The Reluctant Coroner - Paul Austin Ardoin (most romantic novels txt) 📗

giving his daughter a job,’ but I never thought anyone would be upset enough by it to try to hurt you in any way.”

“I believe you.” Fenway folded the corners of her napkin in. “I haven’t always believed everything you’ve said, but I believe you on this.”

Ferris stared down into his glass.

“But, it also means whatever is in those stolen files, you need to tell me about. I don’t care how relevant you think the details are, or whether I have a subpoena. There are people out there who, literally, are ready to kill over what’s in those files. And I can’t prove it yet, but that might be why Harrison Walker was murdered.”

He squinted at her. “I heard you have someone in custody.”

“We do.”

“And you think he killed Harrison because of what’s in the stolen files?”

“I don’t know. Like I told you earlier, the stolen files don’t fit with the theory of the crime. I mean, they might fit, but right now, we’re not seeing the connection.”

Nathaniel Ferris picked up his glass and swirled the big ice cube around in it. Then he sighed. “I’ll tell you something Rob uncovered during our insurance review of the accident.” He lowered his voice. “I probably shouldn’t say anything about this, but I guess it might affect your case, and, uh…”

“I’m listening.”

“We were going through the two employees’ files. Trying to match things up. It didn’t make sense—someone had to physically vent the toxic fumes into that room the two of them were in. We can’t figure out who had access to that room except for the two of them. I don’t know if it was a weird murder-suicide, or what, but that’s what I was told was the only theory that held any water.”

“So, you’re saying one of the dead employees vented the toxic fumes into that room on purpose, killing both of them?”

“I know.” Her father took another drink. “It doesn’t make any sense, except when you look at every other explanation. Carl Cassidy had been using his EAP—for couples’ counseling.” He picked up his fork and turned it around a full turn. “We asked some of the members of his team what was going on. One of his buddies said Carl and his wife were going through a rough patch; Carl thought his wife was cheating on him. Even hired a private investigator to follow her when he went on trips to Houston and Alaska. The guy took pictures of this black pickup truck in front of their house when he was away on trips, and pictures of her entering a motel room in P.Q. with the same truck parked out front.”

“P.Q.?”

“Sorry, Paso Querido. About half an hour down the coast highway. Neat little hippie town.”

“And that boyfriend was Dylan Richards?” Fenway guessed.

“No, not Dylan Richards. That’s not what I heard. There was a black pickup that belonged to this young hotshot who worked on a competing project, name of Lewis Fairweather.”

Fenway remembered reading the name. “The other guy who died in the accident.”

“Right.” Ferris nodded. “Rob said he was talking to our PR team about whether it was better to see if we could call it a tragic one-off accident, where the workers made a mistake in the ventilation system, or if it was better to suggest the theory of the murder-suicide publicly. But we had absolutely no evidence Carl had actually done anything to kill himself and Lewis.”

He sighed and drained the rest of his drink. “Ultimately, we decided to call it an accident, and the families were going to be getting the insurance payouts. We have quite good accidental death coverage for our employees, so the life insurance was taken care of, but given it was on our property, we negotiated an additional settlement going to Carl’s widow and Fairweather’s parents. Our insurance company needed the coroner to sign off on the paperwork, though, and Rob kept telling me there was a problem getting Harrison’s sign off on it. I had actually called Harrison twice, and he kept saying he was finished except for a couple of bureaucratic items.”

A host of servers suddenly appeared, startling Fenway. Eric The Sommelier excused himself for the interruption and regaled them with the story of the German winemakers who made their Riesling in a town near the Black Forest. A woman introduced herself as the sous chef and wove a tale of the wild pheasant taking over the Black Rock wildlife reserve in the Santa Ynez valley, and how they made the journey from overpopulation to Maxime’s kitchen. The pastry chef discussed the wild blackberries in the highly recommended fruit tart. They all gave slight bows as they left. Fenway couldn’t imagine what this meal was costing her father.

Fenway didn’t want their conversation to lose traction, so she continued even before the servers left. “So, why would anyone steal those files?”

“I don’t know.” Ferris took a big bite of pheasant and kept talking. “I haven’t seen them, but as far as I know, everything in those files closes the case for us. It absolves us of wrongdoing, and it doesn’t mention the murder-suicide theory, or the affair between Lewis and Carl’s wife. And it allows the families to get their money. It’s a win for everyone on all sides.”

“Except Carl Cassidy and Lewis Fairweather,” Fenway muttered.

Ferris didn’t notice the aside. “If the murder-suicide thing was in there, I guess Carl’s widow might want to steal the file. And, I guess, if it were in there, neither Carl nor Lewis would want it out there. But they’re both dead.”

Fenway saw another possibility to pique her father’s interest as she swallowed a bite of sweet potato purée. “What if it wasn’t Lewis who was having the affair with Carl’s wife? What if it had been with another guy who drove a black pickup?”

“Like who? Like that Dylan Richards guy you mentioned? He’s the one you have in custody, right?”

“Yes. And he drives a black pickup. What if those files had his truck’s license plate listed, or the private investigator’s photos were of him and not Lewis Fairweather?”

“Well, then,” Ferris said, “I guess you’d want to find those files.”

Fenway’s mind was already working.

He talked about the files a little more, but she realized he only knew the information he had heard secondhand—and most of it was from Rob Stotsky.

They changed subjects a couple of times after that. Her father wanted to talk about Coltrane some more. Fenway talked about how much she liked Blue Train. He talked about how much Coltrane had screwed up his life with heroin when he was on tour with Miles Davis. She talked about her last forensics class she was taking online.

Ferris ordered dessert, eschewing the recommended fruit tart for a butterscotch panna cotta. She had a bite of his, but she was full. She had a coffee, and although she was a little concerned about getting to sleep, she figured her body was so exhausted it wouldn’t matter.

When Nathaniel Ferris dropped her off at her apartment at ten thirty, she was still feeling full. Her head was swimming with how they would get to the bottom of whether or not Dylan Richards and Lana Cassidy had been having an affair. Her father was relaxed in the back seat, eyes half-closed, humming out of tune to Psalm. He didn’t see the sheriff’s car parked in one of the visitor’s spaces.