Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder: Special Edition, page 10
“Garrity? There’s a dead body out here in the woods behind the high school,” I say. My words are short, clipped, and they sound strangely detached. Like my mouth is disconnected from my brain.
Garrity swears. “What do you mean, a dead body?”
“Just what it sounds like,” I say, rubbing my temples. “There’s a girl back there with a ton of blood on her face. I’m pretty sure she’s a student.” I take a seat on the plinth of the Solomon statue, feeling the cold from the stone seeping through the fabric of my pants. Juniper is sitting next to me, shivering uncontrollably; I think she might have gone into shock.
I listen only partially as Garrity shouts out frantic orders on the other end; when Juniper’s teeth start to chatter, I shrug off my suit coat and pass it to her.
“Did you touch anything?” Garrity says when he returns on the line.
“Yes,” I say. “Sorry. I didn’t touch the body, but Juniper—my roommate—she might have; she fell over. She vomited, too. And we definitely walked around the area.”
Garrity grumbles but doesn’t gripe about it; he just tells me to stay where I am until he shows up. So Juniper and I sit there, shivering in the cold, our heads tilted back against Solomon the Spud’s potato body. And when Garrity shows up with a couple of squad cars fifteen minutes later, I recount to him everything that happened—the anonymous note, finding the body, Juniper throwing up and falling to her knees, and coming back here to wait.
By the time I’m done talking, Garrity’s pudgy face is set into a grim frown. He just gives me a nod, casts a sympathetic look at the still-shivering Juniper, and then calls for his people to follow him. They disappear into the trees a few seconds later.
We wait for what feels like an eternity. There are still a few cars in the parking lot, from what I can see, but it will be mostly faculty left behind to clean up. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing right now. And I desperately wish that’s where I was—grumbling as I throw away yards of plastic tablecloths and yanking streamers down from doorways. Instead I’m here, sitting next to Solomon the Spud with my still-in-shock roommate, trying to process the dead body I just witnessed. Judging by the fact that Juniper is barely coherent right now, her brain is already working on the processing thing, but I don’t think mine is yet. It doesn’t quite feel real. I think hearing from Garrity will help.
When he appears from the tree line, I stand up, my hands shoved anxiously in my pocket as I wait for him.
His gaze finds mine, though, and a strange spike of anxiety embeds itself in my lungs. He’s giving me a funny look, one I don’t like. His footsteps fall heavy and slow on the carpet of leaves as he approaches.
“I don’t know how to tell you this,” he says haltingly when he reaches Juniper and me. He looks back and forth between us before his eyes settle on me. “But there’s no body back there.”
I blink, and next to me Juniper shoots to her feet. “What?”
Garrity sighs, sending his mustache fluttering. “We found a bit of blood, but not much. We found the vomit too, in a separate area. But in the trees back there, where you pointed?”
I nod as the fingers of foreboding tiptoe down my spine, and Garrity continues.
“We’ll search the grounds tonight. But nothing is back there. There’s no body, Aiden.”
* Little side relationships like this are some of my favorite things to write. Bickering siblings, friends, and so on—people who love each other and are completely themselves with each other. I adore Caroline and her relationship with Aiden, especially because I have a younger brother myself.
* This is the dress Juniper is wearing in the character art featured in this special edition, done by the incomparable Mary Watson.
* This is another random line that I cackled while writing. I can picture Aiden’s exact expression.
* I try to give each of my characters their own signature scent, because the five senses help ground the reader in the story, and I want that immersion.
* Description taken straight from my memory of high school dances.
* Although Rocco’s hair is dark, I picture someone like Kenneth Branagh for him; an easy smile and cheerful countenance.
* Can you even imagine? What an odd sight he would be.
* I struggled with the timeline for this book, and specifically for this genre, because in a murder mystery, characters should generally discover the dead body early on—earlier than eight chapters in. But because this is also a romance, and because the mystery encompasses the past as well, the timeline had to be tweaked a bit.
