COFFIN COVE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 1) by JACKIE ELLIOTT (tharntype novel english .txt) 📗

“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