Chapter 8
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 flashed through 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?”
Sam shrugged. “Maybe Garvin was confused.”
“You don’t buy that,” Jo said, looking at him squarely. “She barged into the station, practically demanding information. That wasn’t just neighborly concern.”
Sam’s jaw clenched, a tell she knew well. “Politicians are good at lying, Jo. We can’t go accusing her without proof.”
Jo opened her mouth to argue, but the words faded as the door opened again, and Mick Gervasi sauntered in.
Dressed in his usual black leather, the private investigator scanned the room with practiced ease before his gaze settled on them.
Mick had known Sam since they were kids, and he’d helped them on a case or two when things got murky.
“Hey, Mick.” Sam gestured to the empty stool on Jo’s other side. “Perfect timing.”
Mick slid onto the stool, waving to Pete. “Whiskey on the rocks,” he said then turned to Sam and Jo with a grin. “What’s got you two looking like somebody died?”
Jo gave a dry laugh. “Somebody did.”
Sam gave Mick a rundown on Garvin’s death and Marnie’s suspicious behavior. “She’s denying any interest in his property, but Jo’s certain Garvin mentioned her.”
“Definitely did,” Jo said, her voice hard. “So why lie? What’s special about that property?”
Mick’s eyes narrowed as he thought it over. “Isn’t she tangled up with Convale?”
“No, that’s Beryl Thorne,” Sam said, frowning. “But Convale’s pumped a lot of money into Marnie’s campaign.”
Jo looked up, her interest piqued. “That’s right. I’d forgotten about that.”
Mick took a slow sip of his drink, ice clinking in the glass. “Want me to dig around? See what shakes loose?”
Sam nodded. “Wouldn’t hurt. Jo’s got a gut feeling, and it’s usually on point.”
Mick leaned in, voice low. “You know, speaking of Convale, my prior research dug up some rumors of an exposé a few decades ago. Journalist dug into Convale’s dealings but never published. Rumor is someone paid to keep it quiet.”
Jo and Sam exchanged a look. “Think it’s connected?” Jo asked.
Mick shrugged. “Maybe not. But my gut says there’s something there.”
Sam shook his head. “Doesn’t seem tied to Garvin’s death, but...” He trailed off, clearly thinking it over.
Jo sipped her whiskey and glanced around. A few regulars sat in booths along the far wall, hunched over drinks, and the occasional laugh or muttered conversation drifted through the space. Jo looked around, the familiar faces adding to the warmth of the bar despite the shadows in her mind.
Mick swirled his ice, breaking the quiet. “What about the Webster case? Feds finally packed up?”
Sam’s expression darkened. “Yeah, they’re done at Hazel’s place. Ricky’s there alone now.”
Jo shook her head. “Poor kid. He’s been through enough.”
“Hazel’s great-niece is raising hell, saying Hazel was framed,” Sam said, lowering his voice.
Jo raised an eyebrow. “Framed? After what they found?”
“Some people can’t face the truth,” Mick muttered.
A silence fell over them, each lost in thought. Jo’s mind wandered to her sister, missing for years. The old ache sharpened, familiar and raw.
Mick caught her expression. “They never found her, did they?”
Jo shook her head, unable to speak for a moment. Finally, she managed, “No. Which means...”
“Hazel might have another dump site,” Sam finished, his jaw clenched.
The weight of it settled over them, heavy and dark. Jo took another long sip of whiskey, letting it burn away the chill.
“We’ll keep looking, Jo,” Sam said, his hand briefly touching her arm. “We won’t give up.”
Jo nodded, grateful for the support. But the dread gnawed at her. The Webster case, Garvin’s murder, Marnie’s lies, Convale’s money—everything felt tangled, pieces of a larger puzzle she couldn’t see.
“One thing at a time,” Mick said, reading her thoughts. “We’ll start with Marnie and Convale. See where it leads.”
Jo managed a nod, feeling a flicker of relief. “Thanks for helping.”
They sat in silence, finishing their drinks, each lost in thought. The flickering light from a candle on the bar cast long shadows over them, blurring edges, hinting at secrets hidden in White Rock’s past.
Jo’s instincts told her one thing—nothing here was ever simple, and with every step they took, something darker loomed.