9
IN WHICH AIDEN REGRETS SAYING YES
Isleep in later than normal the next morning, due to the horror-tinged nightmares that keep me tossing and turning for most of the night. This is my first interaction with a dead body, so I can’t say for certain, but I’d hazard a guess that nightmares are pretty normal in a situation like this; Juniper probably had them too. I was able to keep calm last night—though when I was brushing my teeth before bed, my face was as pale as I’d ever seen it—partly because the reality hadn’t sunk in.
Now, though, in the light of day, the truth seems undeniable: that was a dead body in the woods behind Solomon the Spud. It was a girl. And even though she had vanished by the time Garrity got there, I know what I saw.
I shiver thinking about this; for someone to have moved the body in the fifteen minutes before the sheriff arrived, they must have been there when we found her. That doesn’t sit particularly well with me.
And I think she was a student. A student. What was her name? I don’t have keys to the school, but surely I can find out somehow. Right?
I force myself out of bed—and away from these thoughts—and move to the en suite bathroom. I pause partway through brushing my teeth to scrub at a few spots on the mirror with my sleeve; then I continue, splashing an extra bit of cold water on my face when I’m done. Despite the water and the late morning, though, there are still dark circles under my eyes, and my hair looks especially unkempt.
I’m looking a bit more human by the time I get out of the shower, though. I pull on some jeans and a sweater and then head out of my room.
I’m not sure what Juniper is going to be like today, but I’m a little nervous to find out. Everyone reacts to trauma differently. Will she still be in shock like she was last night? Will she be calm? Hysterical? Somewhere in between? I’m not sure I can handle a hysterical Juniper.
I scrub my hand over my scruff as I think about that, my steps slower and warier as I approach the living room and kitchen areas. What would a hysterical Juniper even look like? Similar to how she was when we first saw the girl?
Crying. There would be lots of crying.
By the time I reach the living room, I’m ready for just about anything. She might shout, she might cry, she might be catatonic—I’ve talked myself through all these possibilities, as well as formulated a plan for each one. Most of those plans involve a desperate call to Caroline followed by a swift exit on my part.
When I spot my pink-haired roommate, though, all those plans and possibilities fly out of my head as I try to make sense of what I’m seeing.
Juniper is standing in the middle of the room, her eyes narrowed in concentration. She’s wearing…well. I don’t even know what she’s wearing. It’s some sort of ode to Halloween—black leggings patterned with white ghosts, an oversized orange sweatshirt, and one of those headbands that has two long springs coming off the top. The springs are attached to little pumpkins, which dance wildly with every little move she makes. There’s a slightly manic gleam in her eyes that has me approaching slowly, my hands outstretched in a placating gesture. I come in peace, those hands say. Don’t bite me.
“Hey,” I say, my voice deceptively calm. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” she says breathlessly. “Good. It’s going good.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, concealing my skepticism as I nod and look around. There are fall decorations strewn everywhere, an explosion of fabric leaves and red-orange garlands and fake pumpkins. There’s also an honest-to-goodness twig tangled in Juniper’s hair—how on earth did that even get there?—so that it looks like she’s just tumbled out of a tree. Her shirt, I also notice, is on inside out.
It could not be clearer that nothing is good with this woman right now. I don’t blame her; I’m not feeling good either.
“So,” I say. I try to keep my voice conversational rather than accusing or confrontational. “Where did you get all of this?”
“At the store,” she says distractedly. She’s still got that feverish spark in her eyes as her gaze ping-pongs around the room. She tilts her head, considering something, which makes the little pumpkins on her headband flop sideways.
I look at my watch, frowning. “Already? It’s only nine-forty-five. When did you have time to go to the store?”
Juniper puts her hands on her hips and rolls her eyes. “It’s almost ten, Aiden. Some of us have been panic breathing since six. Every time I close my eyes, I see—I see that—” She swallows, her gaze shuttering briefly, before aiming a bright smile at me. “Well, anyway,” she says. “I just needed something to distract myself.”
