The Candidate Coroner

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  Chapter Two

  SHE DIDN’T SEE HER father’s black Mercedes S500, so she put on some Branford Marsalis, reclined her seat and closed her eyes. Listening to the Trio Jeepy album always made her feel rebellious: a full album with only saxophone, upright bass, and drums—no chordal instruments at all, no piano, no guitar. And yet, Fenway thought it was one of his most accessible albums—breaking all the rules, yet more satisfying than anything else he recorded.

  Halfway through Three Little Words, the S500 pulled into the lot. Nathaniel Ferris got out of the back, closed the door and clapped the top of the car as if it were a cab, and the car drove off. Ferris walked over to the Accord and Fenway rolled down her window.

  Her father had a quizzical look on his face. “This isn’t Coltrane, is it?”

  “Branford Marsalis.”

  Ferris shook his head. “That new stuff never appealed to me.”

  “This was recorded before I was born, Dad.”

  Ferris screwed up his mouth. “Great, make me feel old before we go talk to the shrink. One more knot for him to untangle.”

  Fenway sighed and rolled up the window. She turned the engine off and opened the door.

  They started to walk across the parking lot. “What? Come on, that was supposed to be funny. You lost your sense of humor?”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “You canceled your campaign events.”

  “Just for the afternoon, Dad. I was following up on a lead.” She sighed. “Don’t worry, I went to the Chamber of Commerce meeting before I left for Hanford.”

  Ferris paused. “Hanford? What’s out in Hanford besides a bunch of cows?”

  “The women’s prison.”

  “The women’s prison?”

  Fenway nodded as the stepped up onto the sidewalk and stopped in front of the door marked Suite 34B—Dr. Jacob Tassajera. “You ready, Dad?”

  He nodded, and Fenway opened the door.

  The waiting room was eggshell white and spartan. Four wooden chairs, in sets of two with an end table in between them, were against two of the walls. There was a small ficus tree in a pot in one corner and a tiny, fake-looking succulent in a mauve-and-orange ceramic pot on one of the end tables. Another door was at the back of the waiting room, closed.

  Fenway took a seat on one of the chairs next to the door, and set her purse on the end table in front of the succulent.

  Ferris, taking a seat in the chair on the other side of the end table, cleared his throat. “What were you at the women’s prison for? You said you were talking to a witness? Trying to get a jailhouse informant?”

  “Jeez, and people say I watch too much TV. No, Dad. I had to talk to the woman who tried to shoot me a few months ago.”

  Ferris paused. “The widow of the guy who died at the refinery?”

  Fenway nodded. “The good news is, she’s not trying to kill me anymore. Doesn’t think I was trying to cover up her husband’s murder for you.”

  “Her husband’s murder?”

  Fenway nodded again. “Yes, Dad.”

  “Why did you talk to her? We settled with the families a few weeks ago. It was a generous settlement.”

  “I don’t think Lana Cassidy thinks of it as settled.”

  “We’re paying her son’s tuition at Nidever. We paid off the house. Paid out two years’ of the husband’s salary. She should be happy.”

  “Doesn’t bring her husband back, though.”

  Ferris bristled. “So what does that mean? Does it mean you’re reopening the case?”

  Fenway shrugged. “We never closed it. We think Stotsky turned the ventilation valve, but we can’t prove it.”

  “You never closed the case?”

  “I mean, we ruled out suicide so the families could get their insurance money.” Then Fenway clamped her mouth shut. There was so much more she wanted to say, but she knew it would be unproductive, and being so close to the start of a session, it wasn’t a good idea.

  “Are you telling me you’re restarting the investigation?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Fenway said. She regretted bringing this up with him. It was unprofessional, but the doctor’s office had lowered her guard. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned anything.”

  Ferris frowned, folding his arms. “Don’t think I won’t get my lawyers on this. That investigation should have concluded months ago.”

  Fenway leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “Just forget I said anything, Dad.”

