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

Vega nodded. “Of course.” He mentally kicked himself. He must be tired or overwhelmed. Usually, he’d have picked up on that immediately. Then he noticed something else.

“What’s that?” he asked the technician. He could see a piece of paper poking out from under Dennis’s inert arm.

“Looks like an envelope, sir.”

“A note? Can you look, please?” Vega asked.

“I’m not supposed to . . .” the technician started to say.

“I’m not asking to take it,” Vega snapped, “just look in the envelope and tell me what’s in there.”

The technician eased out the envelope. “Addressed to Joanna Campbell, sir. Just cash, I think . . . Oh, there is a note.” He read it aloud to Vega, who thanked him and told him to put it back exactly as he found it. They would photograph the study and the bedroom next.

“Terrible day, sir. First Nadine Dagg,” Diane Fowler said to Vega, appearing at his shoulder. She looked as stunned as he felt, Vega thought.

He nodded, “And now the Haverses.”

These killings must be connected, he thought. But two different methods? Damn it.

“Where’s the coroner?” he asked.

“On her way, sir. The house is sealed off, and I’ve got some officers coming from Nanaimo, they’ll be here shortly. How do you want to play this, sir?”

“I’ll speak to Sinclair, see if we can get another forensic team over here. If not, they’ll have to do double duty. Speak to the team leader, please. Get some uniforms to round up everyone who attended the belly dancing night, including Andi Silvers, and get their statements. And Sergeant? Bring in Lee Dagg. Make him wait at the detachment.”

“Does he know his wife is dead, sir?”

“That’s what I’d like to know, Sergeant. As I see it, Ricky Havers was found on his or his family’s property, and Nadine here was supposedly having an affair with Dennis Havers. That’s a connection I need to follow up.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?” Fowler inquired.

“Yes. Get officers knocking on doors. I know this place is away from the town centre, but usually you can’t fart around here without someone knowing. Someone must have seen or heard something. I don’t want the community to panic, but if we can’t find a connection between these victims soon, we’ll have to assume we have a crazed gunman killing randomly in Coffin Cove.”

“Not just a gunman, sir,” Diane Fowler said. “Someone who knows how to use a knife.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Doug South stood in the doorway of his workshop. It had been a good morning, all things considered. He lit a cigarette and inhaled, letting his body cool down after working up a sweat underneath the car hoist.

Terri hated the smell of cigarettes and never let him smoke in the house. It was OK. He smiled. Terri and her throw cushions and “show towels” in the downstairs cloakroom. How many times had he repainted the interior of the house? He couldn’t remember and he didn’t care. He’d paint it a thousand times more for her if she asked him to. Terri had moved in when they got married and looked after his mother. She had never complained, never asked to move, even after Ma died. So small sacrifices like smoking outside and peeling off his oily clothes before he went in the house were fine by him.

He’d stopped smoking a pack a day years ago when Ma got cancer. Now, it was an occasional sneaky reward after a particularly productive day. And today was just that. The old Mustang was coming along. When he’d started, he’d had nothing but the rusted-out chassis. After years of sourcing parts from collectors and working on it between fixing customers’ vehicles, it was nearly complete. Just the bodywork left now. Coats of glossy red paint, the exact shade of the original, and it would be ready to take Terri for their first ride.

It had been a labour of love. That’s what he told himself, anyway. In solitary moments, leaning against the workshop door and looking through the trees to the dark shadow of Whilley’s old net shed, he acknowledged this wasn’t really about love. It was about guilt.

That’s what he’d felt the day before when he found Jim Peters and that other reporter talking to his wife. When that woman looked at him, he felt sure she knew exactly how he was feeling. He’d been open and truthful about everything — why shouldn’t he? He had nothing to hide. He hadn’t been involved in that drug racket. He’d tried to help Art. He’d tried to do what his mother asked.

When he let himself, Doug could still remember every detail of that last night. The finale.

Something was going to happen, he’d felt it for weeks. Something bad. It had gotten wild and dangerous over at Art’s place. More than partying, more than bikes racing up and down the trail and idiots performing burnouts and smashing beer bottles. There had been a tension in the air, a palpable threat. Doug’s heart was heavy. They’d just buried his mother. Terri and he were wandering aimlessly around the house, unable to settle. Just as they were ready to go to bed, they heard a huge explosion, a split second before they felt the vibration. The force was powerful enough to rattle the windows.

Doug stood up.

Terri said, “Don’t go, Doug.”

He knew he had to. He’d promised his mother. She’d clasped his large hands with her fragile fingers, and with great effort lifted her head off the pillow.

“Look after Art,” she’d whispered. “He has no one. Not like you. You have Terri.” And she sank back, exhausted from the effort.

Doug had promised.

When he neared Whilley’s place, it was chaos. Bikers were scrambling to leave, their heavy machines spinning their wheels in the dirt.

Like scattering rats, he thought. The heat hit him as he reached the gate. White-hot