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

>Mostly, she hoped he wouldn’t have Charlotte with him.

Broadway, 1 Mile.

She glanced at the low fuel light again. Her old Sentra could go fifty miles with the fuel light on. The rental truck? No idea. She took her foot off the gas and slowed to sixty, a horn sounding behind her.

Relief washed over her as she turned off Ocean Highway. The Broadway exit emptied out onto a divided four-lane boulevard, then she turned onto Estancia Canyon Road. The next landmark was the Coffee Bean on the next corner, and the apartment complex sat two blocks further down. She pulled halfway into the driveway and stopped the truck.

She flipped down the visor and looked in the mirror. The day of driving had been unkind. Her loose curls were frizzy, and her large, dark brown eyes looked tired, but she stared firmly at her own face. “I appreciate you getting me this apartment so quickly. It’s good to see you again.” Almost. She softened her gaze, forcing a smile onto the corners of her mouth. “I appreciate you getting me this apartment so quickly. It’s good to see you again.” A solid performance. She nodded and grabbed her phone off the passenger seat.

A new voicemail. But it wasn’t from her father.

“Hi, Fenway,” the voice said. “This is Robert Stotsky. I work for your dad, and I also oversee his apartment complexes. He had a meeting with Japanese investors at the last minute, so he asked me to meet you and get you settled in. Come to the leasing office when you arrive.”

Fenway sighed.

A horn blared; an SUV was in her rearview mirror, trying to get into the driveway. She shifted into gear and lurched forward, the SUV maneuvering around her, and Fenway pulled into an uncovered visitor space on the end of the first row.

She killed the engine and hoisted herself out the cab.

The leasing office sign was posted above a unit across the parking lot, porch light blazing. Her sneakers were silent on the asphalt as she went up and knocked.

Sounds from inside: rustling, a television turning off, footsteps getting quieter, then louder. She waited a few more seconds before the door opened.

A hulking white man stood in the doorway. Fenway was five-ten, but the man towered over her, built of muscle, perhaps going a little soft around the middle. He wore a well-tailored, expensive-looking suit—not what Fenway had in mind for the building manager.

“Can I help you?” he said. His voice, kind enough, softened his angular features but still held an edge of suspicion.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m supposed to be meeting, um, Robert? He’s the building manager, I think.”

“Oh, you’re Fenway Ferris?” The large man caught his surprise, but too late. Obviously, the man hadn’t been prepared for Ferris’s daughter to be black.

“Uh, Fenway Stevenson. You’re Robert?” She shook his hand; he had a firm grip.

The man nodded. “Yes, Rob Stotsky. Is Stevenson your married name?”

“My mother’s name.”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”

“Not a problem. Usually I get a joke about the Boston Red Sox.”

“I’m a Dodgers fan myself.” He laughed and turned to a small open cabinet next to the door jamb, picking a keychain off a hook. “Okay, Miss Ferris—sorry, Miss Stevenson. Here we go. I’ll show you the way.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll get my stuff.”

Stotsky followed Fenway out, turning off the lights and locking the door behind him.

They walked to the truck, and Fenway grabbed her sleeping bag and a suitcase from the cab. Stotsky took the case from Fenway without being asked, lifting it easily as Fenway locked the truck.

“Thanks for your help,” she said, putting her purse over her shoulder.

“That everything?” he asked.

Fenway stifled a yawn. “For tonight.”

“All right. Follow me.”

Fenway looked at Stotsky out of the corner of her eye as they walked past the first building and turned the corner. “You’re dressed awfully well for a guy who manages apartment buildings. You going to a wedding later?”

Stotsky chuckled. “The building managers all report to me. I’m just doing a favor for your dad tonight.”

“Oh—so you’d usually be at home by now?”

“Don’t worry about it. Your dad and I go way back. He’d do the same for my daughter, I’m sure.”

The complex was dated but otherwise passable. Bright and well lit, no peeling paint. The landscaping was basic, but care had been taken with its upkeep. In the dim light, she couldn’t tell if the neutral color of the stucco was beige or grey.

“So, does my father work this late on most nights?”

“Sometimes,” Stotsky said. “It depends on what the oil futures are doing. Oh—before I forget, the sheriff came by earlier, looking for you.”

Fenway paused and turned back. “The sheriff?”

“You know him?”

Her eyebrows knitted. “No. I don’t know who the sheriff is. The Estancia sheriff?”

“The Dominguez County sheriff. I don’t see how you could have done anything wrong, though. You barely got here.” Stotsky laughed uneasily.

“Anything wrong? What do you mean?”

Stotsky coughed. “Nothing. I’d be really surprised if any daughter of Nathaniel Ferris was in trouble with the law.”

Fenway frowned. His light tone had a hint of darkness. Was he implying something? That he’d suspect her if she wasn’t Nathaniel Ferris’s daughter? She put her hand on the body of her purse.

“Anyway, the sheriff said he’d be by tomorrow. So keep an eye out.” He turned and led Fenway up an open-air staircase, then to the third door on the left. “Here we go. 214.” He turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open; the small light in the entry shone weakly on Stotsky’s face as he handed the suitcase to Fenway.

“Thanks.”

Stotsky handed her a business card. “Free Wi-Fi in all the apartments. Password is on the back of the card. I’m not usually onsite, but you call me direct if you have any issues.”

“Hey,” she said, “do you happen to know if my father is sending some people over to help me with the apartment tomorrow morning?”

“Did he say he would?”

“Yes.”

“Then he will. Have a good night.”

If he said he would, he will. Of course. As long as his appearances in her life could be done by proxy, he could be counted on.

She shut the door behind the large man, turned around, and stared at the empty space.

Beige carpets. Cheap linoleum floors.

No job, no friends.

A father who took a business call with investors instead of meeting his daughter her first night in town.

Fenway looked up at the weak overhead light.

All the work Fenway did at her nursing jobs, in her master’s program, at her life. All the work her mother did to gain distance and freedom from her rich, controlling ex-husband. Twenty years, and it had all vanished.

Fenway picked up her suitcase and opened it on the floor of her new living room. After getting ready for bed, she unrolled her sleeping bag in the bedroom and plugged her phone into the outlet a foot away.

She got in and tried to pull the sleeping bag over her head, but she was too tall. It barely covered her neck.

She rested her head on the carpet.