The Upstaged Coroner

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  Fenway tried to steer the conversation on track. “So Miss Marquez interacted with the students frequently?”

  “Of course,” Dr. Pruitt said. “In fact, several of the students work in The Guild office, helping with the tickets, the marketing, and all the coordination. It’s part of how they pay for their travel when they sign up for the summer tour in the u.k.”

  I thought you said Jessica was a one-woman show, Fenway almost said.

  “The students all report to her?”

  “No, no, the play is an eight-unit Shakespeare class, taught by Professor Cygnus. The students who work in the business office all report to Jessica as their boss.”

  Fenway shot a look at McVie. “And Sheriff, you’ve set up time to interview each of the students, correct?”

  Pruitt took a step forward. “We value our students’ privacy here at Nidever. You said you needed to speak with the students, but I never said you could interrogate them.”

  “This is a murder investigation, Dr. Pruitt,” McVie said. “Some of them may be witnesses. No one said anything about interrogation.”

  Dr. Pruitt closed his eyes. “You’ll have to forgive me. I see that makes sense now, but I don’t deal with murder on a regular basis.”

  “And it’s also important we talk with Professor Cygnus,” Fenway said. “I hope you can talk him into changing his mind.”

  Dr. Pruitt winced. “Of course,” he said, faltering, “but Professor Cygnus is his own person. His wife could be the murder victim and he’d still spend all his time directing the play.”

  “Perhaps we can have a quicker, more informal chat?” McVie asked. “Does he have an office in DiFazio Hall?”

  Dr. Pruitt shrugged. “He doesn’t go into the office. His spot is in the theater, about six rows back. The stage is where he finds the voice of Shakespeare.” Dr. Pruitt turned his head toward the theater entrance. “He won’t be in there yet, though. The theater serves as a lecture hall until the afternoon. I’ll try to reason with him, and I suppose I can’t forbid you from trying to talk with him, but he’ll be reticent.”

  “Reticent?” McVie asked.

  “Hostile,” said Fenway.

  But Fenway wasn’t thinking about the hostile Professor Virgil Cygnus. She was thinking about how Dr. Alfred Pruitt pretended to be easily distracted to mask how uncooperative he was.

  Chapter Four

  The first student wasn’t due for a few minutes, and since the drizzle had finally let up, McVie and Fenway walked to the student union for coffee. There, McVie pulled a folder out of his case and showed Fenway a photocopy of The Guild’s work schedule, and the name at the top had been scheduled for over twenty hours that week—more than twice as many as the other students. “Amanda Kohl,” she read. “It looks like Miss Kohl is the lead office worker. She’d probably be able to tell Dez if anything is missing.”

  “She’s also playing Desdemona,” McVie said. “Pruitt said she’s one of Nidever’s scholarship recipients, too. Extremely dedicated. Dean’s list. The only freshman in the play, which I guess is some kind of big deal.”

  “Why?”

  “Professor Cygnus almost never takes underclassmen. Pruitt went on and on about it.”

  Fenway tapped the page. “She was the last student worker out of here yesterday.”

  McVie rubbed his arms, and Fenway looked up at him.

  “What is it?”

  “Well—now that the election is over, we can see each other. You know, officially.”

  Fenway smiled.

  “So what would you think about having dinner tonight?”

  “I think that sounds great.”

  “Not Dos Milagros. Someplace nice.”

  “Oh, Craig, don’t insult Dos Milagros in front of me.”

  McVie smiled. “I remember you talking about that new Argentine steak house.”

  “Oooh,” Fenway said, almost involuntarily.

  “Gotcha. I’ll make reservations. Is there a day this week that works for you?”

  “No time like the present, right?”

  “Okay. Seven tonight?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “Great.” McVie checked his watch. “Listen, I have to call the station. Can you head to the theater in case Amanda shows up a little early?”

  “Sure.”

  Fenway walked to the theater, buoyant with the feeling of McVie asking her out—almost like she was in high school, and not a grown woman who had an on-and-off relationship with the sheriff.