“That’s fair,” I say slowly. I’m not sure I want a distraction myself—I need to know who this girl was—but I understand the desire.
“I tried to write,” she says, grabbing the length of garland in a pile at her feet and holding it up. “But I’m sort of stuck on this scene.”
“Do you write books?” I say, blinking at her with surprise.
“I do, yeah,” she says. She begins running her hands down the length of the garland, searching for the end. “I teach yoga to pay the bills, but I write too.”
“I thought you didn’t like that stuff—reading and writing.”
“When you knew me, I didn’t. But you did a good job tutoring me.” The smile she gives me now is more real than the one she tried to force out before; it’s soft, grateful, reminiscent. “Really, you’re the reason I ended up learning that I love to write. It’s what I studied in college. I got my yoga-teaching certification alongside it, but in my dream world, I would just be able to write full time.”
“Huh,” I say, nodding. I can’t say I’m not impressed. She’s right; when I was tutoring her, she really struggled in her English class. “What do you write?”
“Ha!” she says, holding up the other end of the garland in triumph. “Found it.” Then she looks at me. “Well, I used to write romance—oh, wait.” She wrinkles her nose. “You’re probably a literature snob, right?”
“A little,” I admit. “But I’m not the kind of person who thinks romance is trash. I think there’s a place for well-written romance. No one said all books have to be deep and moving all the time.”
She shakes her head. “That’s true, but look—you’re already assuming that romance isn’t deep or moving.”
I stare at her, lost for words. She’s right, I realize; I completely made that assumption. But it’s not correct, is it? Sure, some love stories are superficial, but the same can be said of any genre.
“But romance can be deep. It can be moving,” she goes on.
“You’re right,” I say grudgingly. “I stand corrected.”
“Anyway, I used to write romance, but now I’m trying to write a murder mystery—a decision I made before the events of last night, believe it or not. But I’m only in the first scene, and I’m already stuck.”
I nod. “Well, good luck.” I cast one last glance around the living room. “And don’t leave it messy like this, please. Finish decorating now that you’ve got all this stuff.” With that I turn and head back to my bedroom, where it looks like I’ll be hiding for a while longer now that fall has exploded in my living room. I don’t want to get roped into decorating—
“Hang on,” Juniper says, and I freeze.
Crap.
“What?” I say, not turning around.
“You know,” she says slowly, and I can hear the soft padding of her footsteps as she approaches from behind. She sounds far too calculating for my peace of mind. I shove my hands in my pockets, preparing to stand my ground.
When she steps past me and into my line of sight once more, I sigh. Her eyes are narrowed in consideration, and she’s giving me a blatant full-body scan—a slow perusal that leaves me feeling too warm.
“Stop it,” I croak.
For a second, she doesn’t respond; she still seems to be deep in thought. But then her gaze finds mine again, and she nods, causing the pumpkins on her headband to dance once more. She looks like she’s just made a decision. “Hey,” she says. “Do you want to help me research something?”
“I really don’t,” I say quickly. “At all.”
“Please?” she says, grabbing my arm when I take another step toward my bedroom. “Help me just a little bit? It really won’t take long at all.”
“Use the internet,” I say firmly.
“I tried!” she says. Her hand tightens on my arm, and good grief—where did she get a grip that strong? “But this is more of a hands-on research thing. Come on,” she adds, her voice wheedling now. “I need a distraction. Don’t you?”
This is sounding more and more dangerous by the second. And I am clearly insane, because my mind starts running through all the things she could mean by distraction, and most of them involve the two of us in compromising positions.
My stupid brain. I don’t want that kind of relationship with Juniper. I don’t want any kind of relationship with Juniper.
“Please,” she says once more. “I need a distraction. I think being with another person will help.” She gestures to the explosion of decorations around the living room. “This isn’t really helping. Please.”
