HELL'S HALF ACRE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  Walter was certain that scantily dressed, middle-aged women wobbling their oversized midriffs around his regular crowd of truck drivers and fishermen would certainly be different, but not in the way Cheryl was expecting. And worse than that, it was Nadine. He knew one thing for certain: there was something in it for her. She did nothing out of the goodness of her heart. If she even had a heart.

  “Belly dancing?” he said. “Really? How much is it costing us?”

  “Not a penny.” Cheryl started squirting bleach on the counter. “Nadine arranged it as the first event of the Heritage Festival. All we have to do is provide some Greek food.”

  The Heritage Festival was a summer-long event intended to boost tourism. It was the first one that the new Tourism and Economic Planning Committee had arranged.

  “Well, food costs money!” Walter protested.

  “Just get in some samosas or something — appetizers, nothing fancy.”

  “Samosas aren’t Greek,” Walter grumbled.

  “Walter, please try to be enthusiastic, we need to increase sales, right? I’m not stupid. I see you avoiding picking up your phone and doing the accounts. How are the numbers anyway?”

  “I have to go out.” Walter avoided his wife’s gaze and her question. He put the laptop back in its case, grabbed his cigarettes and headed towards the sunshine and distraction. Bruno followed him.

  The Fat Chicken looked over the waterfront of Coffin Cove. The perfect location for a pub, for tourists and locals alike: fishing boats, commercial and sporties, were tied up at the docks, a two-minute walk from the pub, and a boardwalk stretched around the bay, with steps to the sandy part of the beach.

  The Fat Chicken should have been rocking. But this was Coffin Cove, and even though the rest of Vancouver Island seemed to be thriving, it felt like this small town had been in a permanent recession for as long as Walter could remember.

  Walter stopped and surveyed the building that had once held all his dreams for the future. At one time, he’d intended to knock out the back wall and install French doors leading to a shaded patio area. And upstairs, instead of the cramped apartment and storage rooms, he and Cheryl had planned a large conference facility. They would rent it out to smart young millennials and entrepreneurs, who would relocate to Coffin Cove, attracted by the cheap real estate and outdoor lifestyle.

  Walter lit his cigarette and let the early sunshine warm his shoulders. The sun danced and sparkled off the ocean, but Walter could see only five fishing vessels moored there. There had been nine last year, and fifteen the year before that. Fishing was shitty, the forestry business was shitty and it had hit this little community hard. The two sawmills had cut back to one shift each, and the pulp mill had just shed another fifty employees.

  Coffin Cove had relied on the resource industry for the entire 150 years of its existence, and there was nothing to replace it. So far, the millennials and entrepreneurs had avoided the tiny fishing town. And Walter didn’t blame them. But maybe the Heritage Festival would kick-start a new beginning.

  Walter stubbed out his cigarette, half-smoked.

  Don’t want cancer on top of everything else.

  He walked down to the boardwalk, followed by Bruno. The dog settled himself under the little table at the front of Hephzibah’s café.

  There were upsides to living in the back of beyond, Walter thought, as he took a steaming mug of freshly brewed coffee from Hephzibah herself. She handed him a warm muffin, winking.

  “On the house. Us business owners need to look after each other!”

  The big branded coffee emporiums and fast-food outlets had not bothered with Coffin Cove. Instead of paying ten bucks for exotic flavours and frothy toppings, it was still possible to get a cup of morning joe for under two dollars.

  And a great view, Walter thought, as he sipped his coffee and bit into a Morning Glory breakfast muffin — one of Hephzibah’s specialities. On sunny mornings, sitting in a warm breeze and hearing the clang of the boats shifting in the swell of an incoming tide, Coffin Cove was idyllic, and Walter didn’t want to be anywhere else.

  As he sipped his coffee, he felt a little better. Maybe he was overreacting? He and Cheryl had weathered financial hardships before, and they could do it again.

  Walter looked around. There did seem to be more people than usual on the boardwalk. And wasn’t someone telling him just the other day, a new business was renovating one of the empty stores in the old strip mall? Maybe the new young mayor was living up to her promises after all.

