HELL'S HALF ACRE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 2) by JACKIE ELLIOTT (classic literature books .txt) 📗

“Just get in some samosas or something — appetizers, nothing fancy.”

“Samosas aren’t Greek,” Walter grumbled.

“Walter, please try to be enthusiastic, we need to increase sales, right? I’m not stupid. I see you avoiding picking up your phone and doing the accounts. How are the numbers anyway?”

“I have to go out.” Walter avoided his wife’s gaze and her question. He put the laptop back in its case, grabbed his cigarettes and headed towards the sunshine and distraction. Bruno followed him.

The Fat Chicken looked over the waterfront of Coffin Cove. The perfect location for a pub, for tourists and locals alike: fishing boats, commercial and sporties, were tied up at the docks, a two-minute walk from the pub, and a boardwalk stretched around the bay, with steps to the sandy part of the beach.

The Fat Chicken should have been rocking. But this was Coffin Cove, and even though the rest of Vancouver Island seemed to be thriving, it felt like this small town had been in a permanent recession for as long as Walter could remember.

Walter stopped and surveyed the building that had once held all his dreams for the future. At one time, he’d intended to knock out the back wall and install French doors leading to a shaded patio area. And upstairs, instead of the cramped apartment and storage rooms, he and Cheryl had planned a large conference facility. They would rent it out to smart young millennials and entrepreneurs, who would relocate to Coffin Cove, attracted by the cheap real estate and outdoor lifestyle.

Walter lit his cigarette and let the early sunshine warm his shoulders. The sun danced and sparkled off the ocean, but Walter could see only five fishing vessels moored there. There had been nine last year, and fifteen the year before that. Fishing was shitty, the forestry business was shitty and it had hit this little community hard. The two sawmills had cut back to one shift each, and the pulp mill had just shed another fifty employees.

Coffin Cove had relied on the resource industry for the entire 150 years of its existence, and there was nothing to replace it. So far, the millennials and entrepreneurs had avoided the tiny fishing town. And Walter didn’t blame them. But maybe the Heritage Festival would kick-start a new beginning.

Walter stubbed out his cigarette, half-smoked.

Don’t want cancer on top of everything else.

He walked down to the boardwalk, followed by Bruno. The dog settled himself under the little table at the front of Hephzibah’s café.

There were upsides to living in the back of beyond, Walter thought, as he took a steaming mug of freshly brewed coffee from Hephzibah herself. She handed him a warm muffin, winking.

“On the house. Us business owners need to look after each other!”

The big branded coffee emporiums and fast-food outlets had not bothered with Coffin Cove. Instead of paying ten bucks for exotic flavours and frothy toppings, it was still possible to get a cup of morning joe for under two dollars.

And a great view, Walter thought, as he sipped his coffee and bit into a Morning Glory breakfast muffin — one of Hephzibah’s specialities. On sunny mornings, sitting in a warm breeze and hearing the clang of the boats shifting in the swell of an incoming tide, Coffin Cove was idyllic, and Walter didn’t want to be anywhere else.

As he sipped his coffee, he felt a little better. Maybe he was overreacting? He and Cheryl had weathered financial hardships before, and they could do it again.

Walter looked around. There did seem to be more people than usual on the boardwalk. And wasn’t someone telling him just the other day, a new business was renovating one of the empty stores in the old strip mall? Maybe the new young mayor was living up to her promises after all.

The election last fall had been a surprise. Dennis Havers had been on the city council as mayor for as long as Walter could remember. Dennis was also his landlord. Thinking of him made Walter wince a little, as he remembered his unpaid rent. Still, Dennis hadn’t called in yet. There was a time when Dennis would stand at his door with his hand out, first thing in the morning on rent day. But Dennis was living through worse times than Walter. Last year his son Ricky had gone missing, and in the fall, to everyone’s amazement, Dennis lost the mayoral election.

Coffin Cove had their very first female mayor, Jade Thompson.

Walter and many of the regulars in the pub had laughed when Jade announced her candidacy. Men had always run Coffin Cove. It was a West Coast resource town, founded on mining and then forestry and fishing. Sure, they employed women at the fish plant back in the day and they worked in the grocery stores and whatnot, and some of them even ran little businesses selling trinkets, but mayor? The plaid-shirted men snorted in derision. “And she’ll never win by posting her face all over the internet. Nobody in Coffin Cove bothers with social media. She’ll never win.”

Walter remembered how Cheryl’s face had darkened when she slammed the men’s beer bottles in front of them and started furiously polishing glasses with her back to the bar.

“C’mon, honey, they don’t mean anything by it. You’ve got to admit, it’s unlikely she’ll win. But good for her, giving it a try, eh?”

That had made Cheryl angrier. She hadn’t spoken to him for the rest of the evening, leaving him to close up the bar on his own. The next day, she left early and was out for most of the morning. Walter had been relieved to see her walk back in the bar, her face lit up with her customary smile. His relief faded when Cheryl announced she was helping Jade Thompson with her campaign.

“There’s lots of us,” she’d said defiantly.