  Ferris set his jaw, raising his voice. “You can’t say you’re investigating my company for murder and then tell me to forget about it.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Do you have any idea of the pressure I’m under with the board of directors?”

  “What do you mean?” Fenway asked.

  “Cynthia Schimmelhorn is what I mean,” Ferris said distastefully. “She got up at the board of directors meeting two weeks ago and all but asked for a vote of no confidence for me as the CEO.”

  Fenway was surprised—she thought he had a tight rein on the board of directors. But Cynthia, a former CFO of a local bank, had been appointed to the board as its first—and so far only—female member, and hadn’t liked the boys’ club feel of the company. With two high-profile murderers so close to Ferris over the last year, it was perhaps natural to question Ferris’s judgement—but Fenway was shocked the board was actually performing its oversight duties.

  “What did you do?”

  “I went over the numbers. Profits are up. Costs are under control. Money talks—and it talks a lot louder than Cynthia Schimmelhorn.” He coughed. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that this is essentially a cold case. You canceled your afternoon campaign events to go talk to a woman in jail about a year-old death? Where did you think she was going?”

  “She wrote me a letter. She gave me an opening. I didn’t think it could wait.”

  “You mean you didn’t want to wait, and you especially didn’t want to speak at the downtown association this afternoon.”

  Fenway was aghast. “You know my campaign schedule?”

  “Better than you do, apparently.” Ferris sniffed. “I like to see where my money is going.”

  Just then, the door opened, and Dr. Jacob Tassajera stuck his head out of his office. “Mr. Ferris? Ms. Stevenson?” His voice was a gentle baritone.

  “Seems we have a lot to talk about today,” Ferris said, getting up.

  “I must apologize,” Dr. Tassajera said. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but I’m afraid I have an emergency with another patient.”

  “An emergency?” Ferris’s face fell. “Are you telling me you’re canceling?”

  “Postponing. Would you come in here so we can reschedule?”

  “Sure,” Fenway said.

  Ferris frowned and went into the office ahead of Fenway.

  The office had a desk off to one side of the room with a laptop, a small task chair, and a golf bag in the corner behind it. In the center of the room, two overstuffed brown leather armchairs were at a forty-five-degree angle next to each other with a small table in the middle. The table held a Kleenex box and a twin of the succulent in the waiting room. A wooden chair, with a muted green-and-blue floral upholstered seat, sat squarely in front of the two armchairs. Fenway looked at the comfortable armchairs with a little sadness; her back hurt from the drive and from the hard chair at the Hanford prison.

  Dr. Tassajera walked over to his desk and consulted the large calendar on his desk blotter. “How does Monday look?”

  “The day before the election?” Fenway asked. “I can’t commit to anything then.”

  “Over the weekend, then.”

  “I can only do Sunday,” Ferris said, a bit testily.

  “I don’t normally see patients on Sundays.”

  “I guess we’ll have to schedule something in a couple of weeks, then,” Ferris replied.

  Dr. Tassajera rubbed his chin, thinking. “Sunday won’t be a problem. What t
ime?”

  Ferris flinched, and Fenway smiled; Tassajera had called his bluff. “Uh, late morning, I guess.”

  “Perfect,” Fenway said. “I’ve got a breakfast, but nothing else until a speech at a senior center after lunch.”

  “If you don’t cancel those, too,” Ferris mumbled.

  Dr. Tassajera nodded. “Eleven o’clock?”

  Ferris reluctantly agreed, and Fenway put the appointment in her phone.

  “Until Sunday, then.” Dr. Tassajera nodded, and they both walked out through the waiting room and stood on the sidewalk. The door closed with a click behind them.

  They stood in an uncomfortable silence.

  Ferris looked at Fenway. “Are we okay?”

  Fenway looked back at him. “We’re getting better, I guess.”

  Tracing his foot back and forth on the ground, Ferris looked like he was debating with himself. Finally he spoke. “Are you up for dinner? Charlotte is out with the girls tonight, and we haven’t been to Maxime’s in a while.”

