Juniper Wiles, page 6
“Regardless,” Emma says, “it was enough to intrigue me. If I’m going to be honest, I found it amusing to consider that I was corresponding with one of my own characters—at least on the surface. It didn’t become disturbing until I realized he knew details about the character that I hadn’t even written into a rough draft.”
“A good con man,” Jilly says, “can be just vague enough for you to fill in the details in such a way that you don’t realize you’re doing it.”
“But what would be the point?” Emma asks. “Our correspondence was only about the books. It was cordial and he was charming—until he began pressing this absurd idea that I’d been somehow reporting on actual events taking place in some other world.”
“Did he ever say that he was from this other world?” Jilly asks.
“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s almost as outlandish as the idea of ghosts.”
Bobo suddenly lifts his head from Jilly’s lap. I turn to see Sophie come in. Jilly puts a finger to her lips, then points to the phone. Sophie nods and tiptoes across the room to the area where she works.
“I’m not saying the stories aren’t yours,” Jilly says, getting back to our phone call. “It’s just…I’ve had the experience where an artist creates such, I don’t know, let’s say true characters in their work that they can manifest in this world.”
“Are you listening to yourself?” Emma says.
I see Sophie turn to us, curiosity creasing her brow. I shrug as Jilly goes on.
“Okay, forget that. Can you tell us if there was anything in his correspondence to indicate that he was scared of something?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Jilly presses on. “What about this Palmer guy that he was warning Nora about?”
Emma sighs. “Please. This young man was sorely deluded. These are fictional characters.”
“Right. Of course. Well, you’ve been a big help, Emma.”
“I hardly see how. But I can certainly see how the art in your faerie book is so evocative. If one didn’t know better, one might think you were painting from life.”
I hold up a hand, palm out, to stop Jilly from responding.
“It was great to hear your voice again, Emma,” I say. “If you’re ever in Newford, give me a call and we can go out for some tea. I promise there won’t be any talk of ghosts and such.”
“Yes, well…” She pauses to clear her throat. “You’ve certainly given me some food for thought. Will you let me know how the case proceeds?”
I laugh. “It’s hardly a case.”
Jilly gives me a little huff, and Emma inadvertently backs her up.
“A young man is murdered and you’re trying to discover his killer,” she says. “What else would you call it?”
“I guess when you put it like that…”
“Be careful, Juniper,” Emma says. “I’m sorry, but I have to go now.”
“Thanks, Emma, we’ll be careful.”
We hear the click as she hangs up.
“What,” Sophie says as I cradle the phone, “was that all about?”
“The short version,” Jilly says, “is that we’re trying to figure out why a ghost wanted to hire Nora Constantine to take a case.”
“But Nora’s—”
Jilly nods. “Fictional.”
Sophie crosses over and sits down on the coffee table, facing us.
“You think he was a numena?” she says.
“Or something like. If he was a numena, somebody wouldn’t have had to physically kill him, would they?”
Sophie nods. “How would you kill a numena born from writing?”
I raise my arms and wave my hands in the air.
“Um, guys?” I say. “What are you talking about? What’s a numena?”
“It’s like I was telling Emma—who, by the way, you didn’t tell me was your bestie.”
“It was only on set and it was a long time ago. She always looked a little lost, and nobody else paid much attention to her. Don’t change the subject.”
“Numena,” Sophie says, “or at least the ones we know, are created when a certain kind of artist makes a painting that somehow brings the subject to real life.”
“You’re kidding me,” I say. But I don’t even have to look at their faces to know they’re serious—not after the past few days. “You’re not kidding me. Do you know any?”
“Well, Isabelle—” Sophie begins.
“—She’s a num…ah…what you said?”
“Numena. And no. She’s that rare artist that can bring them to life.”
“You know that crowd from the island that comes with her to FaerieFest?” Jilly says. “They’re all her numena and none of them are wearing costumes.”
Isabelle Copley used to be part of Jilly’s inner circle of friends before she moved back to Wren Island. The people Jilly’s referring to…well, I always thought they were amazing cosplayers.
“Wow,” I say.
“Plus the kids who live up in the attic with the brownies,” Sophie says. “Izzy and Kathy.”
“And you’ve met John Sweetwater,” Jilly adds.
“Ethan wouldn’t be a numena,” Sophie says, “but what about an Eadar?”
Jilly thinks about it
I look from one to the other. “Should I ask?”
“They’re another kind of being,” Jilly says. “They’re created out of imagination and exist only so long as someone believes in them—a lot of someones, normally, so that wouldn’t fit here because no one else is supposed to know about the Ethan Law who didn’t make it into Rohlin’s books or the TV show, except for Emma herself, her daughter and her agent.”
“According to Emma,” Sophie says.
Jilly nods. “This is true.”
“Oh boy.” I fall back against the sofa cushions and stare up at the ceiling.
“She’s only just figured out that the others of the otherworld are real,” Jilly tells Sophie.
Sophie puts a comforting hand on my knee. “It starts to feel normal way more quickly than you think it will.”
I tilt my head. “Yeah, I’m starting to get that. But is everything magic?”
