He answered truthfully. “Mason may not have been directly responsible for Sarah’s death. But if he hadn’t been here, hadn’t stirred up all that trouble with protests and whatnot, I’m certain that Sarah would be alive today.”
“I see. The legal matter you mentioned, it was a bit more than that, wasn’t it, Mr Brown? You threatened Pierre Mason with a gun, I see from the court records.”
“That case was dismissed,” Harry said, feeling himself flush a little. He knew where Fowler was headed with this. And he knew to say as little as possible.
Fowler obviously decided that she’d unsettled Harry enough, because she closed her file and smiled at Harry.
“Thank you.” Fowler got up. “That’ll be all for now, Mr Brown, thank you for your time.”
Harry couldn’t help himself. “Did my gun kill Mason?”
Fowler didn’t miss a beat. “We’ll know that very soon, Mr Brown. Any more questions? Or anything else you’d like to tell me?”
Harry got up. “No, nothing,” he said and walked toward the door.
“Mr Brown?”
Harry stopped.
“Mr Brown, do you know a ‘Gerald Roberts’?”
Harry shook his head. “No, don’t think so.”
“You might have known him as Gerry? Or Captain Roberts?”
“No, never heard that name before.”
Fowler nodded. “Thanks again, Mr Brown.”
Harry left the detachment. He found Hephzibah waiting anxiously outside. But he was surprised and relieved to see she was on her own.
“Are you OK? What did they want?” Hephzibah bombarded him with questions as soon as she’d hugged him. “I didn’t know whether I should call a lawyer or what to do.”
Harry hugged her back. “I don’t need a lawyer, Hep, I haven’t done anything wrong. But I could do with a drink.”
Chapter Thirty
Jim sniffed the air in his office. Expensive aftershave lingered after Gavin and his team had hurriedly left. He’d assumed that they were at the detachment after word leaked out that Vega’s team had found a gun. But a short while ago, Jim had seen the whole of the Vancouver Mail get into their vehicles and head out of Coffin Cove. Jim was pleased to see them go.
He was glad to get the office back, he thought. Even if it did stink. “Lady Lure”, his father used to call it, teasing Jim when he was younger and getting ready to go out on the town.
The memory made Jim smile. “Out on the town, in Coffin Cove,” he chuckled to himself. That made him think of Andi. He’d seen her look at Gavin and the other reporters from the Vancouver Mail, with their smart suits, Bluetooth earpieces and expensive laptops, and he wondered if she missed her former life.
He leaned back in his chair and looked with fresh eyes at the litter of paper on his desk, yellowed files and documents wedged down in places with chipped coffee cups. It had been twenty years or more since he’d moved into this cramped office. The mould stain in the corner of the ceiling from the leaking roof was still there, as was the wastepaper basket underneath that caught the drops of water during these wet winter days. The office was sparsely furnished. Jim didn’t need space or equipment these days — he had long since contracted out the actual printing of the Gazette to a modern facility on the mainland. All he needed was his laptop. He had reluctantly invested in a new sleek model a few months ago. It looked out of place on the heavy oak desk. Gleaming high-tech perched on a piece of history. The desk used to belong to his father, the only relic from the Gazette’s more prosperous days.
An observant reporter would look around this room and know, Jim thought, noting the worn path on the cheap carpet from door to desk, the dated faux wood panelling and the few framed newspaper cuttings arranged haphazardly on the wall. They would know that the Coffin Cove Gazette, the last independent new organization on the island, was in its death throes.
Without a miracle, some divine intervention, Jim could not fight off the corporate media organizations that regularly sent smiling, suited salesmen from the central island highway down the one, potholed access road to Coffin Cove, to promise that they were absolutely committed to providing a local news service to the population of Coffin Cove. Each time they came, the dollar offer got a little less, as if they sensed that Jim couldn’t hold on for much longer.
Hiring Andi was his Hail Mary. A last attempt to breathe some life back into the Gazette. Make Jim feel like it hadn’t all been a complete waste of his life.