It’s that last please that does it. Because her voice cracks when she speaks, and her big, blue eyes seem glossier than usual. Those stupid pumpkins are still bobbing this way and that on her headband, and her inside-out sweatshirt advertises loudly that this is a woman possibly unhinged.
Crap.
“Fine,” I say, sighing. “Fine. Just for a little bit, okay? What do you need help with?”
Her eyes brighten. “Thank you, thank you! And it’s really nothing much,” she says. “I just need your body.”
I swallow.
“I hate you so much.”
“I know,” Juniper says soothingly from where she’s standing over me. “Lift your left foot a little bit more?”
I comply, glaring at her. “So, so much.”*
“I know,” she says again. “It will all be over soon, okay? Now I’m going to try to drag you by the ankles.”
As it turns out, the research help Juniper needs is figuring out how her female killer would move a body.
And guess who was stupid enough to agree to be that body?
I’m lying supine in the middle of the living room floor, glaring up at the ceiling. The fall decorations have all been moved to the couch, so it’s just me down here, feeling ten kinds of foolish. Juniper has both of my ankles held in her weirdly strong grip. She’s repainted her fingernails, I notice dully; they were black before, but now they’re a vibrant pink.
“Okay,” she says, taking a deep breath. “Ready?”
“No.”
She ignores this. “Here I go.” She heaves, and with a decent amount of force, she begins pulling me. I slide slowly along the hardwood floor as she moves backward, her face screwed up with concentration. Despite her efforts, though, I continue to move at roughly the rate of a migrating ice cap.
I think I’d rather be the ice cap.
After only a few seconds of this, Juniper stops. She drops my feet without warning, causing both heels to bang painfully against the floor, and then bends over, panting slightly.
“That’s not ideal,” she says.
“No,” I agree, still glaring. I sit up, rubbing my heels. “It’s not.”
“Let’s try the firefighter’s carry.”
My jaw drops. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I never kid about dead bodies.” I can tell she says this without thinking, because a second later, her mouth snaps shut, and she looks at me, her eyes widening in horror. “Aiden,” she whispers, sinking to the floor next to me and looking dazed. “We saw a dead body last night.” She hesitates, then adds, “Right?” She turns her beseeching gaze on me. “We didn’t imagine that, right?”
“No,” I say heavily. “We didn’t imagine it.” I’m not sure my imagination could conjure up such a vivid mental image.
Juniper settles into a cross-legged position, playing with the hem of her Halloween leggings as she says, “If the body was gone by the time the sheriff went to look for it, that means whoever moved it was probably watching us the whole time, waiting for us to leave.”
I swallow, rubbing my hand absently over my scruff. “I thought of that too,” I admit. How close were we to a potential killer last night? How close did we come to being hurt ourselves?
And what would have happened if Juniper had gone by herself?
Next to me, Juniper shudders—almost like she’s read my thoughts. On her headband, the little pumpkins wave back and forth. Then she claps her hands on her knees. “Nope,” she says. “I can’t sit here and think about this. It will drive me insane. Come on; up. Fireman’s carry.”
I can’t believe this is how I’m spending my Sunday, but I play along anyway—mostly because Juniper is still looking iffy. “If I’m a dead body, shouldn’t I stay on the ground?”
“Oh, good point,” she says without missing a beat. “Right. Okay. Lie down, then.” She considers me for a second before adding, “On your stomach, I think.”
She stands up while I lie face down in the middle of the floor, re-evaluating all my life choices.
“Hang on,” she says, and I turn my head to see her grabbing her phone from the couch. “I need to look up how to do this properly.” She bites her lip, her eyes narrowed as she begins typing. I watch as she scrolls and taps for a couple minutes, an image of bizarre contradictions—her face looks so serious, but those pumpkins on her headband are still wobbling to and fro on their springs, and her shirt is still noticeably inside out.
