HELL'S HALF ACRE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 2), JACKIE ELLIOTT [best ereader for graphic novels .TXT] 📗

In their excitement, the three hunters hadn’t noticed where they were. They were in a clearing. Tall fir trees rustled above them. The ground was spongy with moss, and they were surrounded with mounds of old stones, half-covered with brambles, circling them like forest monsters guarding their lair.

“Where are we?” the smallest boy repeated, his voice rising in panic. “I don’t know this place.”

The cackling stopped.

“There . . . it’s nothing,” the oldest boy said, taking charge again. “We just took a wrong turn. The beach must be down there.” He pointed to a trail leading out of the clearing.

“Come on, don’t be scared. She can’t have followed us. She was too fat.”

That made them all giggle, the tension broken.

Then they heard a different noise. Starting softly at first, then louder, a baby was crying.

Without another word, the three took off running down the trail and further away from the hunt.

Chapter Two

Weak sunlight streamed in from the doorway. Walter propped the heavy wooden door open with an empty beer crate.

“Sunlight is the best disinfectant,” he muttered out loud.

Even after decades of running the Fat Chicken pub, Walter had never got used to the morning-after yeasty stench of beer splashes on the floor and drips on every table. As the morning sun illuminated the inside, a wall of dust hanging in the stale air became visible, as well as the sticky rings and smudges on the bar top. The light refracted off the glass optics above the bar, making Walter squint as he walked back to his stool and attempted to focus on his laptop screen. He swore softly to himself, moving the screen back and forth. Not that he wanted to see the numbers.

He wanted a drink.

Putting off his bookkeeping for another day was a bad move. But the idea of pouring a couple of inches of amber liquid over a few ice cubes and allowing the pleasant buzz to push away any nagging thoughts of bills and debt — well, that was indeed an inviting idea.

He sighed, adjusted his seat again so the sunshine was no longer obstructing his view and continued to input the totals from the pile of stained paperwork he had pulled out from behind the cash register.

How long had it been since he last did this? Can’t have been three months, surely?

But the invoices went back to April. Walter checked the date and saw it was 7 June. That would explain the increased number of calls to his cell phone from 1-800 numbers. Collection agencies. And the rent was due. Past due.

Walter sighed again.

Sales were down. Costs were up. Profits had been dwindling for the past five years — now they were non-existent. Walter had no savings left. He gazed around the pub. It hadn’t changed in years. The walls and ceiling were still yellow, even though smoking was banned these days. The booth seats were faded and torn in places. There was no money in the budget for renovations, not even a flat-screen TV to attract a crowd for Sunday afternoon football or the Stanley Cup play-offs.

Walter had been attending the recent planning meetings. As much as he welcomed a new waterfront development and investments in tourist attractions, he wondered how the Fat Chicken would fare against a smart new bistro or wine bar. Cheryl was an excellent cook and their pub food was popular, but they’d had no competition except the tiny pizza place, and they still couldn’t make it work. He’d voiced his concerns to Cheryl. Naturally optimistic, she’d pointed out that if there were more visitors to Coffin Cove, business was bound to improve.

“A rising tide lifts all ships,” she’d said and kissed him.

“I hope we can last until then,” Walter muttered under his breath as he added up the last of the receipts and stared down at the total. In the red again. As he wondered how he was going to break it to Cheryl, he heard her footsteps clicking down the hallway from the kitchen. Bruno, their dog, stirred from his sleep and struggled to his feet. He whined and wagged his tail as she bent down to scratch his ears.

“How’s the bean-counting going?” she inquired. Cheryl always smiled. She had one of those upturned mouths that lent itself to smiling and a sunny disposition that usually lightened Walter’s naturally dour manner.

“Oh, fine,” he said, snapping the laptop shut. I’ll tell her later, he promised himself, when she’s not busy. Once again, he rationalized away the opportunity to confess to his wife that his dream, the business he had convinced her would make up for not having the family they had both wanted, was just about over.

“Just about,” he muttered. “But not today.”

“Remember that Nadine is coming with the dance troop this evening for a rehearsal.” Cheryl hadn’t heard his last remark, and she stood in front of him, hand on hip, looking amused at the pained expression on Walter’s face. “Come on, how can it hurt? Maybe we’ll get a few new customers, something different!”

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,