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

by JACKIE ELLIOTT

  Ah, yes. Clara’s treasures. Jim looked around in amazement. Clara had always collected . . . everything. He supposed she was a hoarder. But all her “things” seemed organized. There were piles of old bicycles and rusty parts, rows and rows of fishing rods propped up against an old shed, surrounded by buckets of fishing tackle, the glint of metal lures catching the light. A hundred or more ceramic garden ornaments, all in varying states of disrepair, and some gnomes with missing heads were gathered together. Old furniture, iron bedsteads, chainsaws. Jim stood and gaped.

  Clara didn’t seem to notice. “I’ll make some tea, James.” She had always called him by his full name. Clara disappeared up the steps into her trailer. Jim heard the chug of a diesel generator as he followed her. It was Clara’s only source of power, and it kept her lights on and the water pumping from her well.

  Once inside, he couldn’t see her. There were boxes piled to the ceiling, and just one narrow walkway through the maze. Jim spied Christmas tinsel poking out of some containers. Others were full of books, as far as he could tell. Clara, or he assumed it was Clara, had written “History” and “Stories” and other categories in shaky handwriting on some boxes.

  Jim knew a little about hoarding. When his father had been in the early stages of dementia, he refused to throw anything away. But Clara was a collector, Jim decided. Although the trailer was full, and undoubtedly a fire hazard, it smelled clean. Clara took care of her treasures.

  Clara appeared from behind a tall mound of folded linen. She held two mugs of tea in her hand. Both mugs commemorated a royal wedding. She handed one to Jim.

  “This way,” she said, and she eased herself between two more piles of boxes and opened a door. They were at the back of the trailer. Tall fir trees shaded this side, but it was no less cluttered.

  “The water feature collection,” Jim murmured, as everywhere he looked were stone fountains and birdbaths: some shaped like cherubs and clamshells, some even had water burbling out of the mouths of concrete fish.

  “Sit,” Clara said, pointing to a stone bench, while she settled herself on a wooden Adirondack chair which had white paint peeling from the arms.

  “You didn’t answer my question, Clara.”

  Clara sipped at her tea thoughtfully. “I’ve seen dead bodies before, James.”

  “Still, must have been a surprise at least. Unexpected.”

  Clara nodded. “Bad business.”

  Jim pushed a little harder. “Why were you out there, Clara?”

  Clara’s face darkened a little. “George Gomich said the new curator wanted to know some local history. Said she’d heard about that silly old story and wanted to see the chapel for herself.” Her voice had taken on a sneering tone.

  Jim wondered and then asked, “Do you miss the museum, Clara?”

  To his horror, a tear ran down the old woman’s face.

  “Clara, I’m sorry, what did I say?”

  She brushed at her face. “Don’t mind me, I’m a silly old woman. But I loved that place. Gave me a reason to get up in the mornin’. Hurts when you get cast off, James. You’ll see when you get old. You young ’uns don’t understand until it happens to you.”

  Jim hid his smile. It had been a long time since anyone referred to him as a young ’un. “I do understand, Clara. My father felt it when he left the Gazette. He said he had a lot more to give.”

  Clara nodded. “That’s exactly it. Wise man, your father.” And then she said, “That new mayor. She said I could move into some new housing they’re going to build. Assisted living, she called it. Do you think they’ll make me leave here?”

  She sounded genuinely scared.

  Jim reached across and patted her hand. “Nobody will make you leave your home, Clara. Not as long as I’m around, I promise you.”

  Jim thought it was best to change the subject. “Young Katie Dagg, she does love Coffin Cove. And she’s a nice girl. She’ll do a good job at the museum.”

  Clara sniffed. “She seemed nice, I suppose. For a Dagg.”

  “You don’t like the Daggs?” Jim asked. “Why? Is it something to do with their property? Or the chapel?”

  “Wayne Dagg stole that house from Arthur,” Clara said suddenly. “Him and that Dennis Havers, they bullied him and stole from him. And got him mixed up in all that drug stuff with the bikers. He was a good boy, Arthur. Helped me with my maps.”

