The Reluctant Coroner by Paul Austin Ardoin (distant reading txt) 📖

McVie had been right: the garish aqua color was beaconlike across from the bus stop. A handful of customers sat at the bar, and the entire coroner’s office team—even Sergeant Trevino—gathered around the corner of the bar, with a couple of appetizer platters between them. Rachel caught Fenway’s eye and waved.

“One more!” she said to the bartender.

“Hey everyone,” Fenway said. “What are we drinking?”

“A toast,” Sergeant Trevino said soberly. “Shots of Johnnie Walker to remember Harrison Walker.”

“And it’s Johnnie Walker Red,” Dez said, raising her shot, “because he was a cheap bastard.”

“And because they didn’t have any whiskey called Racist Asshole,” Migs said quietly.

“Hear, hear,” said Rachel. The bartender gave her the extra shot and she handed it to Fenway.

They all drank.

“Was he really that bad,” Fenway said to Dez, making a face at the harsh taste of the cheap scotch, “or are you all just heartless jerks?”

“Oh, Fenway,” Dez said, putting her arm around her shoulders, “can’t it be both?”

“You know the plan is for me to be your boss, right?”

“I’m not worried. We’re union, and you’ll be gone in six months. Have a spring roll.” Dez handed Fenway the plate and laughed. “Seriously, though, you would have hated Walker too. Nothing we did was ever good enough. He wanted to review everything we did.”

“Especially the legal stuff,” Migs added. “Walker didn’t have a clue about the law, but he was always second-guessing me.”

“The last coroner’s assistant quit,” Rachel ventured.

“HR never wants to intervene,” Dez said. “Mark and I were sick of it. We thought Walker was going to get unseated in last year’s election, but with your daddy’s money, he pulled out the win over the eye doctor.”

The team began to regale Fenway with stories about Harrison Walker, and Rachel called for another round.

If any of these people had been involved in Walker’s death, would they really be insulting him like this? Fenway looked around at their faces.

They might. Everyone was telling war stories. The killer might tell them too, so as not to stick out.

She watched Rachel wave the bartender down. Maybe she should be on top of her game tonight. “Cranberry and soda for me,” Fenway said. “I’ve got a long night of unpacking ahead of me.”

“The coroner is dead,” Mark toasted. “Long live the coroner!”

After they had another round—everyone but Fenway with another shot of Johnnie Walker Red—the stories got a bit rowdier.

Mark told Fenway about the time Walker made a sexual joke to a female server at a catered event.

Migs started a story about Walker calling him names during an annual review, but his smile faltered. Dez rapidly changed the subject to another story: Walker realized he was late to a golf game, and as he ran out of his office with his bag, he tripped over his untied shoelaces and landed on his backside, right in front of Migs. Walker blamed the departed assistant for not letting him know how late it was.

The air had gone out of the room. Dez stared into space with a firm jaw, tapping her fingers on the table. Migs sat on his stool with his shoulders slouched. Only Rachel ordered a third shot—it might have been more than that if she’d started before Fenway arrived. Fenway glanced around at the group. Walker had disrespected each of them. HR had done nothing.

Mark got up and pushed his stool back. “I think I can get a last-minute ticket to see Joseph tonight. They usually don’t sell out on Tuesdays.”

“How many times have you seen that stupid show?” Dez said.

“Oh, be quiet, Dez. You’re just jealous of how hot Randy looks in the shirtless Elvis costume.”

Dez cracked up. “Yep, that’s right, Mark, you caught me. Jealous of your man.” She looked at her watch. “All right, happy hour’s over anyway. You have fun with your Pharaoh Elvis. Wait, lemme walk out with you.”

When Dez and Mark had left, Migs close behind them, Rachel hopped her five-foot frame off the barstool and stood up a little unsteadily.

“You okay?” Fenway said.

“That last shot was probably not the best idea,” Rachel said. “I, uh, may need to sober up a little before I drive home.”

“I took the bus. I could drive your car back to your place if you want.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“I’m offering. Come on, at my place I have to unpack another ten boxes. Give me a reason to procrastinate.”

Rachel paused. “Okay.”

Rachel led the way to her car behind Winfrey’s. She pulled a key fob from her purse and handed it to Fenway.

“BMW?”

“Yeah. The silver one right there.”

Fenway unlocked the car and got in. The leather-wrapped steering wheel was delicious underneath her fingertips. She looked for where to insert the key fob.

“Just push the button,” Rachel slurred.

“Oh.” She pushed the button, but nothing happened.

“You gotta put your foot on the brake first, silly. You sure you can drive?”

“You sure this isn’t a spaceship?”

The engine hummed, the electricity pulsing from her fingertips all the way to her toes. She backed out of the space, then accelerated onto the main road.

“Easy, tiger,” Rachel said through a giggle. “You must be used to driving cars with weak-ass engines.” The speedometer already showed 45.

“Sorry.”

“No worries. Dylan does the same thing.” She yawned, then stifled a belch. “So you’re gonna wanna get to Broadway. Then turn up toward the mountains.”

Fenway was itching to punch the accelerator and see what the car could really do, but all the stories about Walker and the ruined mood at Winfrey’s pulled like a weight at her brain. “So, you didn’t get along with Walker either, huh?”

“It’s stupid,” Rachel said. “This whole thing is stupid. Broadway is your, uh, second right. Maybe third.”

“You were his assistant, though. Did he get any weird mail? Anyone really hate the guy?”

“Not that I saw,” Rachel said. “He opened his own mail, though. Paranoid, that’s what I think. And you know, he hated everyone else a lot more than they hated him.”

“Oh. Just one of those general curmudgeon types.”

“If you mean ‘asshole,’ then yes.”

As Fenway turned right on Broadway, Rachel sat up straight and put her hand on the dash. Fenway glanced over. “You okay?”

“Sure, sure. I just didn’t think we were at Broadway yet. My turn is about a mile up. Make a left on Scarlet Oak Drive.”

“Is it at a light?”

“Uh—no. There’s a Tacos Amigos on the left just before the turn, though.”

“Tacos Amigos? Is that a good place?”

“Their salmonella is delicious.” Rachel made a face.

Silence.

Questions flooded Fenway’s mind. If Walker had been killed because of something at work, wouldn’t he have been killed closer to the office? A dark road in the middle of the night suggested that he didn’t want people to know who he was meeting. Maybe Walker was having an affair. She should look at his work calendar—maybe he had put something on it.

A question was out of her mouth before she could stop it. “What do you think Walker was doing out on