  The election last fall had been a surprise. Dennis Havers had been on the city council as mayor for as long as Walter could remember. Dennis was also his landlord. Thinking of him made Walter wince a little, as he remembered his unpaid rent. Still, Dennis hadn’t called in yet. There was a time when Dennis would stand at his door with his hand out, first thing in the morning on rent day. But Dennis was living through worse times than Walter. Last year his son Ricky had gone missing, and in the fall, to everyone’s amazement, Dennis lost the mayoral election.

  Coffin Cove had their very first female mayor, Jade Thompson.

  Walter and many of the regulars in the pub had laughed when Jade announced her candidacy. Men had always run Coffin Cove. It was a West Coast resource town, founded on mining and then forestry and fishing. Sure, they employed women at the fish plant back in the day and they worked in the grocery stores and whatnot, and some of them even ran little businesses selling trinkets, but mayor? The plaid-shirted men snorted in derision. “And she’ll never win by posting her face all over the internet. Nobody in Coffin Cove bothers with social media. She’ll never win.”

  Walter remembered how Cheryl’s face had darkened when she slammed the men’s beer bottles in front of them and started furiously polishing glasses with her back to the bar.

  “C’mon, honey, they don’t mean anything by it. You’ve got to admit, it’s unlikely she’ll win. But good for her, giving it a try, eh?”

  That had made Cheryl angrier. She hadn’t spoken to him for the rest of the evening, leaving him to close up the bar on his own. The next day, she left early and was out for most of the morning. Walter had been relieved to see her walk back in the bar, her face lit up with her customary smile. His relief faded when Cheryl announced she was helping Jade Thompson with her campaign.

  “There’s lots of us,” she’d said defiantly. “We’ve set up the campaign headquarters at Hephzibah’s.”

  When Jade won, Walter wasn’t surprised. Her campaign committee, led by his hard-working wife, had knocked on doors, shaken hands and kissed babies. They’d tweeted, posted videos and put up posters. They talked to weary business owners and promised change. They campaigned on turning the fortunes of this small defeated community around. They promised to dismantle the old boys’ club — a swipe at Dennis Havers’ shady business dealings — and they revealed their vision for building a new commercial and residential development on the waterfront, by tearing down the derelict fish plant.

  “It’s about time women ran this town,” Cheryl had declared. “You men had your chance.”

  Walter privately agreed with her, though he laughed and rolled his eyes with the guys at the bar. But even they were coming around to Jade Thompson’s proposals.

  That last campaign promise alone had caught the town’s attention. The fish plant and the pier were crumbling into the ocean. Worse than that, it had been the scene of a murder the year before. Walter hadn’t been near the dump since they’d removed the crime tape, but Peggy Wilson, the motel owner, was constantly complaining that the gruesome evidence of a killing still remained. Nobody had been back to clean up the blood. Rats scurried in and out, while rust and oil contaminated the bay where the pier stood. It was a reminder of a tragic time in Coffin Cove.

  Walter shivered at the memory.

  A shadow fell over him.

  “Mornin’, Walter.”

  Walter looked up to see the tall bulk of his old friend, Harry Brown, blocking the sun. Beside hi
m was a young woman who smiled and thanked Harry and disappeared into the café.

  Harry was one of the last commercial fishermen who tied up at Coffin Cove. He’d been forced to retire early when the fishing boom ended but had made enough money to pay off the money owing on his boat and buy a cottage in town. Harry, towering above Walter, was a solid wall of a man, wearing the customary fisherman’s uniform — canvas bib overalls and a wool sweater. He was also a solitary man, with a resting expression that was neither welcoming nor forbidding. His penetrating blue eyes were the only clue to his Norwegian heritage, though his year-round dark tan hinted at his native blood. The Pipe Dream, his old aluminium purse-seiner, used to be his livelihood but was now home to just himself and the occasional visit from his grown-up daughter, and he rented his cottage to his sister, Hephzibah.

  Harry bent down to pat Bruno.

  His young companion emerged from the café and handed Harry a mug of coffee.

  “Thanks again, Harry, I appreciate it. Dad said you’d be the man for the job.” And with a big smile and a nod at Walter, the woman walked down the boardwalk.

