The Candidate Coroner

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  “Already done,” Fenway said, showing him the picture.

  “Gotcha. Good job keeping the bullet hole off-camera.”

  “I like to make sure I don’t gross out the witnesses,” Fenway said, then turned to Melissa. “Can you and Officer Huke comb the beach?”

  “Anything to get out of the grunt work, huh, Fenway?” Melissa smiled. “Yeah, we should be fine. I got word Kav should be meeting me here in about ten or fifteen minutes. We’ll take a scrub of the beach, maybe for a half-mile or so.”

  “I can get Callahan back here too,” McVie said.

  “Maybe that’s not such a bad idea,” Melissa admitted. “It’s a lot of ground to cover.”

  Fenway and McVie started walking toward the main road.

  The hill was steep, and Fenway was trying to rush. She was several steps ahead of the sheriff, and he was getting winded. “Jeez, where’s the fire? Hold up.”

  Fenway stopped on the side of the path, avoiding a muddy puddle. “I’m not trying to hurry.”

  McVie raised his eyebrows. “You know, part of the reason you said you weren’t going to date me until after the election is to avoid the awkwardness. I’d say this is still pretty damn awkward.”

  “Well, we’ve waited this long. What’s another week?”

  “Sure,” McVie said, catching up to her. “One more week.”

  “You worried about Klein?”

  McVie shrugged. “You worried about Ivanovich?”

  Fenway shook her head, and they kept walking. “I don’t know. I mean, ever since I passed the nursing boards in September, I guess I haven’t been worried about it.” She looked at McVie. “Also, I guess it helps I’m so ahead in the polls.”

  “And no one knows who Richard Ivanovich is.”

  Fenway nodded. “I’m not even sure he wants to do it. I think Barry Klein talked him into it.”

  “Yeah. Well, we all know Dr. Klein will fight everything your dad wants tooth and nail, just because your dad wants it.”

  Fenway paused for a moment. “Hey, Craig, did something happen between my father and Dr. Klein before I got here? Like, did Charlotte used to be Klein’s girlfriend or something?”

  “Who knows?” McVie asked, although it sounded more like a statement. “Klein is so contrary. It’s like he’s afraid a meteor will fall on him if he shows an ounce of humanity.”

  Fenway was quiet. She thought back to her nursing classes and the overview of oppositional defiance disorder, and wondered if Dr. Klein had it but was undiagnosed.

  “So,” McVie said, “which motel do you want to start with?”

  “The closest one,” Fenway said. “And we might as well start with the front desk.”

  “You think he stayed there?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Fenway said.

  They got to the main road and turned left, toward the motels. The breeze had picked up, and the hint of rain in the air was blowing away. The gentle wind felt refreshing against Fenway’s face, although she thought it was probably playing hell with her hair. She looked at Craig, in his winter coat, shivering.

  “So,” McVie said, “maybe we should try to figure out where we want to go on our first date Wednesday night. You know, the day after the election.”

  Fenway looked out of the corner of her eye at McVie. Her functional khaki trousers weren’t exactly flattering; her running shoes wouldn’t win any fashion awards either. And yet here McVie was asking her out—again. She knew she was intelligent and sometimes even fun to be around. Given her history with men—or maybe it was something internal—she was surprised to be asked out when she wasn’t dressed up. She wondered if she needed to change her attitude about herself and then briefly wondered how much Dr. Tassajera would charge to fix her. “Wednesday, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Fenway laughed. “Maybe you should drop out now if you’re thinking about dating me instead of paying attention to the voting public.”

  McVie smiled. “Maybe you should. You’re the one who always says you’re not cut out for politics.”

  Fenway elbowed McVie playfully. “That’s why I’m so good at it.”

  McVie smiled. “So I was thinking maybe we could go to Maxime’s.”

  Fenway rolled her eyes. “There’s more to good food than fancy napkins and a sommelier who knows you by name.”

  “If that’s supposed to be a segue into you suggesting the taquería on Third Street, forget it. I want to take you someplace a little nicer.”

