“Yep. We’re finished here.”
“All right. Come on, Mr. Ferris.”
“Hey, Todd,” Fenway said, “see if you can find my father something to keep him entertained. Maybe a good book. An action thriller or something.”
“We’ve got some John Grisham.”
“Do you have the one where the rich guy with no soul gets his comeuppance?”
Officer Young smirked. “I think that’s every John Grisham book.”
“That should do, then,” Fenway said, turned on her heel without looking at her father, and strode across the room and out the other door.
She walked down the hallway quickly, her heart beating in her ears, replaying the conversation in her mind.
She hadn’t been nice, and she hadn’t been kind, but she didn’t care. She was pretty sure her father had hired someone to kill the professor, and she thought the kids from Othello could learn a lot from her father’s acting.
Chapter Seven
Uber was much more responsive around the end of the workday, and Fenway was back on campus by six fifteen. All the light had faded from the sky. Streetlamps on posts, scattered at various points around the edges of the sidewalks, provided the only light for the parking lot. Their warm glow mingled with the harsh fluorescent white that leaked out of the double doors to the DiFazio Theater, held open with metal door stops. Nearing those doors, Fenway could hear voices from inside, with the unmistakable rhythm of iambic pentameter. She wondered if Cygnus gave his students a dinner break. With opening night in two days, this was likely a dress rehearsal. Fenway had never been in a theater production herself, at least not after fifth grade, but something about Shakespeare had always spoken to her. This particular play, as problematic as might be, was no exception.
She padded, almost tiptoed, through the lobby of the DiFazio Theater and reached for the door handle of the main auditorium. She pulled it open quietly, immediately regretting the harsh light that spilled into the dark auditorium. She didn’t see McVie, but the blackness was so complete she couldn’t tell who was sitting in the audience.
It was silent. Fenway held her breath. Had she interrupted the actors?
She looked up, and no, she hadn’t broken their concentration. A standoff on stage had the air crackling with tension. Xavier Go, clad in a white military-style tunic shirt and fitted black pants, stood with his back to the audience. Amanda Kohl lay awkwardly crumpled on the bed before him. A rosy-cheeked woman, whose curled tresses fell in ringlets on either side of her face, had a sad, desperate look in her eyes and a horrified expression on her face. She pointed at Xavier.
“O thou dull Moor! that handkerchief thou speak’st of
I found by fortune and did give my husband;
For often, with a solemn earnestness,
More than indeed belong’d to such a trifle,
He begg’d of me to steal it.”
Fenway was transfixed. From seeing the play before, she recognized the Emilia character, fraught with emotion over Desdemona’s death. She was disappointed that she hadn’t seen any of Amanda’s performance. Maybe Amanda’s acting was as good as Amanda thought it was.
The rear of the stage was crowded, with the actors playing Iago, Emilia, Gratiano, and Montano behind the bed onstage, and the body of the dead Desdemona in front, with Othello nearest the audience. Iago, sword drawn, faced Emilia, only Gratiano separating them.
“Villainous whore!” seethed Iago.
Fenway tore her eyes from the actors for a moment and began to scan the audience. At a small desk behind all of the other seats, all the way on the far left-hand side, sat Professor Cygnus. He stared at the stage fixedly, his eyes concentrating heavily, his mouth drawn tight, the muscles in the side of his face pulsing. After a moment, Fenway figured out that his jaw clenched and unclenched in time with the actors’ lines.
Fenway spotted a knot of students in the front seats. Their faces were rapt. On the stage, Iago ducked under Othello’s knife.
Then he rushed toward Emilia and stabbed her.
Even though Fenway knew it was coming, she gasped.
Emilia fell on the floor, her look of sad desperation transformed to one of disbelief with a hint of pain.
So many murders in Estancia since her arrival in town six months ago.
Could she not feel any of it?
She even knew Rory. She had borrowed the minivan that morning, and Rory—innocent, hardworking, brilliant Rory—was just returning the minivan to his father’s auto shop.
