COFFIN COVE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 1)

by JACKIE ELLIOTT

  Andi nodded.

  “OK, then. You can start tomorrow, if that works.”

  Andi remembered the relief she felt. A completely clean slate. A chance to start again.

  Now, hung-over in her new apartment, she dialled her voicemail and listened to the message.

  Chapter Four

  Andi pounded her steering wheel in annoyance.

  “Not one fucking place to park.”

  The normally deserted parking lot at the Government Docks was full.

  Andi crawled slowly around, twice, as people milled in front of her, not in a hurry to get out of the way.

  Andi didn’t know there were this many people in town. She gave up the search and ended up driving almost all the way back to the Fat Chicken. Jim had made one phone call after her interview, and after her hasty acceptance of the job offer, she also had a new apartment. It was above the only pub in town, but at least it came with its own parking space. Since she’d moved in, Andi had spent a good deal of time in the bar. Too much time, she thought, as she struggled to ignore the throbbing behind her tired eyes.

  Coffin Cove was built on a hill overlooking the ocean. Narrow roads wound up to the pinnacle, where back in the glory days of coal and logging, the owners and managers of the local mines and sawmills had built the fanciest homes with the best views of the bay.

  Further down, the houses got smaller and more crammed together, and just before the boardwalk and the marina, there was one strip of stores, a bank, a post office and the only café in town, Hephzibah’s. Andi wondered again why Coffin Cove had not flourished like other coastal communities on Vancouver Island. Other cities and towns had embraced tourism, built malls, encouraged retirees to settle in clusters of cookie-cutter ranches, and had built up service economies and leisure industries around the aging baby boomer population. Coffin Cove seemed stuck in the past, in a futile waiting pattern — waiting for the fishing industry to return or for a miraculous revitalization of logging. In the meantime, some people tried to launch new businesses, optimistically creating window displays and hanging out balloons, until the Under New Management — Come On In! signs faded. Andi had noticed some stores having closing-down sales when she had arrived in Coffin Cove a month ago, and they were showing no indications of finishing.

  She parked her car and strode briskly down to the dock, feeling better for the walk in the persistent drizzle.

  She had listened to the voicemail from Jim and nearly hadn’t bothered with a shower. But as it was, she had let the hot water cascade over her, washing away the stale booze and cigarette smell. She’d dried her hair, put on some makeup and rummaged around in the dilapidated kitchen cupboards for breakfast food that wasn’t chips or chocolate. She settled on a fried egg sandwich. The grease was already doing its job on her acid stomach, and a large black coffee combined with the damp salt air was keeping her headache at a manageable level.

  Andi had her camera slung over her shoulder and her phone in her pocket — all the equipment she needed as a reporter. She took her own photos and used the voice recording app on her phone for interviews. Until two months ago, her writing skills plus her instinct for a good (or at least “sellable”) story made her a successful journalist. But her real asset was her ability to blend in with the crowd. Her small, unobtrusive figure was barely noticeable at crime scenes, courthouses and even in the homes of people in the throes of scandals or tragedy. People let their guard down with Andi — an unthreatening, diminutive woman who knew how to listen sympathetically, murmuring encouragement as the real story came spilling out. She was on their side. She would never sell them out.

  Down at the dock, Andi scanned the crowd looking for Jim. He had only left a short, terse message for Andi to meet him at the marina. He had said nothing else, but Andi got the impression something significant was going on. She spotted him standing by the boat ramp talking to . . . Shit, a TV crew.

  Jim waved at her to meet him by the boat ramp.

  “What’s g—” Andi started to ask, but took a step back in horror as she got near.

  “Holy shit,” she gasped, as her fried egg sandwich thrashed around in her already sensitive stomach. It wasn’t what she could see that caused her reaction. Andi couldn’t even tell what the swollen mottled mounds were, slumped on the concrete slope. No, it was the putrid stench of decomposition coming from these . . . dead animals? Two officials in matching yellow rain gear were taking pictures and examining the mounds. Someone had cordoned off the entrance to the boat ramp with tape so the gathering crowd couldn’t get any nearer. Not that anyone would want to, surely. The odour was thick — a mixture of dead fish and rotten eggs. It wafted like an invisible curtain in the slight breeze off the ocean and invaded Andi’s nostrils and clung to her hair. She clamped her mouth shut and walked abruptly away from Jim, desperate not to vomit in front of him.

