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Wyatt nodded. “Yeah, I figured since the owl was probably in a tree, the bullet might’ve ended up there.”
“Good thinking.” Sam glanced over at Jo, and she shrugged. They’d only looked on the ground.
“But are we thinking this was all an accident then?” Jo asked, gesturing from the images of the owl to those of the woman. “She shoots, misses, the bullet hits the branch, and it falls on her?”
“Well, the weird part is that the gun was wiped clean. No prints,” Wyatt interjected, pausing for a moment to let the information sink in. “So if she didn’t shoot, then who did?”
Jo’s brows furrowed in thought. “She wouldn’t wipe the gun after an accidental shooting. Unless”—she glanced at the two men—"she was trying to frame someone else? But even that doesn’t make much sense.”
“But why use her own gun for that?” Sam questioned, crossing his arms.
“And she was hit with a log. The back of her head had traces of bark,” Jo added. She gestured to the picture of the log. “That’s no accident.”
“Someone else had to be there,” Sam deduced, studying the images. “Maybe they shot the owl then hit her with the log…”
“But how would they get her gun?” Wyatt asked.
“And why shoot an owl?” Jo added
Sam glanced at Wyatt. “What do we know about April’s time in town? Any idea where she was staying?”
Wyatt nodded. “She checked into the Ledgewood Motel. I talked to Bruce Johnson, who owns it, but he won’t let me in until I produce a search warrant.”
“All right.” Sam sighed. “I’ll get on that warrant. Meanwhile, Wyatt, dig into any digital trails she might have left. Jo, you keep trying to find anything about her family. There’s got to be something out there that will explain more about who would have a motive to kill her.”
CHAPTERSIX
Bridget maneuvered her car onto the stone driveway of the cottage she shared with Jo.
The quaint old cottage was always a welcome sight. Nestled in the forest, it was a faded red with white shutters. Flowers spilled from window boxes and planters, a riot of colorful petunias, pansies, and impatiens. It was off the beaten track, quiet except for the babbling of the brook out back and the chirping of birds. It was small but homey.
Orange fur moved on the porch. Pickles, the feral kitten she and Jo had been trying to look after, watched her. His curious eyes were wide and alert. She stepped from the car, slow, calculated. No sudden moves. Pickles was a bolt of lightning when spooked.
She squatted, extending a hand toward Pickles. “No pressure, little guy.”
The small cat approached cautiously. He sniffed and then recoiled. Probably smelled Major.
Bridget laughed softly. “Major can be a bit off-putting, but he’s really a nice cat.”
Pickles looked up at her skeptically. Even though the two cats had never met, there must be something in his scent that warned Pickles that Major was a tough cookie.
Turning her attention to a bowl tucked away in the corner of the porch, she noted it was scraped clean. A satisfied smile tugged at her lips. She’d been leaving food for Pickles, and it seemed to be working. “Good boy, Pickles.”
But at her words, the skittish cat darted off into the lush greenery. She watched his retreat, a soft sigh escaping her. Each day brought her a step closer to gaining his trust. By the time winter crept in, maybe Pickles would consider the porch, or even the warmth of the indoors, a safe haven.
Unlocking the door, she stepped inside, greeted by the soothing bubbling of the fish tank. Finn, Jo’s pet goldfish, glided around his aquatic home. His golden-orange scales glinted under the tank light, the color as vibrant as a summer sunset. The fish darted up, a well-trained response to the likelihood of a food opportunity.
Bridget retrieved a bright-red flake from the food jar, dangling it just above the water’s surface. Finn rose, snapping up the flake in a quick, eager pucker. He then hovered, eyeing her for more treats. With a laugh, she indulged him with a couple more flakes.
“All right, Finn, that’s your lot,” she said with an amused shake of her head. “I’ve got everyone else to feed.”
A spark of anticipation kindled within her. She had news to share, information about Tammy’s disappearance that she’d uncovered. Bridget could hardly wait to share her findings with Sam, Jo, and Holden Joyce, the FBI investigator who had been helping them.
Bridget unpacked her culinary treasures from the local specialty store. Her growing interest in cooking, born from the long hours she now found at her disposal, had led her to explore more gourmet options. She wanted to put together something nice for Jo, Sam, and Holden.
She started by unwrapping the cheeses—a creamy brie that felt like velvet under her fingertips, a sharp aged cheddar with a robust aroma, and a tangy goat cheese, crumbly and soft. She arranged them thoughtfully on the polished wooden board she had recently acquired, its rich grain adding an elegant touch to the presentation.
Next came the crackers—an assortment of whole-grain, seeded, and classic water biscuits, each offering a different texture and flavor profile. Bridget enjoyed the rhythmic sound they made as she placed them strategically around the cheeses, imagining the different combinations her friends might try.
