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

shaking. He needed a drink. But first he needed to get this job done. He felt a small frisson of pride.
He had negotiated well, he thought. People underestimated him all the time. He smirked to himself. They have no idea. He had been firm — half up front, he insisted, and half when the job was completed to the client’s satisfaction. And satisfaction was guaranteed. Guaranteed. Nobody better suited to this job than himself.
He puffed up his chest a little, a half-smile on his face as he played out the fantasy of his “negotiations” in his mind.
A dog barking in the distance brought him back to the present. He stubbed out his cigarette and focused his mind on the task ahead.
The boat was in the usual position. The man had watched its owner expertly dock the boat that afternoon. He had tied up and worked around the deck before disappearing into the galley for an hour or two.
Probably going for a nap, he thought.
As the afternoon light faded, the man watched the boat owner emerge once more onto the deck, lock the galley door, and then hop out of the boat and head up the dock towards the town.
The man had been waiting. The early spring evenings were getting lighter, so he had to wait for the sweet spot — dark enough for him to move around unobserved, but not too late to be disturbed by the returning boat owner.
Now. He moved quickly along the dock. At low tide the metal walkway was steep and hard to navigate in the dark, so the man was relieved for the high tide.
When he reached the boat, he took one last look around before hopping over the stern onto the deck. He hadn’t been able to see if the owner had left his keys, but it was a well-known fact: go onto any boat and you’ll find the keys an arm’s length from the galley door.
He stood in front of the locked galley door and stretched up to feel along the narrow ledge at the top. Nothing. He then stretched his arms out wide, feeling in the dark for small spaces that would conceal keys.
But still nothing. The man fumbled around again, panic rising. Where would they be?
Relax and think.
The boat owner was taller. Of course! The man rose as high as he could on tiptoes and stretched up again. Sure enough, his fingers found a small gap behind a light above the galley door and a small bunch of keys on a chain.
He laughed to himself with relief and then delight as he saw that there was a tiny bronze key, a well-worn door key, and what looked like ignition keys.
Fucking idiot, the man almost laughed. This would be easy now.
The galley door popped open, and he stuffed the keys in his pocket. He’d need those again later. The man stood for a second, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was cloudy, with no moonlight to help him, but he didn’t mind.
He got to work quickly. He knew that galleys had a multitude of storage areas tucked away, making the best use of small spaces. He ignored the small cupboards and instead pulled up the cushions behind the galley table and opened the long narrow cupboards above the windows. Nothing. He eased himself into the stateroom in the boat’s bow and looked around. An open laptop was on the bunk, emitting a low blue light which illuminated the space. On reflex he reached out to grab the laptop, but snatched his hand back, remembering the words from his client: Touch nothing. Take nothing. Just get the gun. Deviate from these instructions and not getting paid will be the least of your worries.
The man slid his hands under the mattress on the bunk, but no luck there.
He thought for a moment, then exited the state room, careful not to disturb anything, and stood once more in the galley.
He looked at the galley table and realized that it doubled as a chart table. He reached underneath and eased out a long drawer. There was a tiny lock in the centre, and he pulled out the keychain and found the small bronze key. The drawer opened, and he grinned. A .22 calibre rifle and a box of bullets.
He grabbed the gun but left the box.
Didn’t want to drop them all over the place, and his client hadn’t said anything about bullets.
Estimating that he’d been in the boat over five minutes, he realized he needed to leave. He re-locked the drawer, pushed it back under the table with the charts and looked around one last time to make sure he hadn’t left any cupboard doors open or cushions out of place.
Once out on the deck, the man put the gun down beside him and then stretched up again to replace the keys in the cubbyhole where he found them.
Then he was out of the boat carrying the rifle in one hand, scurrying up the dock as quiet as a rat, finally merging into the shadows.

Chapter Two
Harry Brown brewed some coffee in the galley just as the pale sun edged out of the ocean, throwing its first rays across the glassy surface of the morning tide. The percolator spluttered steaming hot water through freshly ground beans, the same as it had done for the last thirty years, even when the boat was bucking and thrashing. The smell of fresh coffee and the morning ocean always revived Harry, even those mornings when he had seen the sun come up and go down several times without a hint of sleep in between.
Tied to the Coffin Cove Government Dock, Harry normally drank his first cup of the day sitting in a faded canvas chair placed on the stern of his pride and joy — a sixty-foot aluminium purse-seiner, the