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

by JACKIE ELLIOTT

  Next, she’d knocked on Mr Gomich’s door. Initially, she’d been surprised when Peggy Wilson answered, but then it made sense. Peggy was the chief purveyor of gossip in the town, plus she had been the unfortunate person to discover a dead body in the fish plant a year ago.

  She completely understood the shock, she’d told Andi, shaking her head, so she’d come straight over to give George and Margie Gomich the benefit of her support and counsel. She sighed. Only people who’d been through trauma would understand. George hadn’t said much, but she had all day and would stay until he was ready to talk. Get it all off his chest.

  Mrs Gomich had appeared before Andi could say anything and said she’d had enough of visitors — giving Peggy a meaningful look — and George just wanted to be left alone. He didn’t get a good look at the body anyway. It was poor Clara Bell who’d found that Ricky Havers, and perhaps Clara needed support and counselling. (Another meaningful look at Peggy Wilson.) Andi had asked if she could include that comment in her article, and Mrs Gomich had told her she “didn’t bloody care what she wrote, they just wanted some bloody peace and quiet.”

  So that was that.

  Andi was sure she wouldn’t be able to get close to the chapel site just yet, and anyway, she wanted to avoid any possibility of bumping into Andrew Vega. Her article had gone out that morning. She’d seen the headline when she picked up a coffee at Hephzibah’s.

  In black and white, it seemed stark. Andi contended that Coffin Cove had been let down by the RCMP and the community deserved better. Andi contrasted the tiny two-person detachment with the 200-strong force in Nanaimo, which was supposed to provide backup. She’d analysed crime statistics and population numbers and made the convincing argument (or so she thought) for at least triple the RCMP members, increased training and replacement of obsolete methods and equipment. She also dismissed Vega’s press conference as “arrogant” and called for greater transparency.

  “Despite repeated requests from the Havers family, the response to his mysterious disappearance was lacking, to say the least. No televised appeals, no search parties, no helicopters, nothing except a short public relations visit to ‘quieten down the locals’. Even now, after the tragic discovery of Ricky’s body, the inspector in charge of the investigation will not provide the community with the information they need: was Ricky Havers murdered? And if RCMP had responded immediately, would Ricky Havers be alive today?”

  Andi had been careful not to name Charlie Rollins. But she’d felt the frosty reception to her article as Hephzibah poured her coffee. The fishermen, who usually waved and smiled, kept their heads down. There was a definite chill in the air, Andi thought.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered to Hephzibah. “They complain all the time about theft and petty crime, how Charlie should get off his backside and do his job, and now they’re upset?”

  Hephzibah shrugged. “You know what it’s like. We can complain about our own, but an outsider — well, that’s another thing entirely.”

  “I’m still an outsider?” Andi asked, surprised.

  “Just down from my house a couple moved in back in the early eighties. Harry still calls them ‘the new neighbours’,” Hephzibah said with a smile. “Don’t worry. You wrote the truth. It’s your job. They probably secretly agree with you, and when you find out what happened to Ricky, you’ll be the hero of this.”

  I don’t want to be a hero, thought Andi, I just want to give Sandra some closure.

  Standing in front of the Smoke Room at the small abandoned strip mall, Andi did not feel like a hero, and she knew she wasn’t any nearer to finding answers for Sandra.

  She wondered if she should call Andrew Vega. Explain why she’d written the article. He’d probably think she was trying to make a point after their argument on the phone. Was she? Why did it matter what he thought anyway? Better to focus on helping Sandra.

  After striking out with both Katie Dagg and George Gomich, she’d decided to start again where the mystery had begun. She didn’t expect to find anything to help her, but she thought the location might inspire some creative ideas. Maybe coming back to the start might shake something from her subconscious, something she’d overlooked.

  Andi peered through the window of the Smoke Room. It was hard to see anything because the windows had some kind of plastic coating on them, which allowed people inside to see out but blocked the view from outside.

  Andi could make out a long counter and a few tables and chairs. She assumed all the inventory had been removed.

