She got out of the truck and walked towards the building. When she got nearer, she saw a crude metal sign hanging above the wooden door.
“This is the church?” she asked Jim.
“Yes. And the old schoolhouse. Fred’s house is out back.”
It reminded Andi of post-apocalyptic movies, where people abandoned their homes in the nick of time to escape disaster. Rusting tools were strewn over the yard, as if the person using them had been called away in a hurry and had just dropped them where they stood.
Between the church and the house someone had planted tulips and daffodils in cracked flowerpots and arranged them under an old tyre that was suspended by rope from the branches of a moss-covered maple tree — a child’s swing. It was the first sign of human life she’d seen.
The tyre moved slightly in a gust of wind and Andi shivered. Above the gush of the river, Andi could hear intermittent thuds, like someone chopping wood, and a low-level rumble coming from the same direction.
“Generator,” Jim explained. “No other power out here.”
Somebody had been doing a lot of digging. Wide shallow channels had been dug — by hand, Andi guessed, because she didn’t see any heavy machinery — and it looked a bit like someone was trying to create a moat around the property. Mud was piled up on either side of the channels.
“Trying to divert floodwater,” Jim explained.
The river was louder here than back at the hatchery and it didn’t seem to Andi that these efforts would be successful.
They walked towards the thudding sounds.
The thud turned to more of a thwack as they walked around the church towards the back of the unkempt house. Paint peeled off old windowsills, and yellowing drapes hung limply in the dirty windows of the ugly stuccoed house. Once upon a time, it might have been painted pink, but now the stucco was grey and cracked, revealing damp rotting plywood underneath. A film of mildew was growing like a green skirt around the base of the house. Andi guessed that this was flood damage that had never been fixed. A cold wind whipped around the yard, but even in sunshine, Andi thought, this place would sag under an air of despondency and gloom.
The mystery of the thwacking sounds was solved when they got to the backyard. Under a makeshift shelter, erected with unfinished wooden posts and covered with a corrugated tin roof, a woman was rhythmically hacking at the biggest piece of raw meat that Andi had ever seen. The blade came down and sliced through flesh and sinew, making the thwacking sound as it connected with bone.
A deer’s head lay in the grass, wide unseeing eyes staring at Andi directly from a pool of mud and blood. Andi wasn’t squeamish, but the sight of the dismembered animal was unnerving. It occurred to her that dead animals were becoming a theme lately.
The woman was tall, with long grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was unsmiling, focused on her task, and her shoulders were pulled back in a combative stance. The only sign of exertion was the slight glisten of moisture on her forehead. She stopped, mid-swing, and stared.
“Sue, it’s me, Jim Peters. How are you doing?”
She visibly relaxed.
“Jim. What are you doing out here? And who is this?” She stepped around the table and wiped her hands on a bloody rag. Still not smiling, but at least not hostile, Andi decided.
“I’m Andi, Jim’s new assistant.”
Sue ignored Andi’s outstretched hand and turned to Jim.
“You must be doin’ OK if you can afford an assistant, Jim.”
“Not bad, Sue. And you? How’s Fred?”
“He’s inside.” She turned abruptly away.
Andi called after her, “We have some news about your daughter.”
Sue turned around, her expression blank. Andi could feel Jim’s stare and it occurred to her that it wasn’t a good idea to upset this woman, who was obviously skilled at handling a meat cleaver. But all Sue said was, “Tell Daddy. He deals with all that,” and she walked back to her butcher’s table and resumed her grisly task.
Andi followed Jim into the house. As he forcefully pushed open a wooden door, swollen with damp, they were both welcomed by an overpowering odour of mould. They were in a tiny hallway. On the wall facing them was a small carved plaque that read:
This is the day that the Lord has made; Let us rejoice and be glad in it. Psalm 118:24.
It seemed a strangely uplifting message in a place that hadn’t seen any rejoicing for a long while, Andi decided.
