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“It should be in the bottom drawer,” Jo responded, motioning with a casual flick of her wrist toward the cabinet. The ongoing goat saga between Nettie Deardorff and Rita Hoelscher was town lore by now—comical, if not a tiresome distraction from serious police work.
Wyatt shook his head. “Nope. I looked.”
Jo frowned. They always kept it there, but Kevin was doing the filing now. She rummaged around in the top drawer and found it in the back. “Here it is.”
“Thanks.” Wyatt took the file to his desk. “I need to enter the latest incident. Bitsy ate the giant pumpkin Nettie was growing. Bitsy was Rita’s goat, and most of their arguments revolved around her.”
“How did it go with Garvin?” Sam asked, shifting gears from the investigative trail to personal matters with an ease that came from years of balancing the professional and the personal.
Jo proceeded to her desk, a half smile touching her lips as she pulled out her bottom drawer and put her feet up on it. “Well, he’s an interesting character. Lonely, I’d say. But get this, he said Marnie Wilson was interested in buying the cottage too.”
Sam’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, mirroring Wyatt’s perplexed expression. “Marnie? What interest could she have in your place?” There was a hint of skepticism in his voice.
Wyatt chimed in, “Doesn’t add up. Doesn’t she live in a fancy house?”
Jo shrugged, the corners of her eyes crinkling in thought. “I’m not sure. Garvin seemed pretty convinced though. But he also made it clear he’s not looking to sell just yet.”
“You think Garvin was confused?” Sam asked, the detective in him finding it hard to let go of an anomaly.
Jo shook her head, her certainty firm. “No, he was pretty lucid about it. But I have a plan.” Her smile turned sly, a hint of mischief sparking in her eyes.
“Oh?” Sam leaned back in his chair, intrigued. “Do tell.”
Her smile widened as she pushed off from the doorframe, ready to leave them with something to ponder. “Let’s just say I’ve got a secret weapon to persuade Garvin when he’s ready to sell. Homemade pie has a way of opening doors—and persuading hearts.”
Sam and Wyatt exchanged a look of amused acknowledgment.
“What? I’ll have Bridget make one for you guys too. But right now, I need to get to work on this case.” Jo opened her laptop and started typing. “I know there is something on April Summers that will give us a clue, and I aim to find it.”
“And I,” Wyatt said, “need to meet Bruce at the motel. I got the search warrant, and I can pick up April’s things.”
“That’s good news,” Sam said. “Let’s hope we find something enlightening.”
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Two hours had ticked by in a blur of fruitless searching when Sam’s voice cut through Jo’s focus. “Ready to hit Holy Spirits?”
Jo’s eyes lingered on the screen for a moment longer before she sighed and stood, stretching the stiffness from her muscles. “Sure.”
“I’ll just leave Lucy in my office and swing in to get her after we leave the bar.”
They often left Lucy alone with some food, and Major lived in the police station, so he had his own food and litter box in a closet.
Jo eyed Major, who still had the toy. He narrowed his gaze at her as if warning her not to take it away. “Let’s hope the two of them don’t tear the place apart.”
Reese poked her head in from the reception area. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here for a while, painting. I’ll keep them in line.”
“Nice job on the paint, Reese,” Sam said as they stepped out into the evening, the setting sun casting long shadows on the streets.
Holy Spirits was an easy stroll away, the fading light giving the old church a serene, misleading aura. To the uninformed observer, it was a place of quiet sanctuary, its tall, stately doors suggesting nothing of the revelry within. More than a few tourists had stepped inside, only to be surprised at what was actually in there.
Inside, the transformation from sacred to spirited was complete. The vaulted ceilings created an expansive canvas for hushed conversations and laughter. Dim lighting cast everything in a forgiving amber hue, shadows playing hide and seek in the alcoves.
The rugged charm of the place was undeniable, from the rough-hewn fieldstone walls to the worn wooden floors that told tales of dancing, spills, and the wear of countless boots and heels. A melodic hum from a jukebox somewhere in the background was the heartbeat of the establishment.
In a nod to its past, pews had been repurposed into communal seating, fostering a sense of togetherness among patrons, while the round tables near the entrance offered a more private gathering space. Locals clustered around them, the air occasionally punctuated with the clink of beer mugs and the scrape of chairs.
Jo followed Sam to the back, where the bar stretched out in place of the former altar. The tall windows were a kaleidoscope of jewel-toned glass, setting a sacred backdrop to the rows of bottles that lined the area. The reflected room behind them shimmered in the glass, lending an air of infinite space.