  Not for the first time, she wondered at Dennis Havers’ motivation to set up a pot store right here in the strip mall. When Andi first arrived in Coffin Cove, two small businesses were struggling to stay open in the ugly low-slung block of storefronts.

  They were all boarded up now. Dennis Havers had purchased the strip mall for pennies on the dollar. The previous owners had died with no heirs to take over. Gradually tenants moved out as the building fell into disrepair, and the lawyers in charge of probate stopped answering the phone. When property taxes were delinquent two years in a row, the City of Coffin Cove put the strip mall up for auction. There was only one bidder: Dennis Havers.

  He didn’t clean up the old site or make any repairs. The flat roofs on three stores sagged. The parking lot at the back was overgrown with weeds and brambles. Soon it became a dumping ground for old shopping carts, stained mattresses and rusting appliances.

  The Smoke Room had been the first business to open in the strip mall with Dennis Havers as landlord. It was controversial. Behind the strip mall was Coffin Cove trailer park. Twenty-eight trailers sat on permanent rental pads, in a nicely landscaped four acres. There was a children’s play area, a barbeque and picnic area, and from the east corner, a view of Coffin Cove bay. The monthly rental payments were inexpensive, and it was Coffin Cove’s only option for low-cost family housing.

  Dennis had been trying to purchase the park for years. The rumour was he wanted to replace a few of the older trailers and raise the rent for everyone — by a substantial amount. The problem was, he could only legally do that when new tenants moved in. Plus, the current owner was quite happy with the way things were. He wasn’t selling.

  Andi believed, along with several residents, including Summer Thompson, that Dennis intended to drive out tenants. The Smoke Room, run by his useless but predictable son Ricky, would soon attract an undesirable clientele. The ploy worked. Despite a petition organized by Summer Thompson, the Smoke Room opened, and immediately half the tenants at the trailer park gave notice to move out.

  Andi could see a new “For Sale” sign at the entrance to the trailer park.

  Dennis got what he wanted, Andi thought. But how did Ricky’s disappearance fit into all this? Was Dennis involved at all? For the first time, Andi doubted Dennis had anything to do with Ricky’s disappearance and murder. She thought of Jim’s words: why dump the body right here in Coffin Cove?

  Andi walked back towards the car. She’d go back to the office and do some research on Dennis’s business activities. Maybe that would throw up some leads. And maybe Jim would get something from Clara Bell.

  As she took one last look around the strip mall, Andi thought she saw a slight movement in the second-floor window of the last store on the block. She walked over and peered through the dirty window of the old bookstore. The owner had just left the store as it was, with books still on the shelves. Andi could see the books were curled up from damp and covered in dust and grime. Nobody had been in there for years. Maybe it had been the light, she thought. But then she heard a noise, like a chair scraping across a floor. Andi tried the door. Locked.

  Frowning, Andi walked around the unit to the parking lot at the back. She hadn’t noticed before, but behind the piles of debris was a narrow metal staircase leading up to the second storey of the bookshop, and at the top of the steps, there was a second entrance.

  On closer inspection, Andi saw the grass and weeds had been trodden down around the foot
of the rusty staircase. Looking around, she could see there was a small pathway, much like an animal trail, leading away through the overgrown parking lot, towards the trailer park.

  Someone living here? Andi wondered. Squatters? She had to look.

  Nervously, she climbed the metal steps and peered through the glass pane of the door. She saw a filthy couch on one wall of a small room. Pizza boxes and beer cans were strewn everywhere, and something that looked like a brown liquid was oozing under a small door at the far corner. She didn’t want to go in.

  Definitely squatters, Andi thought, and wondered how long they’d been there. Could they have witnessed Ricky’s disappearance? Had Charlie Rollins missed this too?

  Then Andi caught sight of a green light blinking from a box in the corner. She looked again. Was that a laptop? Was there power in this decrepit living space?

  Andi had her face near the dirty pane. As she focused on the laptop, thinking it might be stolen, a man’s face appeared, like a jack-in-the-box, right in front of her. She screamed and almost lost her footing. The man had wild eyes and matted hair. Andi didn’t wait for introductions.