The bomb wasn’t for him.
Yet Fenway was pissed off about her car not being processed after the explosion. Could she not even feel the tiniest twinge for Rory?
She knew she did. She knew she’d cried over his death, but she hadn’t felt it for a couple of days. Not until she saw Emilia get stabbed on stage.
It took her breath away.
She turned her attention to the professor, who didn’t look pleased at Emilia’s stellar performance, and instead got to his feet and started stamping down the aisle, shouting and waving his arms. In his left hand was a flat cap, and he waved it around for emphasis as he shouted, “No! No! For the love of God, no!”
“What is it?” the woman playing Emilia snapped.
“Your blocking is all wrong, Denise,” Professor Cygnus said. “If you land there, we can’t see Desdemona’s face. All the great acting in the world will be for naught if you block the audience from seeing the most important thing they can see in this scene.”
Denise’s lower lip trembled slightly, but then she set her jaw and steeled her gaze. “If I’m stabbed that way, I have to fall that way. Otherwise it’s not believable.”
“We are at dress rehearsal, Denise,” the professor said through gritted teeth. “We have had conversation, after conversation, after conversation about the blocking in this scene. This won’t be fixed by opening night unless you do it the way that we have all spent hours of rehearsal working on.” He turned to the audience. “Company!” he said loudly, raising his arms, his muscles large and tensing. “Did we all work on the blocking for this scene?”
A low murmur of assent rose.
“I’ve heard you express louder opinions for a swipe-right on Tinder,” the professor said. “I’m sixty years old, and I need to hear you. I said, Did we all work on the blocking for this scene?”
“Yes, professor,” came the unified answer.
“Did we all agree to the blocking on this scene?”
“Yes, professor.”
“Did Denise Delatasso, the diva from San Dimas, agree to the fucking blocking?” he screamed, and threw his cap across the room. The hat spun like a Frisbee, bounced against the wall above the lit exit sign, and dropped on the floor.
The professor turned and stared at Denise.
She pushed herself up, crossed her arms, and exhaled noisily. “Okay, Professor,” she said. “I remember the blocking perfectly, so where do you want us to take this from?”
Professor Virgil Cygnus stamped the ground in disgust. “I’m done with you for tonight, Denise,” he yelled. “I don’t care if we are opening in two days, I will let all of you embarrass yourselves on stage if this is the way you treat the text—and each other as actors.”
With that, he picked up a stack of papers and books sitting on the floor next to a theater seat, and heaved it across the theater. The books flew straight, and a student ducked out of the way. The sheaf of papers flew apart in midair, like startled seagulls taking flight from a sandy beach. The professor stomped up the aisle, opened the door to the lobby, and stormed out, slamming the door loudly. On stage, Amanda, no longer the dead body of Desdemona, pushed herself upright with one hand. Denise looked furious, and stomped off stage right. Xavier Go, who had not uttered a line since Fenway entered the theater, turned around to face the seats, a look of sheer exasperation on his face. None of the students’ faces registered surprise or shock; maybe they were numb to the professor’s outbursts. Perhaps this was how it went: rehe
arsals aborted by the professor’s screaming, with the production in chaos, but everything destined to be all right tomorrow, as when families scream and yell and hurl insults at each other, but wake up the next day like nothing ever happened.
Fenway scooted along a row of seats and followed Dr. Cygnus out into the lobby.
She hadn’t taken more than two steps into the brightly lit foyer when her eyes adjusted well enough to the harsh fluorescents to see the sheriff already talking to the professor.
Fenway walked up to the two of them, catching McVie’s eye.
“Listen, sheriff,” the professor said derisively, “I’m sure that there are normal people who would cancel a play or a movie or a sing-along if the general manager who ran the sponsoring organization were murdered, but I, dear sir, am proudly abnormal. I don’t think you appreciate that I have been fighting with this text for thirty-five years, and as far as I’m concerned, the theater would have to be washed away in a tsunami before I would agree to cancel any of these performances. Do you think I can just get a look of betrayal to magically appear on Xavier’s face during that last scene? I swear, next year I shall break my promise to my mother, God rest her soul, and direct Shakespeare in modern dress with guns. Xavier wouldn’t need to learn sword fighting or dagger movement with a gun in his hand. Ah, for life to be simpler.”