  “Just don’t take me to Maxime’s. That’s the place my father goes when he has something to celebrate.” She paused. “Unless you want me thinking about my father on our first date.”

  “No,” McVie said, “that’s quite all right.”

  “I like Argentine food.”

  “What, the new steak house on Broadway?”

  “Oh, Craig!” Fenway batted her eyelashes. “The new Argentine steak house! That’s just where I wanted to go—how did you know? You’re so thoughtful!” She put her hands out, miming the delicate raising of the sides of her invisible long skirt, and curtsied.

  McVie tried to look annoyed, but the corners of his mouth and eyes betrayed his amusement. “Okay, Fenway, got it.”

  They reached the black wrought-iron fence bounding the grounds of the first hotel. The garden behind the fence, lovely from a distance, up close showed weeds and random bald patches of rock and gravel. After the fence ended, the circular driveway, made of multicolored bricks, provided a sweeping contour for the eye to follow, but it, too, showed signs of disrepair. Several missing bricks marred the smooth lines, with some spots more visible than others. In one area to the left of the entrance, two large swaths of missing brick had been cemented over. The dull, bumpy gray was an eyesore in the once-grand driveway.

  “This looks like it used to be quite a nice place,” Fenway said.

  “About fifteen years ago, it was,” McVie said. “Then the owner died. It was purchased out of the estate by a couple of new owners, but they didn’t do maintenance on the place, and it’s only gotten older and shabbier.”

  “It’s a shame. This looks like it could have been a movie set.”

  McVie walked up to the hotel entrance. Fenway had halfway expected a grandiose door, perhaps made of a high-quality wood, carved into a decadent shape. Or maybe a metal door of some unusual material—titanium, or something that emulated modernity or wealth. Instead, it was a utilitarian entry door, glass from top to bottom, with a metal bar on either side at doorknob level. It made Fenway sad.

  McVie pulled the door open and Fenway walked into the large lobby. The tiled floor was about twenty years out of date, but clean. She noticed some of the tiles were cracked or chipped, the walls had a pit or two in them, and other places had been damaged and fixed competently but cheaply.

  The long registration desk at the front was dark mahogany, and in much better condition than the rest of the lobby. It looked like it had been handled with care and precision.

  There was a thin Latina woman at the desk, typing on the computer, wearing an outdated business suit. “Good morning,” she said, not looking up. “Welcome to the Belvedere Terrace Resort.” She struck the last key on her keyboard with finality and raised her head. Her eyes widened when she saw McVie’s black police uniform. “Oh—officer—how can I be of assistance?” And her smile came next, plastered on. Fenway hoped she didn’t look that pained when she was faking a smile around her father.

  “Good morning,” McVie said. “Sheriff Craig McVie, ma’am.”

  “Sheriff. Sorry, I didn’t realize who you were.”

  “That’s quite all right.” Fenway looked at McVie’s face and thought she could detect either annoyance or disappointment. If people didn’t recognize McVie on sight, it wasn’t a good sign for his mayoral campaign.

  The woman cleared her throat. “I’m Lydia Hernandez. My family owns the Belvedere Terrace.”

  McVie nodded. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to help us identif
y somebody.”

  Fenway brought up the photo of the dead man on her phone.

  “Certainly,” Ms. Hernandez said, although her voice was a bit unsure.

  “Now,” said McVie, “I have to warn you, the picture is of a dead man. We found him down under the overpass by the beach, about half a mile back. But this is the closest building around, and we thought you or one of your guests or co-workers might have seen him.”

  The color drained out of Ms. Hernandez’s face, but she nodded. “Of course. I’ll do anything I can to help.”

  McVie took the phone from Fenway and glanced at the screen before showing it to Ms. Hernandez.

  She gasped.

  “Recognize him?”

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s Mr. Potemkin.”

  “I’m sorry—you said ‘Mr. Potemkin’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he come around here often?”

  Ms. Hernandez nodded. “He’s kind of a regular. He and his wife have visited us on several occasions.”

  “Oh—he’s a guest?”

  “He is.” Fenway saw Ms. Hernandez set her jaw and cross her arms. She was ready to protect the dignity of her guests—and the reputation of her hotel.

