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

That had been months ago. Ricky had disappeared. Kevin had watched Dennis and Sandra and then police cars come and go. He never saw the boss again. Maybe Ricky had been spirited away to another patch? The new psychedelic had made it to the streets of Nanaimo. Kevin asked around, but nobody had seen Ricky. He wasn’t one of the knights in Nanaimo, at least.

Kevin kept his head down, dealing in this and that, stealing and selling, and waiting in his tiny hideaway for word from Ricky.

Nothing. But Kevin knew he was being watched. The red light blinked on and off. It had to mean something.

Chapter Nineteen

Jim’s truck trundled up the rutted logging road to Clara Bell’s home. She lived in a small trailer, a good twenty minutes beyond old Ed Brown, Harry’s father. As Jim passed, he raised his hand in greeting to Ed, who was sitting on his porch. It was a little after ten in the morning, but Jim suspected Ed would already be sipping his second beer.

Poor Harry, Jim thought. He took the brunt of looking after his father. Not that he owed Ed anything. It was his vicious drunken temper that drove Greta, his wife, to take Hephzibah and live on Hope Island, leaving Harry behind. A strange decision, Jim thought. Harry rarely talked about his childhood. He’d been married once and had a grown-up daughter, but he was a bit of a loner.

Harry has an eye for Andi, Jim thought. But Andi, did she have feelings for Inspector Vega? There was certainly a spark between those two. It might be a rocky road, given their chosen professions, though. In fact, Vega would be cursing Andi right about now. Jim smiled to himself. He supported Andi and her article, even though she hadn’t held back. He wondered how it would affect her relationship with Vega. But that was by the by. For decades now, the RCMP had paid lip service to Coffin Cove, choosing to let Charlie Rollins mark time until his retirement. Things needed to change around here.

Charlie had walked the other way when he saw Jim earlier that morning. Jim had let him go. For now, he thought, only for now. He was inclined to believe Charlie was guilty of laziness and incompetence rather than conspiring with Dennis Havers. Still, Charlie’s failings might have cost Ricky his life. They were right to publish the article, even if it ruffled a few feathers, Jim decided. Let it all play out.

Jim laughed out loud. Why was he worrying? Andi could take it. Last night at the office, she looked just like the old Andi, ready for battle.

The logging road climbed and narrowed. On either side, tall firs shaded the trail. Clara Bell had lived out here alone as long as Jim could remember. He couldn’t remember a spouse or siblings, although there was talk about a brother who’d left to look for gold up in the Yukon.

The road swerved abruptly to the right, up to Clara’s home. Jim tried to avoid the bigger potholes.

“What the hell . . . ?” Jim slammed on his brakes as a horse appeared in front of him. A cloud of dust obscured his view, and when it cleared, he saw that the horse hadn’t moved a muscle. Jim got out of his truck and slammed the door. What was wrong with the damn animal? He heard laughing and saw Clara Bell standing with her hand on her hip.

Jim thought Clara looked like a pioneer woman in an old sepia photograph from the 1800s, with her shock of white hair and long dark skirt.

“Fools everyone, does my Trigger,” she called out. “Better than a guard dog.”

Jim laughed too. “Where did you get this, Clara?” He walked over to the horse, a life-size plastic model, complete with real horsehair for a mane and tail.

“Oh, I got it at one of those auctions,” Clara said, waving her hand. “Looks real, don’t it?”

“It does. How are you, Clara? Got over your shock?” Jim walked towards the old woman, thinking she’d hardly changed all the time he’d known her. Even thirty years ago, her hair had been white and wild, spilling over her shoulders. Her face was weather-beaten but smooth. It was hard to say how old she was. Eighty? Ninety? It was possible.

She’d always been intense, fixing you with those dark watchful eyes as she listened to what you had to say. People in town said she was fierce, and when she was curator of the museum, children had been afraid of her. But get close to Clara Bell, do her a kindness, and she’d be a friend for life. A long time ago, Jim’s father helped Clara, and every so often, she’d dropped off deer meat or a trinket from her collection, as thanks. Clara still hunted for her meat. She was an excellent shot, as many a poacher found out if they got too near to her treasures.

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