  She turned and took the steps two at a time. The man had flung the door open and was screaming after her. Andi was fast, but then she realized the man was coming after her.

  Tripping over the garbage, Andi kept upright and headed for her car. It was the fastest she’d moved in a long time, and she felt the scar on her thigh pull.

  Not fit at all, she thought, as she panted and slowed. All at once, she felt a hand clamp on her shoulder and spin her around. She was face to face with the man, and all Andi could register in her mind was the stench. He was still screaming, incoherent words, as Andi struggled to get free.

  “You killed him! Killed him . . . the night . . . the night . . .” He was almost chanting. Andi pulled free and ran to her car.

  He followed her, still spewing obscenities and, as far as Andi could make out, accusing her of killing someone in the night. She fumbled for her car keys as the man loped towards her, his arms flailing.

  “You’re spying on me . . . watching me . . .” He was spitting and foaming from his mouth and getting nearer. But to Andi’s relief, another vehicle screeched into the parking lot and distracted his attention.

  The man ran in the other direction, to Andi’s relief, but someone grabbed the man from behind and tackled him to the ground.

  “Are you alright?” a woman’s voice asked Andi, full of concern.

  “Yes, thank you . . .” Andi saw it was Sergeant Diane Fowler.

  “Oh, Miss Silvers, glad to see you are unharmed.” The sergeant’s tone changed from concerned to icy. “You’re lucky we were doing a drive-by.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant, I appreciate your help,” Andi said sincerely, realizing the sergeant must have read her article. She was trembling.

  “Not at all, Miss Silvers,” Fowler said, not bothering to disguise her sarcasm. “Always glad to be of service to a member of the free press.”

  Andi said nothing. She watched Sergeant Fowler walk back to her colleague, the young constable who’d inadvertently helped Andi get her scoop, and helped him restrain the squatter, who was now howling like a captured wild animal.

  Andi got into her car and sat for a moment, letting the adrenaline subside and wiping her face with tissues. She fought an urge to cry. Then her phone rang. It was Jim.

  * * *

  Diane Fowler looked in disgust at the handcuffed man.

  “Great. A babbling crackhead. We don’t have time for this,” she grumbled to Matt. But he wasn’t listening.

  “Did you hear what he said, Sarge?” he asked excitedly.

  “A lot of nonsense, is all I heard,” answered Diane, “and now we’ve got to put that filthy creature in the cruiser and take him back to the detachment.”

  “No we don’t, Sarge,” Matt said, with a big grin on his face. “He was talking about the ‘knights’ and I’m sure he said ‘dukes’.”

  Sergeant Fowler looked at him, not understanding. “So?”

  Matt explained how he’d been looking out for the new drug on the streets of Coffin Cove.

  “The Nanaimo guys are picking up everyone they can find connected to this new street drug,” Matt explained.

  Diane nodded, her confusion clearing. “Good work, Constable. Give Nanaimo a call, this arrest is all theirs.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jim pulled into the strip mall parking lot.

  “What happened to you?” he asked, as Andi climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Had a bit of a clash with a squatter,” Andi answered and told him what had happened.

  Jim whistled. “Wonder if he saw anything.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Andi said. “Something else Charlie Rollins missed. The man looked like a junkie. Maybe Ricky was selling more than weed. Maybe this is all to do with a drug gang killing.” She sounded dispirited.

  Jim snorted with laughter. “Don’t sound so disappointed, girl. If you’d run into that junkie a day ago, I’d have said yes — sounds like Ricky pissed off some local drug lord, straightforward as that. But today, I heard an interesting story about Hell’s Half Acre. And now, we’re going to have a visit with someone who can verify some details. Leave your car here. We can talk on the way.”

  “OK, boss.”

  * * *

  “Hello there, Jim. And you’re Andi Silvers,” a slim blonde woman said, before Andi could introduce herself. “I’m Terri South. Come in and sit down while I make us some coffee.”

