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

on the concrete slope. No, it was the putrid stench of decomposition coming from these . . . dead animals? Two officials in matching yellow rain gear were taking pictures and examining the mounds. Someone had cordoned off the entrance to the boat ramp with tape so the gathering crowd couldn’t get any nearer. Not that anyone would want to, surely. The odour was thick — a mixture of dead fish and rotten eggs. It wafted like an invisible curtain in the slight breeze off the ocean and invaded Andi’s nostrils and clung to her hair. She clamped her mouth shut and walked abruptly away from Jim, desperate not to vomit in front of him.

Jim followed her. He took her arm and steered her to the far end of the parking lot.

“It’s better here,” he said. “Is it the tequila or the stink?”

Andi looked at him. She couldn’t remember him being in the pub last night.

“Everybody knows everybody’s business in this small town,” Jim answered her unspoken question.

Was that a hint of amusement on his face? She struggled to control her nausea.

“That’s a body.” She tried to focus on the reason she was here.

“Well, technically there are two bodies,” Jim stated. “Two sea lions. No human bodies,” he added. “Sorry about that.”

Slightly irritated at Jim’s tone, and because he had correctly noted her disappointment, she said, “So what’s the story here? And why the camera crew?”

“It’s a federal crime to kill sea lions. And these aren’t the first to appear on the beach or the boat ramp. They were shot,” Jim added.

“Why?” Andi was mystified and shocked. “Why would anyone want to hurt them?”

“Sea lions have multiplied in the last few years. They eat salmon. Lots and lots of salmon. The fishermen believe they’ll wipe out the commercial fishery . . . eventually. So to fishermen, they are a pest. Plus, they’re filthy and they’re wrecking the breakwater.”

“Can’t they be culled?” Andi asked, her flip-flopping stomach forgotten for a moment.

“No, says the DFO . . . Department of Fisheries and Oceans,” Jim corrected himself for Andi’s benefit. “Those two are DFO officers.” He gestured at the two men probing the dead sea lions, apparently unaffected by the smell.

“They say the science doesn’t support it. But the fishermen say they’re being influenced by those guys.”

Jim gestured at a group of onlookers who had edged towards the boat ramp, flashing camera phones and jostling to get a better view of the bloated corpses.

Andi noticed that most were dressed all in black and wore bandanas across their mouths. First, she thought they were merely trying to avoid the stench. But there was tension in the air as the group, in one purposeful move, pushed forward and swarmed around the entrance of the ramp, blocking the exit of the officials who were still examining the dead sea lions. The fishermen and other local workers, in their own uniform of grey woollen Stanfields and overalls, had backed away.

It felt like a standoff, Andi thought. The sudden mood change from curiosity to hostility, the division of the crowd into two factions — she had seen and felt this before. A gaggle of seemingly unconnected people, tension sparked by a small random act, a flash of anger that erupts and engulfs everyone, until a crowd becomes a mob.

“Protesters,” she said to Jim. “Which organization?”

“The Ocean Protection Society,” Jim replied. “Commonly known as Black OPS. This has been building all week. The Coast Guard and DFO have been getting calls since herring season opened, about fishermen who aren’t wearing lifejackets or don’t have safety equipment on board — minor infractions, but they all have to be investigated, so some fishermen are tied to dock instead of fishing. They’re not happy about it. And this morning, there was an anonymous tip-off that a fisherman was shooting at sea lions.”

Andi already had the lens cap off her camera and was focusing in on the protestors. They all wore black from head to foot. Commando-style jackets, baseball caps pulled as far down as they would go, and the bandanas serving as face masks made it hard to distinguish gender, let alone identity. All save one figure who stood slightly apart. A slightly built man, with a military-style buzz cut and the posture to match, took a slow look around the parking lot, as if surveying an audience.

Slowly and deliberately he folded his arms and shouted something that Andi couldn’t quite hear. Like an army of foot soldiers obeying a sergeant, the Black OPS group parted and let the DFO officials leave the boat ramp. Then, with the arrogance and self-assuredness of a movie star on a red carpet, he gestured at the local TV crew.

“He’s the story,” Jim continued, as a TV reporter and cameraman rushed forward and held a microphone under the man’s nose.

“Who is he?” Andi asked. “Why are the DFO listening to him more than the fishermen?” She swung her camera over her shoulder, grabbed her phone, and started to move, now understanding that there was far more to this story than two dead sea lions.

“Shouldn’t we be getting an interview?” She looked over her shoulder and saw that Jim hadn’t moved. He was still standing in the rain, quietly observing the man giving an animated interview surrounded by his black-garbed disciples.

The locals had dispersed, drifting back to their boats.

“No, it’s OK,” he said. “You won’t get any more than a one-sided rant out of him. And he’ll never talk to a reporter from the Gazette, anyway.”

Andi persisted. “We’re supposed to be reporting the news, right? His ‘rant’ is news, even if we — or you — don’t agree with it.”

Jim stared at Andi. To her annoyance, he spoke slowly, as if to a small child. “You look like you could do with a coffee. Let’s go to Hephzibah’s and I’ll tell you why this is the biggest story