  When she opened the door to the lobby of the theater, a white girl of medium height stood nervously near a theater entry door. She had no makeup, but her skin was luminous, without the blemishes that Fenway had as an undergrad. Her eyes were wide and blue, her hair was shoulder-length and blond, very light with just a touch of goldenrod. She wore blue jeans that looked carefully torn in the right places, a bright red hooded sweatshirt unzipped down the front, and a fitted t-shirt underneath that said If I be waspish, best beware my sting.

  “Katherine,” Fenway said.

  “What? No—I’m Amanda.”

  “Sorry, I meant your shirt. A quote from The Taming of the Shrew.”

  “Oh.” She looked down. “Right. I didn’t realize I was wearing this.”

  Fenway nodded. “Nice to meet you, Amanda. I’m Coroner Stevenson.”

  “You’re the coroner?”

  Fenway nodded. “You were expecting someone else?”

  “I thought you’d be older.”

  “I guess you didn’t pay much attention to the election.”

  “Oh, that. No, Professor Cygnus had us in rehearsals for, like, six hours every night for the last month.”

  “Dr. Pruitt told me you’re playing Desdemona, right? That’s a big part.”

  “I know. That means I’m in a lot of the rehearsal scenes. I barely even know what month it is. Between this play and my classes, I hardly have time to sleep.”

  “And work at The Guild office?”

  Amanda nodded, a guilty look on her face.

  “What is it?”

  “I kind of feel bad for working so many hours when there’s not that much work to do. There aren’t enough computers for all of the student workers, so I usually do my homework. But Jessica always said we need someone to be in the office when it’s open.”

  “And she scheduled you more than anyone else. Do you know why?”

  Amanda shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m not arguing. I need the money, and I sure couldn’t do my homework during work hours at most other places.”

  Fenway pulled a notebook out of her purse. “You were here until five last night, right?”

  “Uh—no. I was scheduled till five, but I had to be at rehearsal at four thirty. I left at about four twenty.”

  “You and Jessica usually the last ones to leave?”

  “Oh—no. It’s usually just me. Jessica’s out of here at three or four every day.”

  “Not at five?”

  “This isn’t a real nine-to-five kind of place,” Amanda said.

  “Are you okay with that? Your boss leaving early?”

  Amanda shrugged.

  Fenway realized she was tense; her shoulders were tight, her brow was creased, her right hand was even balled up into a fist. She remembered watching McVie interview reluctant witnesses. When they tensed up, he would relax his whole body, creating an easy, stress-free vibe, and he often got more forthcoming answers. So Fenway took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She looked at Amanda and gave her a smile with what she hoped was the right amount of sadness in it.

  “Listen,” she said, “I don’t know if you heard, but the office was ransacked. If we can figure out who did this to The Guild office, it might be important. Was there something valuable in the office? Maybe from someone who signed up for the tour?”

  Amanda’s shoulders dipped slightly, but her jaw was still tightened up, and her tone wasn’t much different.

  “I don’t think so, but I just open mail, organi
ze the checks, and enter stuff into a spreadsheet.”

  “People still pay by check?”

  Amanda shrugged. “Probably about half. A lot of them are old. Seeing Shakespeare in Stratford is on their bucket list, I guess.”

  “How many computers are in the office?”

  “Um… well, Jessica has a laptop.”

  “Does she take it home with her?”

  Amanda nodded. “Oh, yeah. She never leaves it in the office.”

  “Do you know what kind of laptop it is?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The manufacturer. The model. Stuff like that.”

  Amanda shook her head. “I mean, it’s not a Mac. She wanted one, but the university denied it. Too expensive.”

  “Did she leave early yesterday?”

  “Who? Jessica?”

  “Right.”

  “No, for once she was still in her office when I left.”

  “What time was that again?”

  Amanda’s shoulders tightened up a little more. “Four twenty, like I said.”