He had invited Andi for an interview on impulse. And, he acknowledged to himself, because she had been the only applicant. A few phone calls — he still had connections — revealed her likely motivation.
Andi had changed a lot from the dispirited woman he’d first interviewed. He remembered how she’d blustered through the interview, saying all the things she thought he’d wanted to hear, but in all that bravado, she had no confidence in her work. She was a good writer, Jim thought. She had a good instinct for a story, and she knew how to listen to people, to coax out information. It was a talent. But somewhere along the way, she’d stopped paying attention to those instincts and started to behave like she thought she should. She’d stopped trusting herself.
Andi took the job because she had no other choice. Jim knew that. She’d assumed, like many outsiders, that Coffin Cove was a dying town. Her work would be limited to reporting on the mundanity of community life, happenings important to the inhabitants of the town, but lacking the — what was the word? Significance? Prestige? — of investigative journalism.
But Andi had impressed Jim. She was thoughtful, observant. If she had preconceived ideas about small-town life, her work didn’t show it. She listened to people, and they trusted her.
Jim wanted to ask Andi about her career-ending incident at the Vancouver Mail. What had really happened? He’d heard the rumours, knew that Andi was professionally toxic and had seen the full-page apology to the businessman that Andi’s unsubstantiated article had targeted. He’d wondered at the time why Andi had taken the full brunt of the fallout. Sure, she should be accountable for her work, but what about the editor’s responsibility?
And then he met Gavin.
Gavin. That’s what happened, Jim was sure. He’d been in the newspaper business long enough to meet people — mostly men, he had to admit — just like Gavin. Short on talent, long on bullshit, but smart enough to use other people to further their own career.
What was Gavin doing in Coffin Cove? Why did he bother to make the trip? Sure, it was a big story for this town — a murder. It doesn’t get much bigger than that. But the Vancouver Mail was a big-city paper. Gavin could have dispatched a junior reporter, so why hadn’t he?
Still pursuing Andi? Jim dismissed that thought. He’d watched Gavin sniffing round his young interns and strutting around like it was rutting season, and doubted that he gave Andi a passing thought.
So he either had a lead on a story they knew nothing about, or it was the same old thing — business.
Jim knew Andi had confronted Gavin. He hoped she had given that idiot his marching orders, once and for all. She deserved better. He was certain Andi would still make her mark as a journalist. But would it be with the Gazette?
Jim sat at his desk and turned on his laptop. He opened a spreadsheet and studied a cash flow statement intently, as if he could improve the numbers by sheer force of will.
Things had improved over the last weeks. That was the good news. The bad news? The Gazette was still far from turning a profit. Jim wondered for the umpteenth time how long he could continue to support the failing business from his savings — and for the first time, if it was worth the effort.
Maybe he should just sell out to the media corporation that had swallowed up all the independent publications all over the island. He noted again that the same corporation also owned the Vancouver Mail, so maybe Gavin’s presence wasn’t really a mystery at all.
Why was he doing this? Jim sighed and rubbed his eyes. He didn’t want the Gazette to
be part of a big conglomerate, with only the odd short article about his hometown. He had long resisted the full conversion to a digital version of the publication, hating the pop-up advertisements and sensational clickbait headlines. Local newspapers used to mentor fledgling investigative journalists. Now they employed website designers and content writers.
Jim was gazing at the laptop screen without focusing, as his same old dilemma occupied his thoughts again. He was startled when he heard the floor creak and looked up to see Sue McIntosh standing at the door of the office.
“Come in, Sue — sorry, I was just lost in my thoughts for a moment.”
Sue didn’t answer but walked over and placed a twenty-dollar bill on his desk.
“For the diesel. The other day, when you were out at the house.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten about that. Thanks.” Jim knew better than to protest. Sue and Fred were proud people.
We only need God’s charity, Fred used to say. In the aftermath of Sarah’s death, well-meaning people had driven out to the valley, offering baked goods and cooked meals, only to have Fred order them off the property, sometimes with his rifle tucked menacingly under his arm.
