The Candidate Coroner
Page 34
McVie smiled. “All right.”
Fenway put her hand on his side mirror. “Are you okay?”
“I conceded about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, Craig, that sucks. I’m sorry.”
McVie shrugged. “Don’t be. I’m sorry Barry Klein is going to be our new mayor, but I’m not sorry I won’t be.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I wanted to be here. The mood was pretty subdued at McVie headquarters. I thought you guys might be celebrating. Dancing. Champagne. You know, the works.”
She smiled coyly. “Too bad I’m such a party pooper. Leaving at ten. You might not get a chance to have a good time.”
“Yeah.”
“But I do need a ride home.”
“I can give you a ride,” McVie said. He unlocked the doors.
“Perhaps we can have a little private celebration.”
“I’d like that.” He grinned, and Fenway hardly saw a trace of the election loss in his face.
Fenway walked around to the passenger side and got in the car. In their business suits, the two of them looked like they’d just left work on Wall Street.
“You glad the election is over?” McVie said, turning out of the parking lot.
“I am,” Fenway said. “I didn’t realize what a weight this was on me.” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “And—it was nice to be able to forget about all that last night.”
“It was very nice,” McVie said. “When the returns came in, and the little green checkmark appeared next to Barry Klein’s name, I thought, ‘Man, am I glad that’s over.’”
“Yeah.”
McVie started to laugh.
Fenway smiled, but McVie’s laughter continued a little longer than she thought the irony warranted.
“What’s so funny?”
McVie wiped his eyes, still chuckling. “Speaking of stuff being over—Amy had the divorce papers served to me at the campaign headquarters tonight.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had to pay the process server extra just to stick it to me after the election results were in.”
“And you’re laughing about it?”
“Of course I am. She obviously spent a long time dreaming this up. She must have thought it would bother me.”
“And it doesn’t?”
“Maybe it should. But, to be honest, last night went a long way toward taking the sting out of it. Besides, these last three months, with the separation—it’s made me realize this divorce is coming way too late. Our marriage has been over for years.”
“Did you sign the papers?”
“I’ll have my lawyer look them over. I’ve got thirty days.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“You mean after I give you a ride home?”
She elbowed him lightly. “I mean professionally.”
“I don’t know. I could apply for a detective position, maybe. But there aren’t any openings right now.”
“Consultant, maybe?”
McVie scoffed. “Like Mayor Klein would ever approve the expenditure.”
“Ugh,” Fenway shuddered. “‘Mayor Klein.’ Even saying it makes my stomach turn.”
“I’ve got until the end of the year to figure it out.”
“Yeah.”
The ride back to the apartment complex seemed to take no time at all, and McVie parked in Fenway’s spot.
Fenway put her hand on McVie’s leg. “Would you like to walk me up, sir?”
“Absolutely.”
There was a charge between them, an electricity in the air Fenway could feel. Neither of them wanted to say anything. Fenway got out of the car, noticing she barely felt the pain in her knee. Maybe it was the adrenaline of the win, or the anticipation of a repeat performance. She knew her emotions were raw from Donovan’s suicide and the election: she was right on the verge of breaking down, but she was also on the verge of elation, of dizziness, of ecstasy. The night air made her ears cold but her heart was warm, and when she and McVie got to the top of the stairs, she took his hand and ran her fingers over his. The times they kissed flashed through her mind, and she remembered the delicious ache in her bones from the adrenaline coursing through her veins the night before.
And in the walk from the top of the stairs to the door of her apartment, as she got her key out of her purse and opened the door wide, wide into her apartment, wide into the possibilities, wide into the next four years of her being the county coroner, everything fell away.
The industrial accident.
The car bomb.
The dead therapist.
The mole in the sheriff’s office.
The money laundering.
The phantom supertanker.
The boy’s crumpled body in front of her on the beach.
All faded into the background, out of focus, even if just for a moment.
There was McVie, and there was Fenway, and there was the electricity between them.
Fenway’s phone rang in her purse.
“Don’t get it,” McVie said, kissing the side of her face.
“Spoken like a civvie,” Fenway teased, reaching down into her purse and pulling her phone out. “It’s Charlotte. Let me get her off the phone, then I’m all yours.” She answered. “Charlotte, hi, listen, it’s not the best—”
“Fenway?” Charlotte said, choking back tears. “Something happened to your father.”
“What? What happened to him?”
“They arrested him, Fenway. For murder.”
“What? For whose murder?”
“Solomon somebody. I don’t even know anyone named Solomon.”
“Professor Solomon Delacroix,” Fenway said evenly.
“You know who that is?”
“Yes, I do,” said Fenway, “and I’m afraid we’re in for quite a fight.”
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Also by Paul Austin Ardoin
Fenway Stevenson Mysteries
The Reluctant Coroner
The Incumbent Coroner
The Candidate Coroner
The Upstaged Coroner
The Courtroom Coroner (Coming Soon)
Fenway Stevenson Mysteries Collection
The Fenway Stevenson Mysteries, Collection One
Standalone
Bad Weather
Watch for more at Paul Austin Ardoin’s site.
About the Author
Paul Austin Ardoin is a California native who put his degree in creative writing to use—by authoring marketing materials for computer security companies for the better part of two decades. He is the author of the Fenway Stevenson Mysteries series, and he has published short fiction and humorous essays in Bottomfish and Sweet Fancy Moses. When he’s not writing novels or trying to save the world through better computer security, Paul plays keyboards in a dance rock band. He lives in the Sacramento area with his wife, two teenagers, and a menagerie of animals.
Read more at Paul Austin Ardoin’s site.