  Fenway took another deep breath, hoping it would get Amanda to relax as well. “I noticed you called her ‘Jessica.’ You didn’t call her Ms. Marquez?”

  “Sure. We all called her ‘Jessica.’ She’s not a professor or anything.”

  “What was her background?”

  Amanda shrugged again. “I don’t know. It’s not like we’re friends.”

  “Has she been acting strange at all the last few days?”

  “Strange? Like how?”

  “Maybe a change in her personality, maybe she’s been jumpy lately, or particularly secretive?”

  Amanda thought for a moment. “She has been secretive, but she’s never been the type to open up. Of course, that might be because we’re students. She has a friend who comes around every so often. Maybe you can talk with her.”

  “Do you have a name for this friend?”

  “Um… no, I don’t think so.”

  “What can you tell me about this friend?”

  “Um… what do you mean?”

  “Do you know if she works on campus? What does she look like? Stuff like that.”

  “Oh. I don’t know where she works. She’s older than the students here, but she looks younger than Jessica. About your age, I guess. And she’s black. Good dresser. I noticed she had this beautiful suede jacket with a drape front on the last time she was coming out of The Guild office. I think it was a Chelsea Piers Original—it was the same one that Dana Bohannon wore on the red carpet at the Emmys last year.”

  “You follow fashion?”

  Amanda shrugged. “Not religiously.”

  “You know anyone with a Kendra Quinlan blouse?”

  Amanda’s eyes lit up and then washed over with confusion. “I think I have a girl in my Psych class that has one. She’s rich. Always bragging about her dad introducing her to celebrities. She likes to show off.”

  “Wearing a Kendra Quinlan blouse is showing off?”

  “No, no. I mean, Quinlan is one of the few upscale designers who still cares about practicality in their clothing, sustainable practices, paying her workers a living wage, stuff like that. I’ve read a bunch of interviews.” Amanda set her mouth in a line. “Not that the rich bitch in my class cares about any of that. She only cares that she’s wearing an eighteen-hundred-fifty-dollar blouse.”

  “You don’t have a Kendra Quinlan?”

  Amanda looked at the ceiling. “Where would I get the money for that? If I hadn’t gotten the scholarship, there’s no way I could have come here. My mom works her ass off to make sure we have a roof over our head and food on the table, but a college fund wasn’t in the cards. Designer labels weren’t either.”

  “You seem to do okay.”

  “Last season’s markdowns, and I’ll let you in on a little secret—thrift store shopping in gentrifying neighborhoods. People don’t know what they’re donating half the time.”

  Fenway nodded. “Okay.” She turned a page of her notebook. “Did Jessica have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?”

  “I don’t think so. Like I said, I don’t know her that well.”

  “Was she dating anyone?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What about the woman in that suede jacket?”

  Amanda cocked her head to the side. “I don’t think so. She swooned over the hot male actors that Professor Cygnus would get to speak to our class. She liked their English accents. She’s not into Shakespeare, so I kind of figured meeting the hot actors was the biggest perk of the job for her.”

  “No hot guys with accents visiting the office, then?”

  Amanda shrugged. “Not while I was there, anyway.”

  Fenway nodded and turned another page. “Did Jessica owe anyone any money? Or did anyone owe her?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “You might have heard something. You work in the office more than all the other students combined.”

  “I only have that many hours because I’m trying to go on the summer theater trip.”

  “Oh, right—The Guild at the Globe thing?”

  Amanda nodded. “Right. Not only do I get money, but my discount goes up the more hours I work.”

  “You’re serious about acting, then?”

  “Professor Cygnus and The Guild are the only reasons I picked Nidever over uc Santa Barbara. I got a full ride there, too, but their drama department isn’t as good, and they don’t have Professor Cygnus.”

  “Gotcha.” Fenway looked through her notes. “Anything else that might have been unusual with Jessica over the last couple of weeks?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “Okay, thanks. Let’s go up to The Guild office and see if anything is missing.”

