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They approached casually, with the practiced nonchalance of seasoned officers.
“Hey, Ricky,” Sam said, not unkindly.
Ricky turned, a plume of smoke trailing from his lips. His eyes flicked over Sam and Jo, landing on Lucy with a hint of a smile before darting back to the officers. “Hey. What’s the pleasure?”
“We were just admiring your cap,” Jo said, tilting her head. “It’s quite distinctive.”
Ricky tapped a finger against the brim, his smile now fixed. “Got it at the conservation meet last month.”
“Really?” Sam couldn’t picture Ricky being a member of the conservation committee. “Because we’ve got a witness who saw a cap just like that near the owl sanctuary. Around the time April was killed.”
Ricky’s face tightened, the smoke curling between them like a barrier. “A lot of guys have caps like this.”
“But not a lot of guys were seen wearing them near a crime scene,” Jo pressed. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were sharp as flint.
Ricky’s gaze flicked between them, calculating. “You think I got something to do with that mess? I heard it happened at the owl sanctuary, and I haven’t been near there.”
“We’re just talking, Ricky,” Sam assured him, his tone even. “But if there’s anything you want to get off your chest…”
Ricky’s fingers crushed the cigarette, dropping it to the ground and stamping it out. “I ain’t got nothing to say. Not without a lawyer.”
Hazel Webster, Ricky’s grandmother, emerged from the bookstore they were standing in front of. Her hair was a crown of wiry gray, each strand rebelling against the notion of being tamed. The lines on her face told stories of a life chiseled by hardship, and her eyes—sharp as flint—had a reputation for setting any nosy officer straight.
She caught sight of Sam and Jo, and her lips pinched together. “What’s this now?” she demanded, her voice like gravel stirred in a bucket. “You lot got nothing better to do than badger my grandson?”
Ricky stood a pace behind, his lips forming into a smirk as he watched his grandmother stand up to Sam and Jo.
Sam doffed his hat, a gesture of respect that did little to soften Hazel’s scowl. “Ma’am, we assure you, we were just having a word with Ricky. Nothing to be concerned about.”
Hazel snorted, a clear sign she wasn’t buying a word. “A word, eh? Your ‘words’ have a way of turning into trouble. He’s a good boy. Takes care of his grandma, don’t you, Ricky?”
Ricky nodded, his cheeks tinged with a flush of embarrassment. “I was just helping Gran with the shopping,” he said, his voice a quiet testament to his decency.
With a wary eye still fixed on the officers, Hazel handed Ricky her bag and looped her arm through his. As they began to walk away, Sam and Jo offered parting apologies, which Hazel dismissed with a harrumph that ricocheted off the store windows.
Once across the street, Sam spared a glance over his shoulder. Ricky was gently guiding Hazel, his attentiveness a stark contrast to the scene that had just unfolded.
Jo, watching alongside Sam, remarked quietly, “He does seem like the caring-grandson type.”
Sam’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes never leaving Ricky’s retreating figure.
“Sometimes,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur meant for Jo alone, “the ones who seem the nicest have the most to hide.”
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Sam and Jo pulled into the police station to find Marnie Wilson hammering a “Marnie for Mayor” sign into the precinct’s front lawn. Today, she was dressed in an outfit that Jo always thought of as hercommon manoutfit. Jeans and a flannel shirt—something a blue-collar worker would wear.
Marnie’s eyes lifted, catching sight of Sam, and for a fleeting moment, they softened, betraying a warmth reserved just for him.
“Marnie.” Sam’s voice held a professional detachment, a barricade against any personal undertones. “The lawn of a police station might not be the ideal place for campaign material.”
“Oh, come on, Sam,” she coaxed, a playful tilt in her words. “It’s public property.”
Jo, standing a step behind, watched the exchange, her lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t trust the gleam in Marnie’s eye nor the coy dance of politics. Lucy, ever the barometer of intent, sniffed disinterestedly at Marnie before trotting back to Jo’s side, aligning herself with the silent sentiment.
Sam didn’t bite, his indifference to Marnie’s charms as solid as the badge on his chest. “Just doesn’t seem right,” he said. “Might look like the department is picking sides.”
Her smile flickered, but she recovered quickly, gesturing toward the ruckus down the street. “Looks like Jamison has bigger fish to fry,” she said.