Sue stepped back but didn’t leave the office. She looked hesitant and bowed her head for a moment, as if mustering courage.
“Is there something I can help you with, Sue?” Jim asked gently. “Take a seat for a moment. How’s Fred doing?”
Sue accepted his invitation.
“I know you think I’m crazy,” she started, ignoring his question. “I know what the people in this town think of me.” She looked at Jim defiantly, almost daring him to contradict her.
Jim didn’t.
“Go on, Sue. What’s happened?”
“Somebody is watching me. Following me.” She paused for a moment, and then again drew her breath in as if steeling herself to continue. “At first I thought it was Sarah. Not . . . not . . . her in person, but her spirit. Her soul.” She stopped for a moment and then asked Jim, “Do you believe in God?”
“Sometimes,” Jim answered truthfully, wondering where this was headed. Sue had never seemed to change over the years, he thought. She was always a well-built woman, striking when she was younger, with jet-black hair. She’d been unaware of her beauty, hadn’t known that she’d caught more eyes than just Joe’s. Grief aged her almost immediately when Sarah died, but more recently, Jim thought, she’d become fragile-looking, vulnerable. Her eyes were tired, her skin was pale, despite all the time she spent outside. Jim thought the physical challenges of living in the valley and looking after Fred were taking a toll on Sue’s health.
Sue seemed satisfied with Jim’s answer.
“I’ve been drawn to the hatchery lately,” she said, almost dreamily. “My morning hunt. I don’t mean to go there. It’s . . . painful. But I always end up there.” She stopped again. “I know I sound crazy to you. I feel like I’m going mad sometimes. But I thought if it was Sarah taking me there, if I could . . . could feel her spirit, then maybe I could forgive God.”
Jim could see that Sue was fighting tears.
“You see,” Sue said in such a low voice that Jim thought she was talking to herself, “if I cannot make peace with God, then I have nothing left.”
Jim was silent for a moment. Then he said, “But now you don’t think it’s Sarah? At the hatchery?”
Sue straightened in her chair, seeming to pull herself together. “No. I’ve hunted the valley all my life. I know the sounds animals and birds make. I know their smell. Somebody human is watching me.”
Jim nodded. “OK, Sue. Who do you think it is?”
“I don’t know for sure,” she said, “but I found this.”
* * *
After Sue left, Jim couldn’t concentrate on his spreadsheets. He’d listened to Sue and knew that she wasn’t mad or crazy.
She tried to tell us in her own way, Jim thought. But we’d made up our minds.
If he was honest, Jim thought, he’d always had an inkling of doubt. Parts of the story didn’t fit well. How was it possible for shy, unsophisticated, childlike Sarah, who rarely ventured into Coffin Cove, to strike up a relationship with Mason? And what would have motivated him to kill her? They — he — had been so certain that this evil couldn’t possibly live within the community, and Mason was already such a divisive figure that it was easy to accept the story.
There was something else too. A fact, or detail, just out of Jim’s mind’s eye, that caused him to waver at the time. Something so insignificant, back then, that he’d buried it deep.
It had been bothering him since Andi arrived in town. She was eager to find some journalistic redemption, Jim thought, after her humiliation at the Vancouver Mail. That’s why she’d taken an immediate interest in the Sarah McIntosh case. Jim had conflicting feelings. He’d said, and genuinely believed, that Joe and Sue didn’t need to relive that terrible time. Why should they? Nothing would bring Sarah back. And he still thought Mason had something to do with it, even though a police investigation turned up nothing. Who else could it be? Nothing would be gained by Andi raking up all those painful memories, to stir up the gossip and rumour-mongers in Coffin Cove.
Jim remembered the shock that reverberated through the community when Sarah was killed. In one way it had brought people together. Families put aside their resentments about the McIntosh forestry practices and gathered their arms around Joe and Sue. This was a tragedy that happened to one of them. It was easy to turn their collective vitriol against the outsider, he who dared to disrupt their way of life. He who was to blame for the death of their Sarah.