Andi could just see a mustard-coloured stove in a tiny room to the left that must be the kitchen. To the right was an archway to what once might have been a living room, but now looked like an abandoned storage locker. There were books, magazines and cardboard boxes piled so high that the bottom ones were crushed and spilling out papers. The smell of mildew and damp competed with mouse urine, and Andi could see shredded paper and droppings scattered on the floor around piles of garbage. Heavy red velvet curtains hung miserably at one large window, partially blocking out the daylight. Rotting hems were held together with rusty safety pins and the curtains did nothing to stop a fierce draft from rushing through the cracked windowpanes.
“Who’s there?” A man’s voice came from somewhere in the depths of the room.
“Fred? It’s me, Jim Peters.”
Andi heard some shuffling. From the maze of boxes, a thin elderly man with a lion’s mane of white hair appeared. He looked . . . biblical, Andi thought. How she imagined God would look — except in her mind, she expected God to have a kind, benevolent demeanour. This man had angry blue eyes and lips that curled back in a snarl. Andi remembered what Jim had told her about Fred’s late wife, Ruth, and the unexplained black eyes.
This man gripped a cane in his hand, and Andi got the feeling that it could just as easily be a weapon as a walking aid.
“What brings you out here?” Fred demanded. His voice was strong and clear. If it hadn’t been for the cane and the white hair, he could have passed for a much younger man than the eighty years plus that Andi had estimated.
“I have some news for you, Fred,” Jim said. “This is Andi, my new assistant.”
“Oh yes? What’s the news?” Fred took no notice of Andi.
Jim answered calmly, “Pierre Mason is back in town. I thought you should know.”
Fred stared at him for a moment, the same unblinking look they had got from Sue. Andi wasn’t sure if he understood. She cleared her throat, which had become clogged in the heavy air, wanting to explain.
Jim touched her elbow.
Finally, Fred said, “Don’t know what that’s got to do with us. It’s in God’s hands now. Anything else?”
“No, that was it. Do you need anything out here? We don’t see Sue in town much these days.”
Fred answered sharply, “We got all we need. The girl shoots a deer when we need it.” He stopped and thought for a moment. “You got any diesel?”
“I’ve got a jerrycan in the pick-up.”
“The girl will pay. And don’t you mind that deer.” Fred pointed his cane at Jim. “We follow God’s rules out here.”
“Didn’t see a thing, Fred.”
The old man nodded, turned and shuffled back into the gloom and cardboard mountains.
Jim shrugged at Andi as if to say, See? Told you so.
They left the house. Andi was glad to be back in the fresh air.
Sue didn’t look up when Jim placed the jerrycan of diesel beside her. She carried on slicing and tugging at the carcass, dropping chunks of flesh onto a growing bloody pile beside her.
“You here about Mason?” she asked suddenly.
“Yes,” Jim answered. “You knew he was back?”
“Yep.” Sue didn’t make eye contact.
“How did you know?” Andi couldn’t help asking.
Sue lowered the cleaver.
“People are always in a rush to tell you bad news,” she said quietly. And then to Jim, “I don’t have any cash here. I’ll pay you for the diesel next week, when I’m in town.”
Andi felt ashamed as they drove away. They had achieved nothing, she thought, except add to the weight of grief that already threatened to bury the decaying homestead.
Then she remembered something that Fred had said.
“What was that all about?” she asked, as they drove back on the gravel road. “God’s rules and all that?”
“It’s not open season for hunting,” Jim answered. “Sue poached that deer.”
Chapter Nine
Jim reminded Andi about her “priorities”. They went back to the office, and together they stacked the boxes of the investigation files on Sarah McIntosh into Andi’s car. Jim agreed to let Andi take a look in her spare time but made her promise some things in return.
“Get me more on the Black OPS and the dead sea lions.” He handed her a list of stores and businesses to “hit up for some advertising”. Andi reluctantly agreed, knowing that keeping the Gazette afloat was part of her job — and vital if she wanted to be paid.