  Harry sat down at the table with Walter.

  “So?” Walter asked, noting Harry’s smug expression. “What was all that about? And who is she?”

  “That was Katie Dagg, Lee and Nadine’s girl.”

  “Little Katie?” Walter could hardly believe it. “How old is she now? I thought she was still at school.”

  “Just finished university. And back here as the new Coffin Cove Museum curator.” Harry acknowledged Walter’s surprise with a grin. “Yeah, I know. I remember when she was born.”

  “God, I feel ancient,” Walter said, then frowned. “The old museum is opening?”

  Harry nodded. “Yep, in the old building at first, then in the new development. They hired Katie last month. She seems to know her local history, that’s for sure.”

  “And what did she want with you?” Walter asked. “Some of your fishing stories?” He chuckled.

  “Kind of.” Harry ignored his friend’s teasing. “She’s hired me to do trips along the coast, pointing out where the rum runners and smugglers operated. For tourists. I’ve got my first booking in a couple of weeks.”

  Walter was astonished. “She’s paying you?”

  Harry nodded and smiled. “Not bad pay, as it happens.”

  “What do you know about smuggling?” Walter asked. “Family connections, maybe?”

  Harry laughed. “I wouldn’t put it past Ed to have done some smuggling at some point.”

  Ed was Harry’s father, and Walter knew him well. Ed had dabbled in all sorts of nefarious activities in his life, so it was a fair comment, and Harry took it as a gentle joke. When Ed was younger, he’d had a vicious temper, especially when he was drunk — which was often — and Harry’s mother, Greta, had left when he was still young. She’d taken his baby sister, Hephzibah, with her and it was only when the two siblings were adults that they’d finally begun a relationship. Greta had since died, but the siblings were still close. Harry had even helped Hephzibah set up the café.

  “Actually, it was Clara Bell who got me interested in the old smuggling stories,” Harry said. “They used the old mining tunnels. There’s a whole network of them, and the smugglers extended them as far as they could to the coastline, so they could move barrels of hooch right out to the beach. Then they got picked up by a boat in the middle of the night and whisked down to Seattle or the Oregon coast. Back in Prohibition times.”

  “Clara Bell, who used to run the museum? Is she still alive?” Walter said, surprised again.

  “Yes, and yes. She’s very much alive and kicking. She lives up near Ed. I used to visit her when I was a kid. You know how she used to have the museum filled with boxes?”

  Walter nodded. “You could hardly move in there.”

  “Right. Her place is worse. Always has been. Jam-packed to the rafters. She must be one of those hoarders, I suppose. But she knows her local history, and she dug out an old map of the mining tunnels from years ago. And then I did some of my own research. I’ve even been in some of those tunnels. They’re quite dangerous now, though.”

  “Well, my friend, I didn’t know you had all this knowledge, but it’s paying off now,” Walter grinned. “Must be easier than fishing.”

  “You’re right about that. And now I can share my wisdom with the rest of the world, thanks to Katie Dagg.” Harry smiled back and drained his coffee mug.

  Walter shook his head. Cheryl was right. It was time the women ran things around here. He couldn’t help poking fun at his friend a little more. “You’ll be famous,” he said. “Maybe your friend Andi will interview you for the Gazette.”

  Andi Silvers was the reporter for the local paper. She had investigated the murder at the fish plant and managed to uncover all kinds of secrets previously buried in the murky history of Coffin Cove. It had been fascinating, and for a while, the Fat Chicken had seen an uptick in business as Coffin Cove experienced its first influx of “murder tourists”. Harry had helped Andi with the investigation somehow. He’d been tight-lipped about it, but Walter knew Harry well enough. He was quite taken with Andi Silvers.

  Harry didn’t bite. “I’ll be a legend,” he said comfortably. “Anyway, I’ve got to get on.” Harry got up and picked up his empty coffee cup to take inside to Hephzibah. “And I nearly forgot, when’s that belly dancing night at your place?”

  Walter’s head shot up, looking to see if Harry was teasing him back, but the man looked serious. “Friday night. Why? You thinking of coming?”