  “Art Whilley?” Jim asked, leaning forward. He remembered the company registration documents Sandra had given Andi. This was why he was here. “You knew Art Whilley?”

  Clara nodded. “When he was a boy. Before he got mixed up in all that craziness. He used to visit me. To get away from that monster of a mother.”

  “You helped him, Clara?” Jim asked, not wanting her to stop and knowing now why Andi liked to record all her interviews.

  “He helped me,” she said. “We walked all over and he helped make all my maps of the old mineshafts. And so I taught him how to shoot, and how to skin animals. He was good with a knife. He was smart too, liked to read. I gave him some of my books.”

  “Well, you must have thought a lot of him,” Jim said with feeling. He knew how hard it was for Clara to part with her treasures.

  She smiled. “Didn’t have a son of my own. He was good company. Told me a lot about my collection and helped me hook up the generator. That mother of his . . .” Her face darkened.

  “Did anyone else try to help him?” Jim asked.

  “Ann South, she did. And her boy, Douglas. He looked out for Arthur. But Wayne Dagg and Dennis Havers, they tormented him. Until they found out he was clever. Then they used him and then they killed him.”

  Jim sat back in his chair, shocked at what the old lady had said. Clara was odd and didn’t live in the modern world, but she wasn’t crazy. “Dennis Havers and Wayne Dagg killed Art Whilley? You sure about that, Clara?” he asked again.

  She shrugged. “Arthur burned in that fire. That’s what they told me. But he was too smart to get caught in some fire. So they must have burned him.”

  Jim leaned forward. “Clara, can you tell me all you know about Arthur and Hell’s Half Acre?” He had no idea how it all fit with the death of Ricky Havers, but he was sure Clara knew something. Something important.

  Jim was at Clara Bell’s trailer for two hours. He listened carefully, hoping he could remember everything she’d told him. When he was ready to leave, he pressed a fifty-dollar note into her hand. For a moment she glared at him, but then stuffed it into a pocket in her skirt. Then she grabbed his arm and pulled him nearer.

  “Come again soon, James. And next time, bring diesel.”

  Jim watched her in his rear-view mirror through the dust until he rounded the corner. He sped up until his phone dinged and he knew he was back in the range for cell phone service. He pulled over and punched in Andi’s number. They were on to something now, he thought, as he waited for the call to connect.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Ready for a top-up?” Hephzibah smiled down at the man.

  “Sure, why not?” He held up his mug and smiled back.

  Hephzibah was pleased. She’d been waiting for an opportunity to get a better look at him. Walter had been adamant he’d recognized this man, and now Hephzibah was really curious.

  She sneaked a look at his face while she filled his mug. In his sixties, maybe? That made him older than Harry, but they might have been in school together, if he was from Coffin Cove. He looked like he took care of himself. His face wasn’t weathered, like most men around here. His hands were smooth, his nails trimmed. Definitely not a man who worked outside.

  Hephzibah said casually, “Are you visiting Coffin Cove? I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before?”

  The man said, almost teasingly, “I was just in here the other day, you don’t remember?”

  Hephzibah felt herself blush. “No, I meant . . .”

  The man laughed. “I’m sorry, I know what you meant. I’m in town for a few days, looking at real es
tate. I’m a developer and I heard your new mayor has a plan for the old fish plant site.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!” Hephzibah said. “It’s time that old building came down. There was a murder there, you know, and it’s time we got rid of that old monstrosity.”

  “A murder?” the man said and pointed to a stack of fresh newspapers on a rack. “Looks like it’s a common occurrence in Coffin Cove.”

  “Oh, no, it’s a very tragic case. Ricky Havers was the son of our previous mayor . . . but it’s a really friendly town,” Hephzibah responded, wishing she’d put the papers out of sight. The headline wasn’t great advertising for the beginning of the tourist season, especially as the Heritage Festival kicked off this evening.