“I just need to know where you were—”
Cygnus put up his hand to silence the sheriff. “I’m in no mood to talk about where I was, or what I did last night, and even if you drag me kicking and screaming down to the police station, I shall talk about nothing but Othello, and how my best actress thinks she’s too good to follow the—” and here he raised his voice, fairly echoing throughout the lobby “—blocking we agreed on weeks ago!” He stormed off quickly out the side door of the lobby, leaving McVie staring after him.
Fenway walked up to McVie. “You okay?”
McVie wore a sour expression, one Fenway rarely saw. “I think that went well,” he said. “I’m glad I was able to make him see the importance of the investigation.”
“Maybe you need to speak his language.”
“I’m not going to start using thou and prithee, Fenway.”
“Very funny, Craig. No, I mean—all he loves is Shakespeare. Maybe tell him one of his awards is missing, maybe say we found that Jessica, I don’t know, planned to sabotage the play or something. Hit him where he lives—not with the language, but with the drama. Then you can get him up to the office to see if anything is missing, and interview him there.”
McVie squinted, his eyes unfocused across the room. “That’s not a half bad idea.”
“Hey, I’ve been doing this for six months now. Pretty soon I’ll get the hang of it.”
Xavier came out of the theater and ran toward the side door.
“Xavier!” Fenway shouted.
He stopped. “Sorry, Coroner, but I’ve gotta get the professor back in here. We’re opening in two days, and we can’t give up when a rehearsal goes sideways.”
“What about Denise?”
“Amanda’s working on her.” Xavier gave a little half wave, then ran out the door.
“We won’t catch them in a good headspace until after rehearsal’s over,” McVie said.
“What else can we do?”
“Right now? Dez is going through Jessica’s house. Piper’s working on Jessica’s financials. So I think the only thing left to do is go eat some Argentine steak.”
Fenway felt her heart swell. She had been so focused on the murder of Jessica Marquez and the plight of her father that she’d forgotten they had a date that night, and it was their first real date. Even though the election was over, she’d still kept her mind away from him, banishing any thoughts of romance with McVie was simply second nature. “I’m not sure I’m dressed for a fancy dinner.”
“I’m not, either, but it’s a steak place, not the Vatican. I bet they’ll take our money.”
“Okay, I’d like that,” Fenway said. “I’m sorry. I’ve gotten so used to the election season that I feel like my finger is still holding down the pause button on our first date.”
“I know—I feel like that, too. Like I have to deny that I want to go out with you.” McVie ran his hands through his hair. “Listen, Fenway, I haven’t dated in a while. I don’t even know if it’s a good idea to start dating so soon after my separation. And—for the time being, anyway—I’m still sheriff and you’re still coroner.”
Fenway felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “Wait—you asked me out this morning—and you said you wanted to go with me to get some steak. Now it sounds like you’re trying to back out.” She folded her arms. “Or maybe you’re telling me you just want sex and that you don’t want to call me in the morning.”
“No!” McVie said, and he pulled her to the side of the lobby and lowered his voice. “I’m trying to tell you that I’m bad at dating. I’m out of practice. That I don’t know the rules. I might come on too strong, or not come on strong enough. I’m telling you that I want to date you even though I’m bad at this, and even though common sense might say I’m not ready.”
“Oh.” Fenway dropped her arms to her sides. “Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I kind of suck at this myself. and it’s not because I’m out of practice. It’s because I suck at dating.”
“All right, then,” McVie said. “We can suck together.”
Fenway gave McVie a dirty look out of the corner of her eye, then burst out laughing.
