”

  “The North American Shakespeare Guild is the university’s star achievement. It’s our way of giving Professor Cygnus a certain level of autonomy. The Guild not only puts on the Shakespeare play every year, but it also sponsors Guild at the Globe.”

  “What’s that? Something to do with the Shakespeare theater in London?”

  Pruitt nodded. “Correct. A summer theater tour of London and Stratford-upon-Avon.”

  “Like a study abroad program.”

  “No—it’s not just with Nidever students, but with students from universities all over the country, and with theater lovers of all ages.”

  Fenway raised her eyebrows; Pruitt sounded like he had memorized their sales brochure. He also sounded like he was trying to change the subject away from Professor Cygnus. “Dr. Pruitt, if—"

  “They attend three weeks’ worth of plays,” Pruitt continued, as if Fenway hadn’t spoken. “The theater actors do lectures and workshops with all the attendees. It’s the envy of every English department in California. Possibly the world.”

  “And my ninth level of hell,” muttered McVie.

  “While I’m always up for a good history lesson, what does that have to do with Jessica Marquez’s death?” Fenway said, ignoring McVie.

  “She’s the general manager. For the last two years, she’s run the business end of things for The Guild,” Dr. Pruitt said. “All the marketing for the Guild at the Globe tours, as well as the bookkeeping, taxes—she was truly a one-woman show, making The Guild run smoothly.” He harrumphed. “I’m not sure what Professor Cygnus will do without her, frankly. We’ll have to get someone in here to take the business reins. I’m sure it won’t affect the production or the summer tour, but it won’t be easy.” His voice faltered at the end.

  Fenway paused for a moment while Pruitt composed himself, then continued. “So there’s a Guild production going on right now?”

  “Opening night is Friday, as I said.” Dr. Pruitt said.

  “Is this a professional company, or is it all students?”

  “We like to think of it as both,” Dr. Pruitt said, losing his defeated posture and puffing out his chest a bit. “You won’t find a finer Shakespeare production on the West Coast. Oh sure, maybe in terms of fancy sets, but Professor Cygnus turns these students into better actors than they have at the rsc.”

  “The what?” McVie asked.

  “The Royal Shakespeare Company,” said Fenway. “Super-famous British Shakespeare group. Based in Shakespeare’s birthplace, right?”

  Pruitt nodded.

  Fenway had her doubts that any professor at a small liberal arts college could turn ordinary American students into rsc-level actors, but she pressed on. “So Miss Marquez was also dealing with the marketing and publicity for The Guild’s production?”

  “Yes.”

  �
��What’s the play they’re putting on? Did the professor say they were doing Othello?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Pruitt said proudly. “It’s a tough play, of course, but that doesn’t scare anyone, least of all Professor Cygnus. The Guild put on The Merchant of Venice last year, and it was a huge hit. Even won a theater award. We’re hoping for a repeat performance with Othello.”

  Othello. Fenway tasted bile in her mouth. She swallowed hard and kept her face neutral. “How was the marketing and advertising being received?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Fenway shifted from foot to foot. “Othello is a controversial play. So is Merchant, for that matter. Has anyone seemed upset by the play, or by the way Marquez was marketing it?”

  Pruitt chuckled. “All of Shakespeare is controversial, and I suppose there will always be ‘social justice warriors’ trying to pick a fight for the most ridiculous reasons.”

  Fenway bristled, but rubbed her nose and changed tack. “So that’s a yes? Did Marquez get threats, or were there protests?”

  Pruitt looked almost disappointed. “Well, no. There haven’t been any protests, and Jessica didn’t get any threats about the play. At least none I’m aware of.”

  Fenway understood why McVie found such glee in upsetting Dr. Pruitt; the university president spun everything in the service of his own ego. She moved to another line of questioning. “So she would have been interacting with who? Professor Cygnus? The stage manager? The ticket people?”

  “Oh, that’s the genius of The Guild,” gushed Dr. Pruitt. “The staging, the costumes, the ticket process, the music—it’s all done by students. You’d think it would reek of community theater, or amateur hour, but no—those who are expecting a typical college production are shocked by the professionalism of it all. A critic up from the Santa Barbara News-Press last year gave us five stars. ‘I was stunned by the depths of betrayal and the thirst for justice that the actors were able to deliver in their captivating performances.’”

  “Wow, you’ve memorized the review,” Fenway said.

  “I feel like a proud father, I don’t mind telling you.” He grinned, not picking up on Fenway’s sarcasm.