  “Friendly? Is that right?” the man murmured.

  “I hope it doesn’t put you off. We need new blood.” God, Hephzibah thought, not the best choice of words to use!

  “Oh, bad things happen everywhere,” said the man as he picked up his coffee. Hephzibah took that as a signal he wanted to be left in peace, but she hadn’t yet got a name. She didn’t recognize him at all, and only a name would satisfy Walter’s curiosity.

  “Have you been to Coffin Cove before?” Hephzibah tried.

  “Long time ago. I had relatives who lived here once.” The man focused once again on his coffee, in a way that told Hephzibah the conversation was now over.

  * * *

  Vega swore. “This is a damn hatchet job! Have you read this?”

  Diane Fowler nodded. “It’s unfair, sir.”

  He sank into a chair. It wasn’t even nine o’clock, and already the day was going badly.

  He reread the article on the front page of the Coffin Cove Gazette. The paper only printed once a week, on Fridays, and it was distributed to every household and business in town. But thanks to Andi, the Gazette also had an impressive presence on social media, and Vega was certain Superintendent Sinclair would hear about this soon enough. The RCMP monitored online media for every mention of their activity, and this article wasn’t just reporting that Ricky Havers’ body had been found, it was confirming murder. If that wasn’t bad enough, the article questioned the police response to Ricky’s disappearance. More than just question, Vega saw with dismay. It was an unbridled attack.

  “If our Mounties had done their job, would Ricky still be alive?”

  Andi’s article was a methodical takedown of the entire investigation, from Charlie Rollins’ fuck-ups to their own “inadequate” press briefing.

  “Coffin Cove deserves better,” the article concluded. “Let’s hope our new mayor will demand immediate improvements.”

  Vega held his head in his hands. Andi hadn’t mentioned him or his team specifically, but he’d got the message loud and clear.

  “Has Charlie Rollins seen this?” he asked.

  Sergeant Fowler shrugged. “If he hasn’t, it won’t be long before he does. You know what this place is like.”

  Vega nodded. “Keep him away from the front desk. I don’t want him or anyone else talking to the press. Especially not Andi Silvers or Jim Peters. I’ll talk to Sinclair and see what we can do to limit the fallout. To try and at least stop the rest of the media descending on us.”

  “Are you going to respond to this?” Diane asked, holding up the paper between her fingers as if it were a soiled tissue.

  “Not sure. I must talk to the Havers.”

  If Dennis Havers was involved, Vega thought, he’d be on full alert. Damn Andi. She didn’t know the damage she’d done.

  “Sir, PC Matt Beaufort. He thinks it was him who tipped off the Gazette. He didn’t mean to. He just let it slip, and now he’s shitting a brick,” Diane said.

  “And so he should be,” Vega said, annoyed.

  “The thing is, sir, I’ve been watching him. He’s not like Charlie. He’s dedicated, and in the short time he’s been here, he’s made a good impression on the community. They like him and they talk to him. He could be an asset, if—”

  “If I don’t blast him for a silly mistake?” Vega finished.

  “Yes, sir.” Diane looked relieved.

  Vega nodded. “OK, I’ll talk to him later. You take him with you today. Get him out and away from the detachment. Now, I have to call Superintendent Sinclair.”

  Sergeant Fowler left him alone.

  He took a deep breath and tapped in the number.

  Sinclair seemed calm. She’d seen the article, but she’d endured many media attacks in her career, so was relatively sanguine about it.

  “Nanaimo detachment is dealing with a high-profile overdose of that new street drug. Son of a minor celebrity, so the media is all over it. It should buy you a couple of days. As for Charlie Rollins—” she snorted — “I wouldn’t waste much time defending him. His retirement is imminent.”

  “Sounds like a reward, not a punishment,” Vega commented.

  “There are some battles we can’t win, Andrew,” Sinclair said briskly. “Let’s focus on the war. The Charlie Rollinses of this organization are fading away, and a good job too. I know you’re irritated by that young constable’s mistake, but I’m inclined to let this one go. Encourage him. Our new recruits are down by sixty per cent. We can’t lose the good ones.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And progress so far?”