“Jilly would say yes,” Sophie tells me, “but that’s only because she’s as amazed by a flock of birds all flying in perfect unison as she is by a faerie made of sticks.”
“The world is a magical place,” Jilly says. “Even without faeries and such.”
She stands up and hauls me to my feet again before giving my back a motherly pat. “Come on. Let’s go walk some dogs at the shelter before we interview Ethan’s boyfriend. Are you coming, Sophie?”
“Not today. I’ve got a workshop at the Arts Court this afternoon.”
“Have fun with that,” Jilly calls over her shoulder as she hustles me out of the studio. Bobo runs circles around us all the way down the hall. It makes for a weird dance, but somehow, both of us manage to avoid stepping on a paw.
Another volunteer has James today, so I get a bull terrier named Sonora while Jilly clips her leash to Charlie, a husky/shepherd cross with one blue eye and one brown. It makes him look very dashing. Bobo doesn’t wear a leash anymore—he hasn’t since Jilly brought him home. He trots right at Jilly’s feet as we head outside. I don’t think I’ve seen him farther than ten feet away from her since they first met at the shelter.
Unlike James, Sonora is skittish and I find her hard to handle. The more my anxiety goes up, the worse she gets. She’s not big, maybe forty pounds, and I’m stronger than a lot of people realize from looking at me, but I still feel like she’s about to pull my arm right out of its socket.
“Hold up,” Jilly says.
She squats down until she’s pretty much nose-to-nose with Sonora.
“Now listen, girl,” she says. “I know it’s horrible having to live in a jail when you never even did anything wrong, but we’re trying to break up your day here and give you some exercise and a little love. That’s not going to work if you can’t stop being pissy.”
Sonora’s ears and tail droop and she looks at the ground.
“So are you going to be a good girl instead and not freak Juniper out with all that pulling?”
Sonora looks up at Jilly, then tilts her head in my direction. After a moment she steps closer and licks my hand.
When we start walking again she’s as well behaved as Bobo.
“How do you do that?” I ask.
Jilly shrugs. “It’s just this gift I have.”
We take the dogs across the canal to Butler Common and let them romp around, all of us running in circles and chasing each other until we have to drop to the grass to catch our breath. Jilly pulls a collapsible dog bowl and a water bottle from the little army surplus shoulder bag that serves as her purse. She fills the bowl with water for the dogs then shares the rest with me.
There’s time for another crazy game of chase, but all too soon it’s time to take the dogs back. I feel a little pang in my heart when I say goodbye and find myself thinking about Sonora all the way to Ethan’s apartment.
The person who answers the door is pretty with short black hair, no makeup, and wearing a boy’s shirt and jeans. Yellow high tops poke out from under the rolled up cuffs. Their eyes are red from crying, but they brighten up a little when they see me standing in the hall outside her apartment with Jilly and Bobo.
“Oh my god,” they say. “You’re Nora Constantine.”
I don’t even bother to correct them.
“Are you…Edward?” I ask and he nods.
‘I can’t believe it’s you,” he says. “I tried to believe that it was true—Ethan was so persuasive—but it didn’t seem possible that you could actually step out of a book and just be walking around.”
“You’re aware they made a TV show based on the books?” I say. “You know—with actors and everything?”
He nods, but I don’t see him make the connection between the show and me. I shoot Jilly an exasperated look and she shrugs.
I clear my throat. “So,” I say. “Um, Ethan wanted me to look into a case for him, but unfortunately I wasn’t able to meet up with him until it was…too late.”
His eyes well up with tears.
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” Jilly says.
He nods, but says nothing.
“Do you mind if we come in?” I ask. “We wanted to talk to you a little bit about Ethan to see if we can figure out what happened to him.”
“Do you really think you can?” he says, dabbing at his eyes with his shirt sleeve. “The police have already been by and…you know. They asked a lot of questions that I couldn’t really answer because I didn’t know how.”
Jilly steps past me and steers Edward back into his apartment. “We’re certainly going to do our best,” she says.
I roll my eyes, but I’m still standing in the hallway and there’s no one to see. Even Bobo’s gone inside.
Ethan and Edward’s apartment is furnished thrift shop style. It’s a study in mismatches. Like how the floral pattern on the armchair clashes with the floral pattern on the sofa, both of which clash with the drapes and the worn Persian rug. There are lots of bookcases filled with DVDs and books, many of which have catalogue stickers on the spines, which shows that they came from library sales. A modestly sized flat screen TV stands on a beautiful antique walnut sideboard.
Jilly and Edward sit on the sofa. Bobo is the perfect gentleman dog, lying by Jilly’s feet.
“So when did you first realize something was wrong?” Jilly asks.
“He didn’t come home last Tuesday. I went around to all the usual places he’d go, then started calling friends. I went to the police on Wednesday, but at that point they weren’t concerned.”
Jilly nods. “A lot of people take off for a couple of days and then just show up again. Sometimes it’s drugs, sometimes it’s alcohol. Sometimes they’re having an affair.”
“Not Ethan,” Edward says. “He doesn’t do drugs or drink, and he’d never have an affair. He just disappeared until…until…”
Jilly pats him on the knee. “I know. It’s so hard, isn’t it?”
