COFFIN COVE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 1) by JACKIE ELLIOTT (books for new readers .TXT) 📕

blast the team for a dirty, disorganized work area. He hated clutter. But they had all been working long hours in cramped conditions, so for once, he was letting it slide.

He decided to go back to his motel room and work there for a few hours. He needed to focus. His colleague from the Cold Case Division of IHIT had sent over the files for the Sarah McIntosh homicide. Vega had only found enough time to scan them quickly, and he wanted to read them thoroughly. He also had a pile of research on the victim, Pierre Mason. He had been a controversial figure, especially in Coffin Cove. Vega had promised Superintendent Sinclair to keep an open mind, but his gut was telling him that somehow the two cases were connected. Vega didn’t believe in coincidences. Mason had been linked to Sarah McIntosh and Coffin Cove all those years ago, and now he’d been killed in the same town?

Vega never ignored his gut feelings, but he knew he needed data.

He took a brisk walk from the detachment to Hephzibah’s café, intending to grab a coffee and head back to his motel room. It was mid-morning, and a steady drizzle of rain soaked his jacket. He didn’t mind the dampness against his face. The cool air eased the headache that had started to form, and he looked forward to a decent cup of coffee to sharpen his mind.

He’d expected the café to be empty at this hour, but the condensation on the windows and hum of chatter told him otherwise. Every available seat was taken, mostly by fishermen, the steam rising from damp rain gear strewn across the backs of chairs. The noise level abated a little when Vega entered the café. Everyone knew who he was and why he was here, Vega supposed.

He nodded to a couple of familiar faces. He’d sat in on some of the preliminary interviews with fishermen who had been in the vicinity when Mason’s body was discovered.

Vega ordered coffee from the tall woman behind the counter, who greeted him with a smile.

“Morning, Inspector! Any news yet?”

He smiled back at her directness.

“No, not yet. But we are working hard. Could I get a large black coffee, please?”

Hephzibah Brown. Who could forget a name like that? He had also interviewed Hephzibah to corroborate the reporter’s story about Brian McIntosh and the phone she handed in. Hephzibah had confirmed Andi Silvers’ statement and was also able to give more details about McIntosh’s background. Seemed he had a reputation for petty theft.

Vega wasn’t sure why, but Hephzibah Brown was ringing a bell far in the recesses of his mind. He filed the partial memory away for later.

Hephzibah handed him the coffee and a small paper bag.

“It’s a muffin,” she explained. “Morning Glory. I make them myself. On the house.”

“Oh, I . . . er . . .” Vega was caught off guard for a second.

“Oh God, are you not allowed?” Hephzibah clapped her hand across her mouth in horror. “It’s not a bribe or anything! You just looked hungry!”

Vega laughed out loud. “No, it’s fine. Thank you very much.”

Back at the motel room, he munched on the muffin and sipped coffee as he read through the files. Occasionally, he scribbled notes about lines of enquiry that his team could explore. He was looking for patterns. Small pieces of detail that would thread the investigation together, names that stood out.

The McIntosh family featured in both case files. Vega and one of his female officers, Sergeant Fowler, had visited Joe McIntosh and his ex-wife, Sue. He hated interviews with cold-case victims. He felt he’d personally let them down. This was the part the media and public didn’t see. Murder is like dropping a stone into a perfectly still pond. The moment the stone breaks the surface, ripples fan out, disrupting the calm waters again and again. The pain never stops.

He saw in a moment that Joe McIntosh was a broken man. The loss of his daughter had consumed him. Alcohol had done little to deaden the pain but was certainly hastening his death. The man didn’t react at all when Vega asked about his whereabouts at the time of Mason’s murder.

“Here,” he said. “I’m always here.”

Tara, Joe’s second wife, confirmed this. “He rarely leaves the house,” she explained. “Neither do I. I make sure he eats something and he gets to bed. Otherwise he would just sit out here on the deck all night long, drinking whiskey.”

“Have you tried grief counselling, ma’am?” Vega asked. Tara had shown him into the house and made him some tea, while Sergeant Fowler had a surreptitious walk around the property to see if there was any sign of Brian McIntosh.

Tara sighed. “No, Inspector. Joe wouldn’t go to counselling. You see, he thinks he deserves this. He blames himself for Sarah’s death.” She continued, “Sarah and Joe argued a lot before she was killed. She was angry about Joe’s forestry operations. They blamed the clear-cutting for the flooding in the valley. Joe wouldn’t hear it. He just thought Sarah’s mother and grandfather were poisoning her mind against him.” She paused. “And I have to say, Inspector, he was probably right about that. Sue never forgave Joe for their divorce — in fact, she still doesn’t accept that Joe and I are married.” She smiled slightly. “Sue still refers to me as a ‘Jezebel’.”

Vega thought nobody looked less like a “Jezebel” than this tired-looking sixty-something woman, with her sensible haircut and large framed glasses.

“It’s been hard, Inspector,” Tara McIntosh said suddenly, her eyes full of tears. Vega wondered if this lady ever got to talk to anyone about her feelings.

“When we lost Sarah, I lost a stepdaughter who I loved very much, and I also lost my husband and my marriage.”

Vega nodded in sympathy. The ripples, he thought. Destroying more lives than just