“We can suck at dating together.” McVie rolled his eyes. “And things will be less complicated after January first. I won’t be sheriff anymore, and our relationship will be exclusively unprofessional.” He paused. “I mean, nonprofessional.”
“I certainly think some behavior inappropriate for the workplace is in order,” Fenway said, a coquettish tone in her voice.
“Great,” McVie said, “and now that I’m thoroughly embarrassed, let’s go to dinner. We can talk to the actors after rehearsal.”
They exited the theater and walked toward the lot.
“We going in the cruiser?” Fenway asked.
“Oh, I forgot I still have it. We’ll have to switch before I take you out to dinner.”
“What, you can’t use the cruiser to stop for dinner on the way home?”
McVie was silent for a moment, and Fenway looked at his face. Yep. Boy Scout.
Fenway fell into step with McVie as they walked. She liked that he was taller than her, even though she was okay dating shorter men. She listened to the sound of their shoes falling into a rhythm, His legs being longer, their footfalls were in syncopation, or even a polyrhythm: every six steps for him and every seven steps for her, they would step at the exact same time. This was jazz, the realm of Dave Brubeck and Steve Coleman and Dave Holland. This was Carnatic music from India.
Turning the corner past the theater building, she felt him tense with every step. They had been silent since they began walking, when she started counting the rhythm of their steps. Maybe McVie needed the conversation to flow, to move forward. She could sense the responsibility land on his shoulders now that they were on a real date, and when they got to the visitors’ lot and the cruiser was in sight, she reached out and took McVie’s hand in hers. She slowed her breathing down, the same way McVie did when they were interviewing a nervous witness. She breathed more deeply and slowly, and she could feel the blood slow down its pulsing in her veins. And McVie’s hand, so tense when she first touched him, started to relax.
“We’ve been looking forward to this for so long,” Fenway said softly. “I don’t want us to overthink it.”
McVie looked at her and smiled, taking his key fob out of his pocket. “Is it that obvious?” he said sheepishly.
“That the buildup is making you all weird?”
“I didn’t even expect there’d be a buildup. Not after the other night.”
“Yeah, but this isn’t just sex, is it?” asked Fenway. “This is—this could
be—us at the starting line.”
McVie nodded. “Am I all weird?”
“I’m weird, too.” She dropped his hand and turned to go around to the passenger side.
McVie put his hand on her shoulder, and she stopped. She closed her eyes and the electricity from his fingertips cascaded in waves down her body, from her shoulders to her hips, all the way to the soles of her feet and the tips of her toes. He took a step closer, and she breathed in his scent. He pulled her gently, and she started turning with his hand, into his body, as his other hand wrapped around her waist and drew her close.
She tilted her head up and looked into McVie’s eyes. The blood in her veins was pumping faster, more urgently. Neither of them was relaxed now. McVie’s body was alert, and Fenway moved her hand up his arm, touching his bicep and moving to his muscular chest, where she placed her open hand, wondering if she’d be able to feel his heart, wondering if she could feel the rhythm, wondering if she could feel a polyrhythmic syncopation with her own.
Their heartbeats crashed together on the downbeat.
He took her face in his hands and kissed her. She closed her eyes and leaned against the driver’s door of the cruiser and let him control her, taking his tongue into her mouth, feeling the hunger from the months of waiting, the months when they could have been together all along.
The kiss took a few seconds, or maybe a few hours. Fenway lost herself and fell backward through a cascade of emotions. She was hiding things from him, she knew. She was hiding what the dead professor had done. She was hiding what she had almost done with Akeel in Seattle—even though McVie had been trying to patch things up with his wife. She’d been hiding a lot of things.
None of that seemed to matter; or rather, it mattered, but she no longer wanted to hide from him. He’d be leaving the sheriff’s office soon, and all they would have together would be their personal connection. There would be no professional relationship to worry about, no awkward glances in the bullpen of the coroner’s office, no knowing looks from the officer at the front desk, no smirks from Quincy or Callahan, no more snide comments from Dez about Fenway having a boyfriend.
The Upstaged Coroner Page 9