Sam nodded, a flicker of determination in his eyes. “All right. Wyatt, I want you to follow her. See what she’s up to after she leaves her campaign office.”
Wyatt was already grabbing his jacket. “You got it. I’ll keep it low-key.”
Sam sighed. “I’ve gotta call Garvin’s son and daughter. Not calls I’m looking forward to.”
Jo winced. “I don’t envy you.”
Sam glanced at the clock on the wall. “Might need a drink at Holy Spirits after that. You in?”
Jo smiled. “I could be persuaded.”
The soft click of nails on hardwood interrupted the moment. Lucy, who had been dozing in the corner, was suddenly alert. She sniffed the air, padding over to the filing cabinet with growing interest.
“What is it, girl?” Jo asked, watching as Lucy’s tail wagged with excitement.
Lucy pawed at the base of the cabinet, whining softly. Jo knelt down, curious. Her fingers brushed against something small and hard. Pulling it out, she found a bone-shaped treat—the one Bridget had given to Major earlier.
“Well, would you look at that,” Jo said, holding it up.
Major sauntered into the room, his green eyes narrowing at the sight of Lucy nosing around his stash. The black cat’s tail twitched with irritation.
“Sorry, Major. Looks like your secret’s out.” Jo tossed the treat to Lucy, who caught it mid-air with a crunch. Major’s look of disdain was almost comical as he turned and leapt onto a nearby desk, his back to them.
Wyatt zipped up his jacket, laughing. “Looks like it’s almost quitting time. I’ll get a jump on following Marnie, see what she’s up to after the campaign HQ.”
Jo nodded. “Let me know if she does anything worth raising an eyebrow.”
Wyatt flashed a grin. “You know I will.”
As he headed out, Jo’s mind raced. What was so special about the property? She’d lived in that cottage for years—nice spot, sure, but nothing worth killing over. But Garvin had hinted at something more. Something about the land.
Was Marnie lying about wanting it?
Was Garvin’s death about the land or the valuable bronze statue?
Two possible motives and no time to waste figuring out which one was real. If Garvin had died over a piece of land or a bronze elk, it didn’t matter—they had to find out fast.
Jo glanced at the clock. Every second counted.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jo pushed open the heavy oak door of Holy Spirits. The bar still held the soul of the decommissioned church it had once been—dim stained glass windows cast slants of red and gold across the floor, and worn pews had been refitted as booths. The altar, stripped of its old role, now served as a bar, rows of liquor bottles lined up like offerings.
The familiar scent of whiskey and polished wood wrapped around Jo like a worn blanket. She slid onto a stool near the bar, drumming her fingers on the scarred wood. “The usual, Pete.”
Pete, a burly man with graying hair and a colorful tattoo on his forearm, poured her drink without a word, setting it down with a slight nod. Jo took a long sip, savoring the burn. Garvin’s lifeless face flashedthrough her mind, followed by Marnie’s too-slick smile at the station. Something wasn’t adding up.
The door creaked, and Sam entered, broad shoulders silhouetted against the dying light from outside. His gaze found her immediately, and Jo gave a quick nod. He made his way over, settling beside her on a stool.
“Rough day,” Sam said, ordering a beer. It wasn’t a question.
Jo swirled the whiskey in her glass. “You could say that.”
Pete returned with Sam’s beer, and they sat in silence for a beat, the low murmur of conversation around them blending with the faint strains of classic rock from the jukebox.
“Talked to Garvin’s kids,” Sam finally said, breaking the silence. “They’re flying out tonight and agreed to come to the station tomorrow.”
Jo’s grip tightened on her glass. “And what do you really make of Marnie saying she never wanted to buy the property?”