  Jim followed her. He took her arm and steered her to the far end of the parking lot.

  “It’s better here,” he said. “Is it the tequila or the stink?”

  Andi looked at him. She couldn’t remember him being in the pub last night.

  “Everybody knows everybody’s business in this small town,” Jim answered her unspoken question.

  Was that a hint of amusement on his face? She struggled to control her nausea.

  “That’s a body.” She tried to focus on the reason she was here.

  “Well, technically there are two bodies,” Jim stated. “Two sea lions. No human bodies,” he added. “Sorry about that.”

  Slightly irritated at Jim’s tone, and because he had correctly noted her disappointment, she said, “So what’s the story here? And why the camera crew?”

  “It’s a federal crime to kill sea lions. And these aren’t the first to appear on the beach or the boat ramp. They were shot,” Jim added.

  “Why?” Andi was mystified and shocked. “Why would anyone want to hurt them?”

  “Sea lions have multiplied in the last few years. They eat salmon. Lots and lots of salmon. The fishermen believe they’ll wipe out the commercial fishery . . . eventually. So to fishermen, they are a pest. Plus, they’re filthy and they’re wrecking the breakwater.”

  “Can’t they be culled?” Andi asked, her flip-flopping stomach forgotten for a moment.

  “No, says the DFO . . . Department of Fisheries and Oceans,” Jim corrected himself for Andi’s benefit. “Those two are DFO officers.” He gestured at the two men probing the dead sea lions, apparently unaffected by the smell.

  “They say the science doesn’t support it. But the fishermen say they’re being influenced by those guys.”

  Jim gestured at a group of onlookers who had edged towards the boat ramp, flashing camera phones and jostling to get a better view of the bloated corpses.

  Andi noticed that most were dressed all in black and wore bandanas across their mouths. First, she thought they were merely trying to avoid the stench. But there was tension in the air as the group, in one purposeful move, pushed forward and swarmed around the entrance of the ramp, blocking the exit of the officials who were still examining the dead sea lions. The fishermen and other local workers, in their own uniform of grey woollen Stanfields and overalls, had backed away.

  It felt like a standoff, Andi thought. The sudden mood change from curiosity to hostility, the division of the crowd into two factions — she had seen and felt this before. A gaggle of seemingly unconnected people, tension sparked by a small random act, a flash of anger that erupts and engulfs everyone, until a crowd becomes a mob.

  “Protesters,” she said to Jim. “Which organization?”

  “The Ocean Protection Society,” Jim replied. “Commonly known as Black OPS. This has been building all week. The Coast Guard and DFO have been getting calls since herring season opened, about fishermen who aren’t wearing lifejackets or don’t have safety equipment on board — minor infractions, but they all have to be investigated, so some fishermen are tied to dock instead of fishing. They’re not happy about i
t. And this morning, there was an anonymous tip-off that a fisherman was shooting at sea lions.”

  Andi already had the lens cap off her camera and was focusing in on the protestors. They all wore black from head to foot. Commando-style jackets, baseball caps pulled as far down as they would go, and the bandanas serving as face masks made it hard to distinguish gender, let alone identity. All save one figure who stood slightly apart. A slightly built man, with a military-style buzz cut and the posture to match, took a slow look around the parking lot, as if surveying an audience.

  Slowly and deliberately he folded his arms and shouted something that Andi couldn’t quite hear. Like an army of foot soldiers obeying a sergeant, the Black OPS group parted and let the DFO officials leave the boat ramp. Then, with the arrogance and self-assuredness of a movie star on a red carpet, he gestured at the local TV crew.

  “He’s the story,” Jim continued, as a TV reporter and cameraman rushed forward and held a microphone under the man’s nose.