  Andi and Jim followed Terri into the kitchen and looked around. The interior of the house was not what Andi had expected. It was a complete contrast to the exterior, with its old wheelless cars propped up on blocks and rusty junk piled up around the workshop.

  “Doug South is a mechanic,” Jim had explained as they drove up to the house. “He’s lived here his whole life. Ann South, his mother, was a schoolteacher. They both knew Art Whilley when he was a child. Art Whilley’s house, which is now owned by the Daggs, is less than half a click from here. And if Clara is telling the truth, Doug will be able to connect Art Whilley and Hell’s Half Acre with Dennis Havers. You see, Andi,” Jim was serious, “I don’t think it was a gang killing. I believe Ricky’s body was put in the chapel on purpose. I don’t have all the answers, but I think Doug can fill in some gaps.”

  Doug South was not in the house. “He’s off getting some parts,” Terri explained. “He’ll be back soon.”

  Jim explained why they were there. Terri’s face clouded. “My poor Katie,” she said. “What a shock. And terrible for the Havers.”

  Andi couldn’t imagine Doug South sitting in this room, not with oily hands and stained work overalls. The kitchen was ultra-modern, with glossy dark granite tops and brushed chrome handles. It was spotless. The dining area opened up into a conservatory, with floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Tasteful wicker furniture was arranged to take advantage of the view. Although they were a few kilometres from the town, Andi could still see a peek-a-boo view of the ocean through the trees.

  The conservatory was decorated with unusual carvings, which Andi suspected came from Africa. They looked authentic too, not a knock-off from a cheap art shop in a Nanaimo mall.

  All around the room were touches of colour — yellow throw cushions and a patterned rug. It was like a room from a magazine, Andi thought.

  Terri South guessed the gist of Andi’s thoughts.

  “Not what you expected from a redneck homestead like ours, eh?” She smiled.

  “It’s beautiful,” Andi said. “I feel like I walked into a brochure.”

  Terri South looked pleased. “I love decorating. Doug tolerates it, but he thinks throw cushions are actually for throwing.” She threw back her head and laughed at her own joke.

  Andi immediately liked her. Terri had a pixie face and a twinkle in her eye.

  Terri made coffee for the three of them and handed out little coasters for the coffee cups
as they got seated in the conservatory.

  “Have you and Doug always lived here?” Andi asked, knowing the answer, but wanting to start the conversation.

  “Yes,” Terri said, “this house belonged to Doug’s mother. We lived with her when we first got married. She was ill, and Doug didn’t want to leave her on her own — his dad died when he was young, so we moved right in after our wedding day. Doug was so good with her.” She sighed. “He was heartbroken when she died. We always talked about moving, but Doug loves the workshop for his cars and the business. I knocked a few walls down and redecorated, and neither of us could see much point in leaving.”

  “Were you born in Coffin Cove?” Andi asked.

  “We’re both Coffin Cove born and bred,” Terri said proudly. “You saw the gravel pit, right?”

  Andi nodded.

  “Doug and I met right there!”

  “At the gravel pit?” Andi was confused.

  “Back in the day, it was the place where we all hung out. We drank beer, smoked a bit of weed,” Terri winked at Andi. “But I wasn’t there for the booze or drugs. I was there for the racing. Right behind the pit is the Quarter Mile. Doug and I fell in love when we were racing.”

  “Racing? You mean cars?” Andi asked, still confused.

  “Yep. Muscle cars, old beaters, trucks, bikes — you name it, we raced it. God, it was so much fun. I miss those days.” Terri’s eyes shone as she reminisced.

  Andi looked at her, trying to imagine this petite, smartly dressed woman revving up a muscle car and tearing down a track in a cloud of dust.

  “What? I don’t look like a racer to you?” Terri laughed, seeing Andi’s expression. “Anyhow, you haven’t come to chat about the old days with me, have you?”

  Jim shook his head.

  “We’re investigating the death of Ricky Havers. We think the community deserves answers,” he said simply. “Answers we didn’t get from the police. And we think the chapel where Ricky was found is significant.”