  McVie must have seen this in Ms. Hernandez’s body language too, because he became even more relaxed in his demeanor. “Is there any way you could show us his room?”

  Ms. Hernandez uncrossed her arms. “I’ll call up there and see if Mrs. Potemkin is in the room. I certainly don’t want to burst in on her if she’s showering or sleeping.”

  “No, no, of course,” McVie said.

  He took a step back from the desk and stood next to Fenway. “So—this wife. I wonder why it is no one’s heard from her about her missing husband.”

  “Maybe they had a fight and he stormed out, and she doesn’t expect him back. Or maybe she hasn’t woken up yet and doesn’t even know he’s gone.”

  “Or maybe she took out a big-ass life insurance policy and took a walk on the beach with him and wanted to make it look like a robbery gone wrong.”

  “You are such a pessimist,” Fenway said.

  “She’s not answering,” Ms. Hernandez said. She made no move to do anything else.

  “Maybe we could go to their room,” McVie suggested.

  “I don’t want to disturb them. They’ve paid through Sunday.”

  Fenway took a step forward. “I apologize for the inconvenience, Ms. Hernandez, but with Mr. Potemkin found dead, I’m frankly a little worried about the safety of his wife. If she’s in the room, then at least I will know her dead body isn’t going to wash up on the beach later today.”

  Ms. Hernandez got a horrified look on her face. “Oh my,” she said, covering her mouth. “I didn’t think of that.”

  She rummaged behind the counter and dug out a plastic card key. “Okay,” she said. “Their room is in the back set of cottages. One of our private villas.”

  Fenway doubted the cottages looked anything like villas, but she followed the woman out of the lobby and through a wide hallway toward the back of the property.

  They exited through a set of white French doors onto a red brick patio. Like the front driveway, the patio, once glorious, now hovered on the edge of disrepair. A couple of chunks had been taken out of the bricks. The patio ended at a set of five steps leading up to a pool area. The pool was enclosed by another black wrought iron fence. As they got closer, Fenway saw the pool had been drained.

  Ms. Hernandez saw Fenway’s eyes go to the empty swimming hole. “It’s off season,” she said. “We drain the pool at the beginning of October.”

  Fenway nodded.

  “The villas are past the garden terrace behind the pool,” Ms. Hernandez said. “It’s only a little farther now.”

  The walk got more overgrown. Fenway felt a pang of pity for Ms. Hernandez. There was too much work here to keep it looking good. She didn’t see a staff big enough to stay on top of all the required upkeep—especially as the hotel fell further from grace and the daily room rates kept dropping.

  The villa was at the end of the walk, and was designed, like the main building, to replicate Tudor-era architecture. On a small cottage like this, though, the design elements looked silly. The overgrown vegetation around the villa hid the most egregious architectural mistakes from view.

  Ms. Hernandez knocked loudly. “Mrs. Potemkin?” she called out. “I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s important. Mrs. Potemkin?” She stopped and listened, and hearing nothing, knocked harder.

  McVie let her knock a few more times. Fenway took the phone out of her purse and looked at the time.

  “I don’t think she’s in,” Ms. Hernandez said.

  “Maybe you can try your master key,” McVie suggested.

  “She might have the deadbolt turned,” Ms. Hernandez muttered to herself, but held the cardkey up to the reader. The lock flashed green and clicked. She turned the handle and swung the door open.

  Chapter Four

  “MRS. POTEMKIN?” MS. Hernandez called out. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but the police are here.”

  McVie took a step into the room, hand on his holster. “Mrs. Potemkin, this is Sheriff Craig McVie. Are you here?”

  Silence greeted them; not even the hum of a fan or an air conditioning unit.

  McVie looked around, took another step in, calling for Mrs. Potemkin a few more times. He turned to his right and disappeared from view.

  Fenway realized she was holding her breath.

  “All clear,” McVie called from inside the villa.

  Fenway walked in, followed by Ms. Hernandez. “Please don’t touch anything,” Fenway said. “I still don’t know if we need to process this room yet.”

  “Process the room?”