  “Who is he?” Andi asked. “Why are the DFO listening to him more than the fishermen?” She swung her camera over her shoulder, grabbed her phone, and started to move, now understanding that there was far more to this story than two dead sea lions.

  “Shouldn’t we be getting an interview?” She looked over her shoulder and saw that Jim hadn’t moved. He was still standing in the rain, quietly observing the man giving an animated interview surrounded by his black-garbed disciples.

  The locals had dispersed, drifting back to their boats.

  “No, it’s OK,” he said. “You won’t get any more than a one-sided rant out of him. And he’ll never talk to a reporter from the Gazette, anyway.”

  Andi persisted. “We’re supposed to be reporting the news, right? His ‘rant’ is news, even if we — or you — don’t agree with it.”

  Jim stared at Andi. To her annoyance, he spoke slowly, as if to a small child. “You look like you could do with a coffee. Let’s go to Hephzibah’s and I’ll tell you why this is the biggest story for the Gazette in twenty years. Looks like you arrived in Coffin Cove at exactly the right time.”

  Chapter Five

  “Morning Glory,” Hephzibah declared, as she put a plate with two muffins in front of Jim and Andi. “Coffee?”

  Andi nodded. Her fried egg sandwich was a distant memory and her head was throbbing again. As she waited for her coffee, she checked her phone again. Nothing from Gavin, but she saw Jim had left three messages for her that morning. How embarrassing. She’d nearly missed all the action at the dock. She had to do better if she was going to hang on to this job.

  The late afternoon sun had lost all warmth. It had started to rain. Andi and Jim had loitered at the dock until the crowd slowly dispersed. Fishermen faded back to their boats, some of them nodding to Jim but not wanting to speak. At least, not on the record. Andi guessed that the fishermen did not want to be cornered by the official examining the dead sea lions. The protestors had also melted away, now that they had achieved their aim — attention from the media. Andi had covered protests before and knew how it worked.

  Apart from Jim and Andi, Hephzibah’s café was empty. The only noise came from Hephzibah herself, chinking cups and saucers as she emptied her ancient dishwasher. Clouds of steam from the hot water misted up the windows that looked over the bay.

  Hephzibah enjoyed almost exclusive control over the coffee trade in Coffin Cove. The big chain stores, if they had even heard of Coffin Cove, had not bothered to expand their corporate tentacles into the little town, sensing perhaps that it would be hard to coax customers away from Hephzibah’s ramshackle café. She was not a rich woman, despite her lack of competition. Coffee was cheap — free for many inhabitants, if they were financially pressured, or even if they were having a bad day. Other customers were often forced to wait while Hephzibah doled out free hugs and motherly advice.

  Andi had found Hephzibah on the day she arrived in Coffin Cove with her suitcase and all her belongings stuffed into her car. Jim had arranged her tiny apartment above the Fat Chicken, and after dumping all her stuff, she went in search of a decent cup of coffee. She found a surprisingly good brew and barely missed the array of options and additions on offer at the sleek branded coffee emporiums she frequented in the city. Over the next weeks, Andi found that a tiny table squeezed in by the café window was where she liked to write. Jim had given her a desk at the Gazette office, but the dingy surroundings reminded her too much of her apartment. Depressing. So Andi escaped with her laptop to the café, avoiding Jim’s curt comments about her hung-over appearance, and attempted to throw herself into the few “starter assignments” he’d given her. Every day she promised herself she would drink less. She planned to start a blog, or that novel she had always said she would write. But most days she found herself nursing a throbbing headache and hastily writing enough to avoid more disapproving looks from her boss. Working had always kept Andi’s mind occupied, but still she found her thoughts wandering back to Gavin. At least the chatter and hum of the café kept her loneliness at bay. Not only that: Andi was drawn to the owner of the café, a tall angular woman who seemed comfortable in her own skin. Hephzibah was single and about the same age as Andi, but she had the confident aura of an older woman who had her life in order. Andi envied that. Hephzibah appeared to know everyone and everything that was going on in Coffin Cove. None of her gossip was malicious, and Andi recognized a golden source of information when she saw one.