The town forgot that until they discovered her lifeless body washed up on the beach, Sarah herself had been an outsider. Jim couldn’t recall Sarah hanging out with the other teenage girls on the boardwalk, giggling and eyeing up the gaggle of scrawny boys who preened and paraded in front of them. Sue had never brought Sarah to the Salmon Festival or the Fall Fair. Sarah dressed differently, talked differently and kept herself to herself. Even the volunteers at the hatchery thought she was odd. After the initial outpouring of grief, the less charitable rumours started.
She was rebelling, they said. You keep too tight a rein, and they are bound to fight against it. It was Sue’s fault. She should have let Sarah live a little. No wonder she got starry-eyed about that man.
Eventually Coffin Cove moved on. The mysterious death of Sarah McIntosh became a story that was told over a beer at the Fat Chicken on a rainy evening. People nudged each other if they saw Sue in town, and they speculated about Joe’s drinking, but the tragedy, for most people, wasn’t real anymore. It was Coffin Cove folklore.
Andi changed all that. And although Jim outwardly objected, he knew this story needed an ending. The truth needed to be told. Maybe Andi would yet make her mark.
Jim promised Sue that he’d meet her at the hatchery the next day. There was something else he needed to check too. He reached for his phone when he was alone in his office, intending to call Andi, but he heard the office door open, and the sound of Andi’s voice. She was talking on her cell phone.
“Right. I understand. Nothing on the record. I’ll meet her at the coffee shop by the Fishermen’s Wharf, 10 a.m. tomorrow. Yes, I understand. Tell her I promise it will be confidential.”
Jim looked at Andi expectantly as she finished her call. She was damp, steam rising slightly from her hair and jacket. A plaid jacket, Jim noted with amusement.
“So?” he asked.
“So this is getting weirder by the minute,” Andi said, “and scary. This morning, Gerry Roberts’s body was discovered on the beach below the DFO office. The police aren’t saying much at the moment, and they haven’t officially identified him, but Christina, his secretary, called me.” She held up her phone. “She says that Roberts was shot.”
“Holy shit! Could it be suicide?”
Explains why Gavin and his crew left in such a hurry, he thought, and wished, not for the first time, that the Gazette could afford more th
an one reporter.
Andi sat down.
“It could be,” she said sadly. “Oh God, I hope my visit didn’t cause that. Christina said he was acting strange, stranger than usual after that. But she didn’t think he was depressed. He seemed jumpy.”
“The police will want to talk to you again,” Jim said. “You have the knack of popping up near dead bodies.”
“Goes with the job,” Andi said, not breaking a smile. “Anyway, I gave that Inspector Vega everything I had: the phone, the picture Mason sent. Not my fault if he’s not making the connections.”
“There might not be any connections,” Jim pointed out. “You’re joining up a lot of dots here, without evidence.”
“What are you talking about?” Andi said, clearly taken aback. “The day before Mason gets killed he sends me a picture and tells me it’s the story I should be investigating, then the other guy connected to the same picture freaks out when I interview him and then ends up dead on the beach. Of course I’m joining up dots! Can’t possibly be a coincidence, right?”
“Who are you meeting tomorrow?” Jim changed the subject.
“That’s the other weird thing,” Andi said. “That was Christina’s friend on the phone, the one who was a protester. Christina gave her my number, and she called to say that Mason’s wife, or partner, or whatever she is, wants to talk to me. But it has to be off the record.”
Jim nodded. “Good work. You’re right. Can’t be coincidence.” He got up and reached for his jacket. “Come on.”
“Where’re we going?” Andi asked, as Jim turned off the office light.
“There’s one more dot to connect,” he said. “Harry. He was in that picture too.”
“Jim?” Something in Andi’s voice made him stop and turn around.
“What?” he asked.
Andi looked serious. “Vega’s team picked up Harry for questioning earlier. The gun the diver found? They think it belongs to Harry.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Brian had suffered a coughing fit that had left him convulsing in pain. When he’d managed to stifle the wheezing, he stared down at the flecks of blood and phlegm on his sleeve then wiped them on his pants.
COFFIN COVE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 1) Page 20