  “For fingerprints, fibers, hair, that kind of thing.”

  “Oh.” The wheels in Ms. Hernandez’s head turned and she realized what Fenway was implying.

  The room was large and comfortable, even if the décor was outdated. The colors of the furniture and the wallpaper—this hotel still had wallpaper—were muted earth tones and lots of gray-green. Art deco-style illustrations of tropical themes in the same hues hung on the wall.

  The frames of the chairs, bed, and furniture were plastic made to look like bamboo. The bed was unmade and the sheets and bedspread on one side were pulled onto the floor. A gray suitcase lay open on a luggage rack next to the dresser.

  “She’s not here?” Fenway called to McVie, snapping on a pair of blue nitrile gloves.

  “No,” McVie said, stepping back into the main bedroom. “Looks like this stuff all belongs to a man. No women’s toiletries at all in the bathroom. Got an extra pair of those?”

  Fenway dug in her purse and handed over another set of gloves. He nodded his thanks and she took a look in the suitcase. “All men’s clothes in here,” she said. They looked through the dresser and the closet; men’s clothes, mostly in the same style—and, Fenway thought, the same price range—as the clothes on the corpse.

  Fenway walked into the bathroom, pulling a couple of evidence bags out of her purse. McVie was right; there was toothpaste and a toothbrush and a razor and shaving cream on the bathroom counter, but no sign of any women’s toiletries. The vanity drawers were empty. She looked in the shower; the drain had several long blonde hairs around it.

  “We should get Melissa over here,” Fenway said. “Process some of this stuff.”

  “The lab is backed up for DNA analysis for three weeks,” said McVie.

  “If we can figure out who Mrs. Potemkin is in three weeks, that’s better than nothing,” Fenway said.

  “Who Mrs. Potemkin is?”

  “I’m almost positive it’s a made-up name.”

  “I’m sorry?” Ms. Hernandez asked. “A made-up name? I don’t think so.”

  “Did you take a credit card from Mr. Potemkin?” Fenway asked.

  “No,” Ms. Hernandez said. “He always paid cash.”

  “Not even for a deposit or
anything?”

  “Two-hundred-dollar deposit. After their third or fourth visit, I stopped asking for the deposit.”

  “So you never saw their identification or credit cards.”

  Ms. Hernandez stopped and thought. “No, I don’t suppose I did.”

  “Did you ever catch either of their first names?”

  “Let me think.” Ms. Hernandez rubbed her chin. “I don’t think I ever got hers. But the man signed in. I’d have it back in the office. It was something a little bit unusual—the man’s, I mean. A normal name, but not the usual way to spell it, I think. Like a Gary with two ‘e’s, or some such nonsense.”

  “Was it Grigory? Like Gregory, but with an ‘i’?”

  Ms. Hernandez’s jaw fell open. “Yes, that’s it. How did you know?”

  Fenway turned to McVie. “Grigory Potemkin was Catherine the Great’s lover. Well—one of her lovers. Rumored to be her favorite. Epic love story, supposedly.”

  “How do you know that?” asked McVie.

  Fenway shrugged. “Russian Lit when I was an undergrad.” A dark shadow crossed her thoughts.

  “Aha,” said McVie. “So you think this was an illicit affair.”

  “I do. Probably something they both thought was clever.”

  “So we should be looking for women named Catherine?”

  Fenway bent down in front of the trash can in the bathroom. “I can think of worse places to start.” She fished a tissue out of the trash. It looked like it had been used to blot lipstick.

  “When was the trash last emptied?” she asked Ms. Hernandez.

  “Yesterday,” Ms. Hernandez said. “At least, it was supposed to be.”

  “Supposed to be?”

  Ms. Hernandez shuffled her feet. “It’s the off-season. We’re not busy. My daughter is on housekeeping duty.”

  “Which means?” asked McVie.

  “Sometimes she doesn’t do a, um, thorough job.”

  “I see.”

  Fenway dropped the tissue in the evidence bag.

  “You’re not going to leave that for Melissa?”

  “I thought this should be bagged separately from the rest of the trash.”