  Harry shrugged. “Sure, why not? Somethin’ different. Anyway, see ya later.”

  Walter watched as he handed his mug to Hephzibah and left the café. He laughed to himself. His old friend wasn’t fooling anyone. Harry knew Andi would be there. And Walter was sure there would soon be an article about Harry’s smuggling tours in the Coffin Cove Gazette.

  Wonders would never cease. Harry hadn’t been romantically involved with anyone for years. Walter thought he and Andi would make a good couple. Sure, Harry was older than Andi, but that didn’t matter these days. Both of them needed to settle down, he thought. It was time Andi moved out of the apartment and got herself a permanent place . . . Ah! Walter slapped the table. Rent! Andi hadn’t paid her rent yet. Well, that would cover a couple of bills.

  Bruno barked, interrupting his thoughts, and Walter stood up too. Time to get back to the Fat Chicken. Maybe he should be more enthusiastic about this Heritage Festival. Maybe a half-naked Nadine Dagg would turn the business around. He laughed to himself and felt optimistic. And if things were really looking up in Coffin Cove, maybe he would pull out those old plans for a patio and . . . Walter bumped into a man coming out of the café. He was several inches taller, and Walter had barrelled into his chest, preoccupied with his thoughts. Walter stood back, embarrassed, and apologized. He saw the man was dressed in an expensive sports jacket and crease-free chinos. His fashionable haircut was greying at the temples. He looked like a businessman from the mainland, Walter thought, and wondered if he was the type of person the new mayor was hoping to attract to Coffin Cove. This guy looked like he had money. The man was looking Walter up and down, with a curious expression on his face. Walter was aware of his unshaven appearance and beer-stained T-shirt he’d grabbed off the floor this morning.

  “No worries,” the man said eventually, moving around Walter and leaving the café. A waft of expensive aftershave lingered.

  Walter saw Hephzibah staring after the man.

  “See something you like?” he asked, winking.

  “Oh, no, it’s not that,” Hephzibah smiled. “Although he looked a little more . . . well, businesslike, than my usual customers,” she said diplomatically. “No, it’s just that I’m sure I know him from somewhere. But I can’t think where.”

  Walter looked out the door at the man’s tall figure striding down the boardwalk. There was something familiar about him.

  An old memory sur
faced briefly in Walter’s mind but was gone before he could grasp it.

  “Sorry, Hep,” he said, “can’t help you. Anyway, got to get back to the grind.”

  Walter hurried back, hoping to catch Andi and collect her rent payment before she left for work.

  Chapter Three

  Andi Silvers woke with a start.

  In her dream, she was hanging on with all her might to a narrow ledge. Her fingertips were sore. Her arms ached and she was screaming for help. But because it was a dream, no sound was coming out of her mouth, and her only option was to cling on until her muscles were too tired to hold on any longer and she let go.

  Nausea overcame Andi as she clawed her way back into consciousness, just as she had been about to plunge into the murky fathoms of her dream hell. She had to lie still until the feeling subsided and her mind cleared from the fog. Her arms and hands throbbed. She clenched and unclenched her fingers. The dream had seemed real enough for her to grip her pillow in fear. Her bedsheets were damp with sweat.

  “This is normal,” she whispered to herself. The counsellor had warned her. The dreams were a mechanism the brain used to clear and reset the unconscious mind. Eventually they would pass into nothing, but occasionally a nightmare might be triggered by something in her subconscious, and she would be tormented again.

  It had all sounded like bullshit to Andi. But she had to admit, the bad dreams did come less often these days. But she wished they would go away for good.

  Jim, her boss, had recommended the counsellor. Not so much recommended, Andi remembered, as insisted. He’d made it part of the conditions of her return to work as a journalist and assistant editor at the Coffin Cove Gazette.

  Andi had argued, of course.

  “If you don’t like it,” Jim had said, “complain to HR. Oh wait . . . that’s me.” He had beamed at Andi and pointed to the door. “Don’t come through that door again until you are completely healed. Body and mind.”

  Andi had been to the counsellor once a week for three months to appease her boss and then found excuses not to go. Working was the answer, she told Jim. I’ll just get back on the horse, and I’ll be fine.