  The thought of a four-course fancy dinner, complete with wine flights and waiters tripping over themselves to impress Ferris, made Fenway nauseated. She shook her head. “I’m going to eat something quick and head over to the campaign office. We’re doing a phonebank tonight.”

  Ferris pulled his phone out and sent a text. “You cancelled the downtown association, but you’re still phonebanking? Come on, Fenway. You’ve got to prioritize. Your campaign staff and volunteers are going to make calls for you whether you’re there or not. The downtown association has real clout with the voters. They need face time with you.”

  “I’ll remember that for next time, Dad.” She went over to him and kissed his cheek. “Sorry about the board of directors.”

  Ferris grunted. “I’ll see you later. Sunday at eleven, I guess, if not before.”

  “Right. Millicent will be thrilled to break up our day of campaigning with a visit to a shrink.”

  Ferris smiled as his phone dinged. He glanced down at the screen.

  “Is your car here?”

  “Roderick’s a few minutes away.”

  “Want to walk me to my car?”

  “Sure.”

  The walk across the parking lot was silent; Fenway couldn’t stop thinking of how angry her father was about her restarting the investigation into the refinery accident.

  Fenway said goodbye, leaving Ferris standing a few feet away from her Accord, waiting for Roderick to show up in the Mercedes.

  She drove out of the lot into the early evening, the sun behind the horizon, throwing fingers of pink and lavender stretching through the high, wispy white clouds scattered recklessly across the sky. Fenway looked up through her sunroof, marveling at the rapidly darkening colors.

  She didn’t stop for food on the drive to the campaign office. Her stomach was still in knots from the meetings with both Lana in Hanford and her father at the therapist’s office. As she pulled into the crowded parking lot and got out of her Accord, the conversations replayed in her head.

  She opened the front door and was met with a wall of sound. Dozens of people were in the office—until the summer, the space had been rented to a failing department store. A hundred conversations were going on at once, and people were hanging up with smiles. A Latino teenager near the front, wearing a headset, stood up and high-fived the woman next to him. “Ten more yard signs!” he exclaimed. “She wants to pass them out at her book club tomorrow!”

  Then he noticed Fenway. “Oh—Miss Stevenson!” He stood up straight. “Everyone—our candidate is here.” He started to applaud, and it lightly scattered throughout the room, but most people were on the phone.

  “Never mind, Rory,” Fenway said. “Those ten yard signs mean more than applause right now.”

  “We’ve got a competition to see how many yard signs we can get out to the people on our lists. First prize is a five-hundred-dollar gift card.”

  “You’re winning, I take it.”

  He flashed Fenway a smile. “It’s not even close. You here to see Millicent? Let me take you back.” He extricated himself from his headset.

  “Your parents okay with you being here on a school night?”

  “I’m getting extra credit in AP Government. And we’ve got a teacher in-service day tomorrow.” He motioned for her to follow him.

  As Fenway walked between the long rows of desks to the office in the back of the large space, she marveled at how good Nathaniel Ferris was at finding competent people to work for him. Perhaps they weren’t always the most ethical, but they were highly competent.

  Millicent Tate was no exception; she was fiercely intelligent and a bundle of energy. Fenway often saw emails sent by Millicent well after midnight. After Dr. Richard Ivanovich—an ear, nose, and throat specialist Barry Klein played golf with—announced his candidacy for county coroner, Nathaniel Ferris had engaged her services. She was young—almost as young as Fenway. Based in Sacramento, she’d made a name for herself getting a Republican elected to the House in a deep-blue district in the Bay Area, a race the RNC hadn’t even had on their radar. And two years later, she flipped a red rural district to blue with an equally improbable Democratic candidate. She was used to working on congressional campaigns, but after Ferris promised her a hefty paycheck, all expenses paid, and a personal introduction to both California senators, she had dropped everything to run Fenway’s campaign.

