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

for the Gazette in twenty years. Looks like you arrived in Coffin Cove at exactly the right time.”

Chapter Five
“Morning Glory,” Hephzibah declared, as she put a plate with two muffins in front of Jim and Andi. “Coffee?”
Andi nodded. Her fried egg sandwich was a distant memory and her head was throbbing again. As she waited for her coffee, she checked her phone again. Nothing from Gavin, but she saw Jim had left three messages for her that morning. How embarrassing. She’d nearly missed all the action at the dock. She had to do better if she was going to hang on to this job.
The late afternoon sun had lost all warmth. It had started to rain. Andi and Jim had loitered at the dock until the crowd slowly dispersed. Fishermen faded back to their boats, some of them nodding to Jim but not wanting to speak. At least, not on the record. Andi guessed that the fishermen did not want to be cornered by the official examining the dead sea lions. The protestors had also melted away, now that they had achieved their aim — attention from the media. Andi had covered protests before and knew how it worked.
Apart from Jim and Andi, Hephzibah’s café was empty. The only noise came from Hephzibah herself, chinking cups and saucers as she emptied her ancient dishwasher. Clouds of steam from the hot water misted up the windows that looked over the bay.
Hephzibah enjoyed almost exclusive control over the coffee trade in Coffin Cove. The big chain stores, if they had even heard of Coffin Cove, had not bothered to expand their corporate tentacles into the little town, sensing perhaps that it would be hard to coax customers away from Hephzibah’s ramshackle café. She was not a rich woman, despite her lack of competition. Coffee was cheap — free for many inhabitants, if they were financially pressured, or even if they were having a bad day. Other customers were often forced to wait while Hephzibah doled out free hugs and motherly advice.
Andi had found Hephzibah on the day she arrived in Coffin Cove with her suitcase and all her belongings stuffed into her car. Jim had arranged her tiny apartment above the Fat Chicken, and after dumping all her stuff, she went in search of a decent cup of coffee. She found a surprisingly good brew and barely missed the array of options and additions on offer at the sleek branded coffee emporiums she frequented in the city. Over the next weeks, Andi found that a tiny table squeezed in by the café window was where she liked to write. Jim had given her a desk at the Gazette office, but the dingy surroundings reminded her too much of her apartment. Depressing. So Andi escaped with her laptop to the café, avoiding Jim’s curt comments about her hung-over appearance, and attempted to throw herself into the few “starter assignments” he’d given her. Every day she promised herself she would drink less. She planned to start a blog, or that novel she had always said she would write. But most days she found herself nursing a throbbing headache and hastily writing enough to avoid more disapproving looks from her boss. Working had always kept Andi’s mind occupied, but still she found her thoughts wandering back to Gavin. At least the chatter and hum of the café kept her loneliness at bay. Not only that: Andi was drawn to the owner of the café, a tall angular woman who seemed comfortable in her own skin. Hephzibah was single and about the same age as Andi, but she had the confident aura of an older woman who had her life in order. Andi envied that. Hephzibah appeared to know everyone and everything that was going on in Coffin Cove. None of her gossip was malicious, and Andi recognized a golden source of information when she saw one.
Andi and Jim settled into the comfy armchairs by the woodstove at the back of the café. The days were getting warmer, hinting at spring, but Hephzibah lit the stove anyway as marine air often rolled in from the Pacific Ocean, enveloping the dips and crevices and valleys along the coast, leaving continuous moisture hanging in the air.
“Sorry again for missing your calls.” Andi coughed awkwardly. “I, uh, must have left my phone off.”
Jim shrugged. In the short time that she had known Jim, Andi had discovered he seldom wasted his breath on small talk. She changed tack. “So what’s the deal? Who’s the main guy and what’s the story?”
“Pierre Mason,” Jim answered. “Originally from Quebec, likes to be known as an eco-terrorist,” he snorted. “Fired, it’s believed, from Greenpeace back in the early nineties. They were apparently tired of getting lawsuits following Mason’s dangerous stunts, which almost always involved damaging property.” Jim hesitated. “But not before he raised a significant amount of cash from his own brand of publicity.”
“Sometimes those kind of shock tactics are effective,” Andi said. “To get media coverage for their cause.”
Jim shrugged. “I suppose. But Pierre Mason is known to be violent. Well . . .” He took a gulp of his coffee and seemed to weigh up his words. “He’s not directly violent. But he’s not above inciting the odd riot, as you saw today. He’s charismatic, and impressionable kids hang off his every word.”
Andi nodded. She’d seen how his Black OPS had swarmed on his command.
“After Greenpeace,” Jim carried on, “Mason freelanced for a bit. Kind of like an environmental mercenary — he’d organize protests, stunts, pickets, that sort of thing, paid for by whatever organization needed his expertise. That’s how he ended up in Coffin Cove.”
“To protest against the fishing industry?”
“No,” Jim said, “the War in the Woods.”
Andi shook her head.
“Back in the nineties, environmentalists blockaded forestry operations, protesting clear-cutting — that’s felling every tree in one area at a time,” he added.
Andi nodded, not wanting