Amanda Doucette Mystery 3-Book Bundle. Barbara Fradkin

to Mr. Fedora with the leather jacket.

      “Moose-hunting. Jesus!” Mr. Fedora wiped the sweat from his face. “Is there any other place in town?”

      The clerk smiled sympathetically. “There’s Betty’s, but she’s all full up too.”

      “One small bed. It can be in a broom closet for all I care. I’ve had a long flight and then a long drive up from Deer Lake. I just need a place to crash and a good stiff drink. I’m heading to Conche in the morning, so I’ll be out of the broom closet at first light.”

      Chris had been about to slip past, but the mention of Conche stopped him short. He sized the man up warily, noticing what looked like a camera bag and a laptop on the floor beside him. Press? And judging from the man’s accent, not the local Newfoundland press either. Had the vultures descended already?

      “Well, you won’t find a place in Conche, either,” the clerk was saying. “It’s hardly larger than a broom closet itself.”

      “I’m meeting a friend there, and she has a tent.” He shrugged ruefully and shifted his heavy bag to ease his shoulder. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

      Chris approached the desk. Was this man trying to cozy up to Amanda? “Excuse me, sir,” he said, thinking fast. “But the police have sealed off Conche at the moment. There’s a major search being conducted in the area.”

      “I know there is. My friend is right in the middle of it. Sealed off? Why?”

      “Danger to the public, sir.”

      “Danger to the —” Fedora broke off, his eyes narrowing. He looked Chris up and down. “Wait a minute. You’re a cop! You really think Phil Cousins is going to go around killing innocent bystanders, even if he did kill that old guy?”

      Chris hid his surprise with an effort. Reporters intercepted police bulletins all the time, but the man’s choice of words suggested a more intimate knowledge. “May I see your identification, sir?”

      Mr. Fedora looked about to protest, but seemed to think better of it, as if he knew the wisdom of staying on the good side of the cops. He dumped his bag on the floor and, from a thick stack of cards, he pulled out his Canadian Association of Journalists card and his driver’s licence, both of which Chris examined closely. Matthew Goderich, from a town in New Brunswick that Chris had never heard of. Likely little more than a crossroads and a few cows.

      Then the name clicked into place.

      “I’m a reporter,” Goderich said, “but I’m also a friend of Amanda Doucette and Phil Cousins. We’ve shared several … adventures together.”

      “I know who you are, Mr. Goderich.” Chris held out his hand. “I’m Chris Tymko, also a friend of Phil and Amanda’s.”

      Goderich arched his eyebrows as he gave Chris a moist, pudgy hand. “Not a cop? My instincts aren’t usually wrong.”

      Chris smiled. “They’re not wrong. But I’m here off-duty, as a friend.”

      “Ah. Then we have something in common.” Goderich sighed as he bent to pick up his bags. “Can we grab a drink somewhere? If I’m going to sleep in my car, I better be fortified.”

      Chris hesitated. He knew Matthew Goderich wanted to pump him for information. He’d already had more than enough drinks trying to keep up with Willington, and he wasn’t confident of his ability to hold his tongue in the face of a seasoned reporter’s questions. But he had to admit he was curious to find out the inside, unreported details of Phil and Amanda’s ordeal in Africa, as well as the other shared adventures the man had hinted at. And who knows, he thought as he led the way to a corner table in the lounge attached to the inn. If he liked the man, maybe he’d take pity on him and offer him the spare bed in his own room for the night.

      Matthew dropped into his chair and swung his bag down beside him with a groan. The hotel clerk popped the caps off two beers and plopped them down before sashaying away. Matthew rubbed his hand over his greying stubble as he watched her disappear.

      “I don’t suppose I can get some food here too. I haven’t eaten since Deer Lake.”

      “Not at this hour,” Chris said. “Count yourself lucky she opened up the bar to serve us.”

      “Oh, she did that for you, my friend. Not some pot-bellied, balding old hack like me.” He lifted his hat briefly to reveal a polished bald dome.

      Chris grinned. Despite his reservations, he liked Matthew Goderich. “The hat earns you points, though. There’s nothing but baseball caps from here to St. John’s.”

      Matthew took a long, grateful swig of his beer. He had a creviced, pock-marked face, and up close Chris could see the stress of years carved into it. He slouched in his chair and tipped his hat back to give Chris a friendly smile. “How do you know Phil and Amanda?”

      And so the questions begin, Chris thought. But this one was harmless enough. “I met Phil at an ice-fishing derby last winter. We’re both new to the island — well, everyone who doesn’t have six generations of ancestors buried in the local cemetery is new to the island — and we hit it off. We like the same things. Angling, hiking, flying.”

      He figured that was close enough to the truth, but Matthew fixed him with a steady gaze. “Still. You dropped everything to come up here looking for him.”

      Chris shrugged. “You’re here too. I guess there’s something about the guy, and what he’s been through. If anyone deserves a helping hand …”

      Matthew twirled his bottle. “So what exactly happened? Do the police honestly think he killed that old hermit, or do they have other suspects?”

      “I don’t know, I’m not part of the investigation. Even if I was, I couldn’t tell you, Matthew.”

      Matthew held up his hands. “I’m not here as a reporter, I’m here as a friend.”

      “Right.”

      To his credit, Matthew gave a sheepish, dimpled grin. “Can you turn off being a cop, even when you’re not on a case? It’s who we are.”

      Chris couldn’t argue that. “Right now there are too many wild cards at play for me to even hazard a guess about who’s done what.”

      “You mean like Amanda wandering around in the wilderness looking for him.”

      Chris said nothing.

      “Oh for Chrissakes, Tymko! Any fisherman south of St. Anthony can tell me that. And they can tell me a boat has been spotted on a deserted stretch of shore halfway up the coast. I learned that much making small talk with the girl at the gas station next door. Yeah, I’m a journalist. Smelling out information is in my blood. Making connections is in my blood. But I’m here because I care about those two people. I know what they’ve been through. Phil is one of the good guys. So is Amanda. Good guys are often the first casualties in our brutal, treacherous world, whether it’s in the corporate boardroom or the international aid game. If I can also give them a voice, to make their efforts heard above the banal chatter that passes for daily news these days — some starlet’s latest rehab or Will and Kate’s new baby — then what’s the harm in that?”

      Chris saw his chance. “What exactly did happen to them in Africa? Beyond the obvious stuff in your articles. You hinted that they were betrayed by the Nigerian government. That the government forces knew in advance about the planned attack, but didn’t warn them, and that their own private security force ran away.”

      Matthew had drained his beer and he sat for a while staring at the empty bottle. Finally he sighed. “I’m far too tired to try to explain all the intricacies of post-colonial, sub-Saharan West Africa. Suffice to say, these are some of the poorest countries in the world. Corruption and payoffs are rampant. Education, health, and other services are almost non-existent in many places, so anyone who comes along with an offer of a paycheque, the promise of a bigger piece of the pie, or the threat of violence is going to get followers.