  Vega told her. It didn’t take long. Nine months was a long time, and they were having trouble locating anyone in the trailer park who might have remembered something around the time Ricky disappeared. It looked like they would have to rely on forensics to solve this case.

  “Don’t be so sure, Andrew. It’s a tiny community. Someone knows something. Shake it out of them. Not literally,” she added dryly.

  Vega had to make another call. He couldn’t put it off.

  The phone was answered on the first ring.

  “Mr Havers?”

  “Inspector.” Dennis sounded monotone.

  “Mr Havers, you may have seen an article in this morning’s Gazette,” Vega started.

  Dennis interrupted. “Joanna brought us a copy, Inspector. My wife is very upset. The doctor is with her now.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Vega said. “The information should have come from me. I apologize.”

  “What difference does it make now, Inspector? Ricky is still dead. Do you know who killed him?” He sounded as if he were asking if Vega knew the weather forecast.

  Vega said, “No sir, we don’t. And that’s the other reason for my call. We will have to ask you and Mrs Havers some questions.”

  Silence.

  Vega continued. “It’s routine, sir. We must talk to anyone who knew him, we’ll have to look at his financial records too. Did Ricky owe anyone any money, sir? Someone . . . er . . . connected to the Smoke Room, maybe?”

  He heard Dennis sigh. “Inspector, I paid Ricky’s many debts throughout his whole life. My son wasn’t an angel. He did things to people. I tried to make them go away — those I knew about — with money. But money doesn’t always work, Inspector. I’m understanding that now.”

  “I see, sir. Can you come to the detachment, sir? Or would you like me to come to you?”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Inspector. Today, I must look after my wife.”

  The phone went dead. And then, immediately, it rang again.

  “Yes, Vega here?”

  It was a technician from the forensic laboratory.

  “Sir, we can confirm now that your victim was not killed at the discovery site. There were traces of embalming fluid and evidence that the remains were kept in cold storage, maybe a freezer, before being transported to the site.”

  “Embalming fluid? The killer attempted to embalm the body?”

  “Yes, sir. But embalming fluid, contrary to what you’d think, does not do a good job of preserving the body long-term. Our best guess is the killer tried embalming, and then freezing when the body started to decompose.”

  Vega was silent for a moment, processing the new gruesome facts.

/>   “So two things I’m thinking right away,” Vega mused, almost to himself. “The killer wanted the body to be found.”

  “Yes, sir. And given the lengths he — or she — went to to preserve the body, maybe it was important the body was identified? I mean recognized, without the lengthy process of DNA?” the technician added.

  “Yes. And it also means the site, the chapel where he was found, was significant,” Vega said. “Thank you.”

  “Er . . . that’s not all, sir. And I’m sorry to complicate things . . .” the technician continued.

  Vega gripped his phone a little tighter. What now? “Go on,” he said.

  “Well, most of the remains were recovered from the site, except for a few, because of wildlife we think. But we have identified some human remains that do not belong to Ricky Havers.”

  Vega closed his eyes. “You’re telling me we have two bodies at the same site?”

  “Yes, sir. We are attempting to extract DNA, but these remains have been there for a very long time. We may not get a positive identification.”

  Vega ended the call.

  A second body. Another victim?

  Vega got up and poked his head through the door of the conference room. “Diane? I need you to get the team together.”

  Then he sank back down in a chair. Coffin Cove and its damn secrets!

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Andi was at a dead end.

  First, she’d phoned Katie Dagg. She’d used Katie’s cell phone number, but Lee Dagg had answered and refused her request to talk to Katie. She had spoken to the police and was taking a few days off, Lee said. She was still in shock. He’d been polite, but before Andi could thank him and end the call, she’d heard a woman’s voice angrily telling him to “put the fucking phone down.” The phone went dead. Andi guessed it was Nadine.