  “Now? I’ve got class in fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh. All right. We have other interviews to do. Can you come back when your classes are done?”

  “Sure. I was supposed to work today anyway.”

  When they had settled what time they’d meet again in the theater lobby, Amanda picked up her bookbag and walked outside as McVie walked in. He held the door open for her, then crossed the lobby to where Fenway was standing.

  “She was early,” he said.

  “She was waiting for me when I got here.” Fenway pulled out her phone and brought up a web browser. “Answered all of my questions, didn’t get angry, didn’t push back.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ coming on.”

  “But,” Fenway said, “I think she was lying.”

  “About what?”

  The picture of the black-and-white silk tulip-sleeved blouse loaded onto Fenway’s screen from the Kendra Quinlan website. And so did the price.

  $1,850.

  “I bet this blouse is hanging in Amanda’s closet right now, with a button missing. She stated the exact price for it.”

  McVie folded his arms. “That doesn’t prove anything. Maybe she likes Kendra Quinlan blouses. Megan sure does. Asked for one for her birthday.”

  Fenway screwed up her face. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “Even if she had it, she probably threw it away.”

  Fenway shook her head. “There’s no way. She grew up poor—well, poor enough—and this is way too expensive.”

  “Not if there’s Jessica Sanchez’s blood all over it.”

  “True.” Fenway tapped her foot. “Okay, let’s see what some of the other students have to say. You said you scheduled meetings through Dr. Pruitt?”

  “I did, but not till later. I thought we’d be talking to Professor Cygnus for a while, so I scheduled some of the student interviews after rehearsal.”

  “Maybe we can meet Amanda at The Guild office before rehearsal, and she can tell us if anything else is missing.”

  “Yeah, that might work.” McVie paced the floor for a moment, thinking. “We might as well head over to administration. Get any files we can on Jessica Marquez. See which staff members mi
ght have been close to her.”

  They walked across campus to the administration building, only to find that the records office was closed for the lunch hour.

  “I guess we should get some lunch, too,” McVie said.

  For once, Fenway’s stomach wasn’t complaining about missing a meal, but the cake she’d eaten a couple of hours before was still settling. She went to the student union with McVie, where a large Ernesto’s sign hung in the middle of the food court.

  “I didn’t know they had an Ernesto’s here,” she said to McVie. “I’ve been to the one downtown. It’s not bad.”

  “Don’t tell me you cheated on Dos Milagros.” McVie grinned.

  “I was just there for the guacamole, baby,” Fenway purred. “I swear, it didn’t mean anything.”

  “There’s a decent grill over there, too. I grabbed breakfast there this morning. They’ve got a Monte Cristo on the menu.”

  “I don’t even like Monte Cristos.” Fenway playfully elbowed McVie in the ribs. “You must be thinking of your other girlfriend.”

  The word girlfriend left her mouth before she could stop it. Oof—presumptuous. Too early. It might scare McVie off—hell, it might scare her off. Her cheeks burned as she stole a quick glance at McVie’s face. He, too, was blushing.

  But why—

  Then it hit her.

  McVie wasn’t blushing at the implied girlfriend status. He was blushing because his ex-wife liked Monte Cristos.

  “Ernesto’s is great.” Fenway’s stomach lurched as their conversation train plummeted into a ravine. “I like their pollo asado tacos.”

  They stood in the short Ernesto’s line in silence.

  “Next,” the cashier said.

  McVie and Fenway stepped up to the counter, and a look of recognition came over the handsome cashier’s face. He was taller than Fenway but shorter than McVie, with skin a terra cotta color, about as light as Fenway’s, but much more red-hued than the predominant brown of Fenway’s. His dark umber hair was cut close to his scalp, a long face and thick eyebrows above heavy-lidded, kind eyes. He wore a black polo shirt, tight on his lean, muscular frame, with a nametag that simply said x.

  “Oh—you’re Coroner Stevenson.”

  “Hi,” Fenway said. “Have we met before?”