When Andi arrived home, she found a note on her door from Walter, her landlord, reminding her that rent was due in a week — a reminder of her current financial situation.
Instead of drowning her worries with wine, Andi spent a few productive hours cleaning up her apartment. She collected up pizza boxes and plastic sandwich containers and dumped them in the garbage cans at the back of the pub, promising herself a healthier diet from now on. She assessed the state of her living quarters with fresh eyes, noting the strewn clothes, unmade bed and the pile of dirty cups and plates in the tiny kitchen sink.
OK, pity party’s over. She stripped the bed, tidied up her clothes and cleaned the bathroom and kitchen area. As she worked, her mind turned over the events of the day. It was like stepping back in time, visiting Fred and Sue in the valley. Not at all like the romantic portrayal of homesteading she’d seen in the movies. She couldn’t imagine how a fifteen-year-old would have felt, being isolated from friends. No TV, no Wi-Fi, no pizza, not even regular hot water — literally none of the trappings of modern teenage life. No wonder Sarah had rebelled. It made Andi’s apartment seem luxurious in comparison.
She took down a bag of her laundry to the shared utility room at the back of the pub. She chatted with Cheryl, Walter’s wife, as she filled the washing machine and promised that she would have her rent cheque in a few days. Feeling hungry, she slipped into the bar to order some food.
“Burger and wine?” Walter asked as Andi stood looking at the blackboard menu hanging over the fireplace.
It was quiet in the pub, too early for the evening regulars, so Andi jumped when a voice from the other end of the bar said, “Try the salmon.”
She looked round and saw Harry.
“Ever eaten wild salmon?” he asked.
“I’ve had salmon before,” Andi answered.
“From the grocery store, I bet. Old stinky farmed fish. Try the real thing,” said Harry, almost challenging her.
She shrugged, and ordered the salmon, a salad and, remembering the promise to herself, a club soda rather than the wine.
“Did you supply the fish?” Andi asked Harry, heaving herself onto a bar stool.
“Nope,” he said, “that would be illegal.”
“Why?” Andi asked.
“Because I don’t have a commercial license anymore,” Harry replied.
“But you are still involved with the fishing industry, right?” Andi asked, thinking she might get some good information for her outstanding assignments.
Harry ignored her question, drained his glass, and set it on the bar.
“What do you want to know about fishing?” he asked.
“I’m a reporter. I report on all sides of the story.”
“That’s your job, is it? To write the truth?” A mocking note in his tone made Andi study his face for a second, wondering if he knew anything about her past.
“Yes. That’s my job,” she said evenly, deciding she was being paranoid. She was saved from further conversation as Walter arrived with her meal.
“Enjoy your salmon.” Harry got up to go just as Walter set the plate in front of Andi.
“That looks amazing,” Andi said. It really did.
“That’s the best way to have salmon,” Harry said as she took her first bite of the moist flakes of pink flesh.
“How?” Andi asked between mouthfuls.
“Poached.”
Both Walter and Harry laughed.
Andi, confused, asked, “What’s funny?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Harry said, still chuckling, and Andi realized that it was the first time in her few encounters with Harry that he had displayed any humour at all. It was short-lived.
“We’re meeting tomorrow at Hephzibah’s,” Harry said abruptly. “Be there early if you want your story. You’ll find out it’s not the fucking sea lions that need saving, it’s us. The fishermen are the only endangered species around here.”
He turned and walked away before Andi could answer.
As Harry left the Fat Chicken, two young men dressed in army fatigues, but sporting ponytails and nose piercings so that nobody could mistake them for military men, pushed past him when he swung open the door.
“What the fuck?” Harry said, loud enough for Walter to pay attention.
The men ignored Harry as he let the door swing shut behind him, obviously irritated. They laughed, and Andi watched them slide into a booth. She guessed from Harry’s reaction that they must be members of the so-called Black OPS protest group.
“Fuckin’ fisherman.”
