Page 7 of Breaking Rules

“That smells delicious.” Kevin craned his neck to see the pie across the room on Jo’s desk.

Lucy must have thought so, too, because she stood, stretched, and sniffed the air.

“Don’t worry, I have one for you all to share too.” With a flourish characteristic of her warm personality, Bridget revealed her next surprise: a ricotta pie with a mouthwatering golden crust and creamy filling. She set it down on the edge of Kevin’s desk.

Reese, who had come in to join them, leaned over the pie. “That looks amazing, Bridge.”

“Thanks. I made a special one for you since I know you love coconut cream.” Bridget’s smile broadened as she handed it over, acknowledging the friendship that had blossomed between them.

Reese, ever practical, fetched paper plates, and the team gathered around to enjoy the pies.

The atmosphere in the office shifted from the usual high-stakes tension to a lighter, more relaxed mood.

Sam leaned back in a chair and let out a breath. “Well, I guess that was supper.” He patted his stomach.

“Speaking of which.” Reese glanced at her watch and then turned to Bridget. “Do you want to eat at the diner with me tonight?”

“That sounds great.” Bridget smiled, her gaze cutting quickly over to Kevin, who was engrossed in his piece of pie.

Sam wondered what that was about but didn’t ask.He stood and grabbed Lucy’s leash. “We might as well call it a day. Hopefully, we’ll get into Alex’s apartment tomorrow. That might reveal something. Thanks for the pie, Bridget.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Jo’s steps crunched on the frostbitten path leading to Garvin McDaniels’s house. The air nipped at her cheeks, a harsh whisper of the season’s turn.

Garvin’s house was remote, surrounded by fields and forest. The old farmhouse had seen better days. Paint was peeling, and a few porch balusters were missing. Yet it looked better than it had the last time Jo had been here. Now that it was blanketed under a blanket of snow, the house seemed to reclaim some of its lost dignity, its weed-infested lawn mercifully hidden from view.

As she drew closer, a knot of apprehension tightened in Jo’s stomach. She hoped Garvin wouldn’t mind her stopping by. He had refused to sell to her, mentioning that he’d also refused Marnie Wilson, who had expressed interest too. Hopefully, Marnie didn’t have something more persuasive than pie.

Jo approached the door and knocked.

Garvin opened the door, his expression shifting from surprise to a warm welcome. “Sergeant Harris, what brings you here?” he asked, his eyes landing on the pie.

“Please call me Jo. I thought you might like some homemade apple pie,” Jo said, offering it to him. The scent of the pie seemed to fill the space between them, a symbol of her goodwill.

Garvin accepted the pie, a smile touching his lips. “Thank you, Jo. That’s very kind of you. Please come in.”

In Garvin McDaniels’s modest living room, Jo settled into an armchair, its fabric worn from years of use. The room was a capsule of memories, the furniture holding the imprints of a family’s history. On the walls, photographs in faded frames told stories of joyous gatherings, holidays, and milestones. Each image was a window into Garvin’s past, a life rich with moments now frozen in time.

Garvin, sitting across from her, gestured toward one of the photos. “That’s my Essie,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of pride and lingering sorrow. “She’s been gone five years, but it feels like just yesterday.”

Jo followed his gaze to the photograph, noting the way Essie’s laughter seemed to echo through time. “How long were you married?” she asked softly, her voice respectful in the hallowed space of Garvin’s memories.

“Would have been fifty years this spring,” Garvin replied. His voice, tinged with sadness, barely rose above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the delicate balance of the past and present.

“Do you have kids?” Jo inquired, her curiosity gentle but genuine.

Garvin nodded. “Yes, but they live far away. Got their own lives.” His glance drifted, momentarily lost in thoughts of distance and time. Then he suddenly brightened, his eyes lighting up with a new thought. “How about some pie?” he offered, a hint of enthusiasm creeping into his voice.

Jo had initially planned not to stay long, but observing his lifted spirits at the prospect of sharing the pie, she decided to stay. It was clear he could use the company.

Garvin carefully pulled out china dessert dishes from the cabinet, his best, no doubt reserved for special occasions. Together, they moved to the kitchen table, a sturdy, well-used piece surrounded by chairs that bore the patina of many years.

Jo sensed the depth of his loneliness, his attachment to the cottage now more understandable. It was more than a building; it was a vessel of memories, of a life he had shared with his wife.

Garvin cut two pieces of pie and slid a plate in front of her. “Coffee?”

“That would be great. Black is fine.”

---