  Andi and Jim settled into the comfy armchairs by the woodstove at the back of the café. The days were getting warmer, hinting at spring, but Hephzibah lit the stove anyway as marine air often rolled in from the Pacific Ocean, enveloping the dips and crevices and valleys along the coast, leaving continuous moisture hanging in the air.

  “Sorry again for missing your calls.” Andi coughed awkwardly. “I, uh, must have left my phone off.”

  Jim shrugged. In the short time that she had known Jim, Andi had discovered he seldom wasted his breath on small talk. She changed tack. “So what’s the deal? Who’s the main guy and what’s the story?”

  “Pierre Mason,” Jim answered. “Originally from Quebec, likes to be known as an eco-terrorist,” he snorted. “Fired, it’s believed, from Greenpeace back in the early nineties. They were apparently tired of getting lawsuits following Mason’s dangerous stunts, which almost always involved damaging property.” Jim hesitated. “But not before he raised a significant amount of cash from his own brand of publicity.”

  “Sometimes those kind of shock tactics are effective,” Andi said. “To get media coverage for their cause.”

  Jim shrugged. “I suppose. But Pierre Mason is known to be violent. Well . . .” He took a gulp of his coffee and seemed to weigh up his words. “He’s not directly violent. But he’s not above inciting the odd riot, as you saw today. He’s charismatic, and impressionable kids hang off his every word.”

  Andi nodded. She’d seen how his Black OPS had swarmed on his command.

  “After Greenpeace,” Jim carried on, “Mason freelanced for a bit. Kind of like an environmental mercenary — he’d organize protests, stunts, pickets, that sort of thing, paid for by whatever organization needed his expertise. That’s how he ended up in Coffin Cove.”

  “To protest against the fishing industry?”

  “No,” Jim said, “the War in the Woods.”

  Andi shook her head.

  “Back in the nineties, environmentalists blockaded forestry operations, protesting clear-cutting — that’s felling every tree in one area at a time,” he added.

  Andi nodded, not wanting to give away her ignorance.

  “Also, local bands — local First Nations,” Jim corrected himself, “they got caught up in the protest because their traditional territories were being logged, and they weren’t getting compensated. Also, the clear-cutting was affecting the water supply. When the water contamination spread into the river and then the main reservoir that supplies the town, the city council was inundated wit
h complaints.” Jim looked at Andi. “You have to bear in mind that back then, the entire local economy was built on the resources industry. There wasn’t one family in town who didn’t have some income coming directly from fishing or logging. And every small business depended on those families spending that money. So it was unprecedented when one of the biggest logging companies, McIntosh & Co, agreed to change their logging practices and clean up the pollution.”

  Jim stopped to take a gulp of his coffee.

  “What about the First Nation claims?” Andi asked.

  “I’m coming to that. Joe McIntosh was forward-thinking. He could see that the future of logging was in decline. The environmental lobby had a louder voice, and indigenous land claims were being taken seriously. Joe figured that his company and the industry in general would have a longer lifespan if they adapted.”

  “Sounds like a smart guy,” Andi commented. “So why the war?”

  “It started much like today,” Jim said. “A few protestors showed up, stirred up a bit of trouble, nothing significant to start with. Joe headed up a committee and involved the band elders, local environmentalists, the union, and they hashed out a plan. Everyone was happy, or so Joe thought. Then one day, one of his crews came in to work and found that someone had sabotaged their machinery — and worse than that, they spiked trees.”

  “What’s that?” Andi asked.

  “The protestors had driven spikes or long nails into the trees. The logger can’t see the spike until his chainsaw hits it, and then the saw explodes. Imagine thousands of razor-sharp pieces of steel flying up in your face.”

  “Holy shit,” Andi said, horrified.

  “Yes,” Jim said grimly. “If the logger misses it, and the tree ends up in a sawmill — then it can be even worse when the spike is hit by a high-speed blade on a conveyer belt. Some poor kid was torn apart just like that, down in a California sawmill. It split his jaw in half. A bit more than ‘shock tactics’, don’t you think?”