COFFIN COVE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 1)

a kid?” he asked. He was matter-of-fact, not ranting, but he looked directly at her and held her gaze, waiting for a response.
“Harry—” Hephzibah interrupted them with coffee refills — “leave the girl alone. She wasn’t here, she doesn’t know what it was like.”
Andi realized why Harry seemed familiar. He and Hephzibah could have been twins — except that he was built powerfully and she was tall and graceful, like a dancer. And Harry was clearly older — in his fifties, Andi estimated.
“My big brother,” Hephzibah confirmed. “He’s quite direct,” she added unnecessarily.
“So, what was it like?” Andi asked. “Was there evidence that the protestors — and Mason — were involved? And if so, what is he doing here now?”
“He’s getting paid.” Jim answered the last part of Andi’s question first. “And no, there was no direct evidence. We couldn’t link him to the American company that bought out McIntosh. We found out he was recruiting and paying protestors. Every Wednesday, they would all disappear. Turns out that Mason was bussing them back to Victoria, so they could pick up their welfare cheque. The police questioned him but couldn’t find any link to Sarah. Then they received a tip-off that Sarah and Mason were seen together just before she vanished. There was still no evidence that he had anything to do with her disappearance or murder, but there were no other leads. Then the rumour mill took over. Maybe Mason seduced Sarah and it all went wrong — that kind of thing. It was a bad time.”
“And he’s back in Coffin Cove,” Andi said. “Doesn’t seem like something a guilty man would do, right?”
“He’s an arrogant prick,” Harry grunted. “Doesn’t mean anything.”
“So why would he get involved in a sea lion shooting?” Andi asked, feeling confused.
“It’s not just the sea lions. His Black OPS have been phoning in minor safety issues and infractions, meaning that some fishermen are tied to the dock for a day or so, rather than fishing.”
“OK, I get that,” Andi said. “But who is he working for, and why do they want to disrupt your fishing?” She was getting impatient.
“Don’t know,” said Harry. “Could be the Americans. They’re always whining.”
“Fish farms?” Jim suggested.
“Could be them too.” Harry shrugged.
“Fish farms?” Andi asked.
“Great big pens in the ocean where they breed mutant fish and sell them to people who don’t know better,” Harry answered sarcastically.
“I know what fish farms are, thanks,” Andi replied, thinking it was a bit rich of Harry to be accusing anyone else of being an arrogant prick. “I would have thought eco-terrorists would be more concerned about fish farms than a couple of sea lions being shot.”
Harry shrugged again. “Well, you guys are the investigators,” he said, standing up. “I’m going to see Joe tomorrow morning. It’s best he knows about Mason being back in town from a friend, not town gossip.”
“Joe still lives in town?” Andi asked, surprised again.
“Where would he go?” Harry responded. “All his friends and family are here.”
“Good idea.” Jim got up too. “Let me know how he is.” He turned to Andi. “Let’s talk about this in the office tomorrow, it’s getting late.”
The three of them said their goodbyes to Hephzibah, who was waiting to close up, and they stood for a minute in the dusk outside the café.
Harry looked at Andi. “You’re staying at the Fat Chicken?” For a moment, Andi thought he was offering to walk her home.
“Yes, but—”
“Thought so. Saw you in the bar last night.” Harry walked away, leaving his disapproval hanging in the air.
“Told you,” Jim said to Andi. “Everyone knows everyone else’s business around here.”
Didn’t help Sarah, did it? Andi nearly said. But she thought better of it and kept her mouth shut.

Chapter Six
Joe carefully moved his ashtray, a packet of smokes and stained coffee cup so they lined up on the rusty metal fold-up table, next to his chair on his deck. He sat in his faded armchair, facing the view of Coffin Cove from high on this vantage point, as he did every day.
Anyone observing him — and there were few people who came near him these days — would see a near-motionless man, gazing into the distance, only moving to sip coffee or rye, light a cigarette, smoke it and stub it out. He smoked a pack a day, drank half a bottle of whiskey, ate a sandwich or two (only to stop Tara, his wife, from nagging him) and maintained the same robotic schedule every day. Up early (he only slept a couple of hours every night), straight to his chair in the same spot, wait out the daylight hours and then back to bed.
It was an existence. Joe knew that Tara stayed out of a sense of duty. Maybe pity? He wished she wouldn’t. It was an extra layer of guilt that he didn’t need.
Although he was physically deteriorating — his goal was to hasten his death — his mind would not stop. He could not turn off the constant stream of consciousness, a daily playback of moments and scenes from his life.
He was going mad, but the madness was safe.
One night he was shaken awake by Tara and found that he was sitting on the side of his bed.
“You were driving the tractor in your sleep!” she told him in amazement. “Operating the bucket and steering and everything.”
He nodded miserably, sad that she had woken him. In his half-sleeping dream state, he was back forty years ago when he first purchased this property. Before . . . everything else.
Prime real estate, he told everyone proudly back then, when he paid cash for these three acres on top of a hill.
It took two years to pound in a driveway through all the rock and drill two wells before blasting and excavating to pour a