COFFIN COVE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 1), JACKIE ELLIOTT [most recommended books txt] 📗

“One minute.” The man squinted at his screen, and then typed again for a few seconds.

“There. OK. Andi, is it?” He gestured to a seat in front of his desk.

“Hi, yes, sorry, I’m a few minutes late . . .” Andi sat in the sagging chair opposite the man she assumed was Jim Peters.

“Yes, yes, not a problem, we are hard to find. So, tell me about yourself and your work.” The man leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. Andi noticed that his hands were bony and wrinkled, an elderly man’s hands. But as he interrupted her, and questioned and assessed her with intense blue eyes, Andi realized that whatever his age, this man’s intellect and curiosity made him a match for any journalist she had ever worked with before. And she realized something else. She really wanted this job.

After an hour of probing questions, Jim Peters got up from behind the desk and perched in front of Andi.

“I know what happened. There’s no excuse for what you did. I won’t tolerate any corner-cutting. This is a small community. We report on the things that matter to the people who live here, and we are only concerned with the facts and truth, got it?”

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