  A large man sat at a desk in front of Millicent Tate’s office. He had piercing brown eyes and skin so dark it was almost blue. He was in a well-tailored light gray suit and an expensive-looking white dress shirt with no tie. His massive shoulders and barrel chest seemed too enormous for both the desk and the task chair, but with the grace of a ballerina, he leafed through a stack of papers with his meaty left hand and typed quickly on the computer keyboard with the other.

  “Evening, Miss Stevenson,” he said without looking up from his work, his voice a deep, dramatic baritone. “Miss Tate wasn’t expecting you for another forty-five minutes.”

  “My afternoon appointment was postponed.”

  “Serves you right for canceling on the downtown association.”

  “Oh, Marquise, not you too? I already got an earful of it from my father.”

  Marquise chuckled. “You better prepare yourself for another earful from Miss Tate. She’s been running interference.”

  Fenway sighed. “Can I go in?”

  Marquise nodded.

  Fenway nodded at Rory. “Thanks, Rory. Keep up the good work.”

  “I will. That gift card is as good as mine.”

  Fenway walked into Millicent Tate’s office. Behind the desk sat a white woman with small but quick eyes behind black cat-eye framed glasses. Her black hair was pulled back, and she held the phone receiver up to her ear with one hand and held the index finger of her other hand up in front of Fenway.

  “Of course, Mr. Williams. Look—would you rather support a candidate who just tells you what you want to hear, or do you want someone who actually works to keep crime down? You’ve seen the statistics. You know she’s effective.” Millicent Tate paused, listening. “I remind her that she needs the support of communities like yours every day, Mr. Williams, but she seems to prioritize her job over making speeches.” She nodded, listening. “I can certainly let her know. No, no, I know your group is busy. I appreciate the time.”

  Millicent Tate hung up.

  “Sorry,” Fenway said.

  “It’s a good thing your dad is paying me so well,” Millicent snapped. “I’ve been on the phone with every member of the downtown association since you canceled.”

  “You can reschedule, though, right?”

  “No, of course I can’t. That was their last meeting before the election.”

  “Oh.” Fenway paused. “You think I’ve lost them?”

  “I don’t think so,” Millicent said. “A few of them think your investigation is more important than their meeting. It might have actually helped. But a couple of them
are angry that you blew them off.”

  “I didn’t—”

  Millicent held up her hand. “Their words, not mine. Anyway, what’s done is done. Let’s get out there and rally the troops.”

  “Rory seems to be doing a good job.”

  “Over four hundred lawn signs since three-thirty. He’s gotten more signs out there than everyone else put together. I’d hire him on my next campaign if he weren’t going to college.”

  When Millicent and Fenway walked out with Millicent to the floor, everyone ended their calls quickly. Fenway delivered the short but rousing speech that Millicent’s team had written. People cheered, people clapped, then people got back to work.

  “Do you need me to make any calls to the downtown association?”

  Millicent shook her head. “Let’s not make it worse.”

  “I’d make it worse?”

  “If your story doesn’t match the one I told them? Yeah, that’d make it worse.”

  They talked strategy for a while and went over the next day’s schedule—the morning was surprisingly light, with nothing until a luncheon with the teachers’ union. Fenway left the campaign office for home.

  She drove to her apartment on autopilot, and found herself in her parking space with scarcely a memory of driving there. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock, but she seriously contemplated going to bed. The discussion with Lana, the conversation with her father, and the speech to her staff and volunteers had taken a lot out of her.

  Walking up the stairs required an almost Herculean effort, raising her foot to go up each step an exercise in willpower. She entered the apartment, cold from the chilly October day, and couldn’t even bring herself to walk over to the refrigerator.

  Maybe, Fenway told herself, I’ll feel better after I lie down for a while.

  She went to her room and lay down on top of the comforter, throwing her purse on the floor next to the bed, and fell asleep almost immediately.

  At some point she pulled the covers down and threw her clothes off and slept in her underwear in the cold sheets with the warm blankets over her and the pillows bunched up all around her head. A little later she heard rain against her window.