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

foundation. Joseph did much of the work himself, operating the heavy machinery far into the night, pouring cement, framing, nailing, roofing, building his vision with his own hands. Nobody but Joseph had seen the potential in this rocky outcrop on top of the cliff. He was used to being underestimated. Nobody had seen the potential in Joseph either. A logger’s son who wanted more than a life living paycheque to paycheque and getting drunk Friday through to Monday in the Timberlands Pub.
So he paid attention. He worked longer hours, turning up earlier than anyone in the morning, clear-headed and ready for work. At first, the old-timers treated him like any other greenhorn. His first day, they teamed him up with a wiry old goat of a logger. Unwashed and reeking of stale booze, he grabbed armfuls of equipment, taking an eighty-pound haulback block for gathering up the logging cables himself, and handing Joe the axe, cable strap and “Molly Hogan”, a small piece of cable used for joining logging lines. The old guy eyed him, a cigarette hanging out one side of his mouth.
“Up there,” he gestured to a vertical climb up the side of the mountain. Joe considered himself in good shape. He followed the old guy for about five minutes before he was gasping for breath. The old man stopped and grabbed the strap from Joe and added it to his load. Ten minutes later and Joe’s lungs were burning as he struggled to keep up. The old guy hummed tunelessly as he scrambled over logs, looking back occasionally to check on Joseph. Just once he waited for Joe to reach him. Bent over double and wheezing, Joe stopped for a moment, only to find that he was choking on a pungent whiskey fart that the old man had timed perfectly. By the time they reached the top, Joe was carrying nothing except the Molly Hogan.
It took him six weeks to match the old logger stride for stride. After that he was part of the crew. He never missed a day, was never late and never had a hangover. He took every training course and learned everything he could about all the equipment.
Six years later he had enough money to apply for a timber claim. He didn’t take a paycheque for a year. Three more years and McIntosh Logging was a going concern.
Joe let his memories wander back over the years, recalling each detail, fitting the pieces of his life together, as if watching a documentary in his mind.
There he was, sweating in the excavator, wiping dust out of his eyes.
There he was, on his deck for the first time, laughing in delight at the view of the ocean.
There he was, with Sue, cuddling in bed, watching the sunrise on their first morning as a married couple.
There he was, holding Sarah for the first time, gazing in wonder at the tiny, bloody, screaming infant.
There he was, chasing Sarah around the lawn, hearing her squeal. Daddy, Daddy!
There he was, with Sarah, grabbing her shoulder, angry at being disobeyed.
He rarely allowed the movie in his head to play any longer. He knew what happened next. He willed himself to hold his thoughts at the edge of the abyss, knowing that the following scenes of chaos and confusion would drag him down into a pit where he flailed in the darkness, out of control in grief and despair . . . If only he had forced her to stay home.
Instead, he sat here every day, clinging on to self-control, barely noticing Tara taking away his coffee mug and replacing it with his glass and bottle of rye, sometimes eating the sandwich she left, sometimes not. Just waiting. Waiting for his last breath, hoping that as the alcohol numbed his thoughts, he would black out for the last time and his movie would finally have an ending.
People didn’t visit anymore. He was OK with that, because he couldn’t raise the energy to speak. He couldn’t think of what to say. He didn’t care about their lives, didn’t care about the town gossip, didn’t care about anything, and had stopped listening even to Tara. In the early days, she had urged him to go back to work, to involve himself in the community. He didn’t refuse. He just got up every morning and sat here as the daylight hours ticked by, finally stumbling to bed, another day of existence under his belt.
This morning, as Joe lit this third cigarette, he heard a truck groan and creak along his gravel drive, which was pockmarked with crevices and ditches filled with rivulets of muddy water from the continual rain.
He waited without interest until the truck appeared in the driveway and came to a stop.
* * *
Harry noted the decay and disrepair the McIntosh home had fallen into since his last visit. Which, he realized, was over a year ago. In the early days after Sarah’s death, Harry brought his father, Ed, to sit with his grieving friend. But Ed had struggled to connect with Joe and asked Harry not to bring him anymore.
“What should I say to him?” Ed asked. “What should I talk about? My son and daughter? Who are still alive while his kid is dead?” He shook his head. “I’m making it worse.”
Harry had to agree. Ed might be a selfish sonofabitch, Harry thought, but he had a point.
Gradually, everyone drifted away from Joe. The tragedy faded from the collective minds of the community, to be jolted back to the forefront only when Joe made a rare appearance in town or the Gazette ran an anniversary piece about Sarah, asking again for any new information that might solve her murder.
Harry didn’t want to be here.
He sat for a moment, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, figuring out what to say to Joe. He silently cursed Mason for coming back.
Why was