Edward gives her a grateful look, his eyes glassy once more.
“Can you think of any reason why someone would want to hurt Ethan?” Jilly asks.
I browse the bookshelves while Edward shakes his head.
“So he wasn’t having problems with anyone?”
“No one would want to hurt him,” Edward says.
“Then why do you think he wanted Nora’s help?”
Edward sits a little straighter. “He wouldn’t tell me. He told me everything, but he wouldn’t say why he needed to see Nora—just that he did.”
Jilly nods thoughtfully.
“Can I use your bathroom?” I ask.
Edward nods and points down the hall. As I go by, I take a quick peek into their bedroom. There are bookshelves in there. Jilly’s still talking, so I slip in, do a fast scan of the titles, then tiptoe back out of the room. I close the bathroom door quietly, wait a few moments before flushing, then run some water in the sink.
“If you can think of anything that could help,” Jilly’s saying as I come back to the living room, “will you give us a call?”
She writes her number on a page in her notebook, tears it out and sets it on Edward’s knee.
“How did Ethan come to know about me?” I ask.
Jilly was starting to get up, but she gives me a curious glance, drops back onto the sofa, and looks at Edward.
“I don’t know exactly,” he says. “But he probably discovered the show back when he was in Santa Feliz.”
“At the community college,” I say.
Edward nods.
“Do you know what happened to his cell phone? Do the police have it?”
“He would have had it with him, so I suppose they must.”
“Of course,” I say. “Well, thanks so much for your time.”
I walk to the door. It’s not until we’re walking down the stairs , Bobo in the lead, that Jilly asks me, “What was all that about?”
“They don’t have any of the Nora books or DVDs in the apartment. Maybe they only have digital copies, but seeing the rest of their stuff, it doesn’t seem likely. Don’t you think that’s odd for someone who was so into her?”
Jilly nods. “And didn’t Nick say he bought whatever Nora stuff came into the bookstore?”
“He did. So where is it all?”
“Good question. Maybe at his office?”
“What office?”
“Edward told me Ethan had an office while you were off having your wee.”
“My ‘wee’? Who says that anymore?”
Jilly smiles.
“And I wasn’t having a wee. I was snooping.”
“For clues.”
I sigh. “Yes, for clues. Did Edward tell you where the office is?”
“He gave me the address and the keys so that we can go have a look. Apparently Ethan’s Nora Constantine obsession got to be a bit too much to keep all the stuff in their apartment so he rented this place to store it.”
She hands me a pair of keys and waves me off when I try to hand them back. “You might as well hang on to them,” she says. “You know me and how things can get lost.”
“Did Edward say what he did in this office?” I ask.
“He did a lot of buying and selling of Nora memorabilia so I guess that’s where he did it. He said he didn’t tell the police about it.”
“Did he say why?”
She shakes her head. “Why were you asking about his phone?”
“Anyone could have sent Nick that text. All they’d need is Ethan’s cell.”
Jilly gives me a broad grin. “And here you thought you weren’t a proper detective.”
I aim an elbow in her direction but she dodges it easily.
“Where to now?” she asks as we step out onto the street.
“You’re probably going home to sign prints,” I say. “Or not,” I add at her look of mock horror.
“And you?” she asks.
“I’m going to work out at O’Shaunessy’s.”
I do some cardio, some weights, then wrap my hands and work the heavy bag, punching and kicking until my T-shirt is soaked and my muscles ache.
“I wouldn’t want to be whoever pissed you off,” a voice says behind me.
I turn to find Pearse O’Shaunessy sitting on a bench behind me, a big smile on his lips. I guess he’s well into his sixties by now. He’s stocky with a thick neck and a full head of white hair. But old or not, he could probably still whup half the kids who work out here, including me.
I come over to where he’s sitting and do my cool-down stretches by the bench, first one leg, then the other. Shoulders, neck, arms.
“I’m not mad at anybody,” I tell him when I finally sit down. “I just needed to blow off some steam.”
He hands me a towel, which I drape around my neck.
“Coulda fooled me,” he says.
“I’m just confused about a bunch of things.”
He laughs. “Welcome to the world.”
“Yeah, well…”
I wipe my face with the towel, then let it fall back around my neck. I turn to look at him.
“Do you believe in magic?” I ask.
“In my world, not so much. But are you still hanging with Jilly Coppercorn and her crew?”
I nod.
“In her world, I think maybe, yeah. Do you know Sam Cray? He’s with the NPD.”
I shake my head.
“He runs this task force that looks into—oh, crap, I don’t know. Weird shit.”
“The Spook Squad,” I say.
“So you have heard of him.”
“Not really. The name of the squad just came up in a recent conversation.”
Pearse nods. “He and some of his team work out here—usually at night when there’s no one else around. I stay late for them, get caught up on my paperwork, but I hear them talking to each other about the things they deal with.”
He looks across the room for a long moment, lost in thought.
“Magic?” I try.
“Kind of. More like monsters. The things you don’t want to believe exist.”
“Huh.”
He stretches out his legs, leans back against the wall. “So I guess maybe I do.” He turns to look at me. “Have you seen something?”