That confirmed it. Andi couldn’t see them from the bar but heard clearly enough. She wondered how she could shuffle along the bar so she could listen in to their conversation without being noticed.
Walter took their order for two beers, and the two started talking in low tones.
Andi kept her back to the booth and carried on eating, straining to hear. She caught a couple of references to “Pierre” and “Mason”, and the word “march”, but Walter put an end to her eavesdropping. “How was the fish?”
“Really good,” Andi said, meaning it. “The salad too.”
“Another soda?” Walter picked up her empty glass.
Andi shook her head. “No thanks. My laundry is probably finished by now, and I’ve got work to do.”
“Jim got you hard at it, eh?” Walter asked. “I hear you were out at Fred and Sue’s place today. You doing a story on Mason and Sarah?”
The low murmur from the booth stopped. Andi guessed that the two men had heard Walter mention Mason.
She answered loudly enough for them to hear. “Yes. It’s a real mystery. I’d like to help those poor people find some answers about Sarah’s death. So they can finally have some peace, at least.”
“That’s good,” Walter nodded in approval and waved off Andi’s attempt to pay for her meal.
“It’s on the house. Your first poached salmon meal.” He winked at her.
Andi, still mystified, lingered over her soda water.
The two men finished their beer and left the bar. Andi scrolled through her phone and began tapping in a few notes about the meeting with Sue and Fred McIntosh.
“May I buy you a drink?” A man sat on the stool beside Andi.
“Thanks, but I’m . . . oh.” Andi looked up and saw Pierre Mason sitting beside her. He wasn’t smiling.
“Then perhaps I could take up a few minutes of your time?” he asked, gesturing at the booth behind them recently vacated by his colleagues. Andi nodded, guessing that after the two men overheard her mentioning Mason in connection with Sarah McIntosh, they had immediately reported back to Mason.
She was right.
“Andi — may I call you Andi?” Mason began after they were seated, and having waved off Walter, who hovered for a moment, probably displeased that Mason was there.
Andi tensed. Mason must have looked her up. Maybe he’d read her articles. She’d covered environmental protests before, but she couldn’t recall their paths crossing. S
he tried to keep her face expressionless, not wanting to let him know she was bothered. She nodded for Mason to continue.
“Andi, you probably know that I was falsely accused of being involved in the death of that poor girl,” Mason started.
“You mean Sarah McIntosh?” Andi interrupted, wishing that she had her phone set to voice record.
“I mean Sarah McIntosh, yes,” Mason confirmed. He had a slight French accent and a formal way of speaking that gave away his Quebec roots. He was neat — head shaved closely to disguise that he was going bald, his sweater unrumpled — and he sat upright. Again, Andi was reminded of someone in the military. He had an air of preciseness.
“The police cleared me at the time of any involvement whatsoever,” Mason continued. “Unfortunately, Jim Peters and his father continued to publish unfounded accusations, tarnishing my reputation.” He smiled unpleasantly and leaned forward. “I had to involve my lawyer back then, Andi, and I won’t hesitate to do so again.”
Andi didn’t move, not wanting Mason to think she was intimidated.
“I’m only interested in uncovering the truth for the McIntosh family,” she said.
“Ah, but that’s the problem, isn’t it, Andi?” Mason said quickly. “The reason you are here in this backwater is because of your . . . let’s say . . . unfortunate relationship with the truth, isn’t that so?”
Andi felt herself redden. Mason had done his homework, all right. She decided to let that go. “Mr Mason, you must have known that your arrival in Coffin Cove would attract attention from the locals, right? So why are you here? Surely not for a couple of dead sea lions?”
“I’m an environmental activist, Andi,” Mason replied sternly. “It’s what I do, what I’ve always done. Take action against poaching, overfishing, protect our wildlife, our oceans—”
“And you believe that the fishermen here are involved in illegal activities?” Andi asked. “They seem to think your Black OPS Group are unfairly harassing them.”
COFFIN COVE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 1) Page 6
