Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder: Special Edition, page 32
Personally, I think he’s telling the truth, at least about not being her father. Granted, I’m not an expert on body language or anything like that, and I don’t trust the honesty of a politician, but in this matter, he seems sincere—especially since he was so ready and willing to take the DNA test. He seems just as disturbed as Juniper does about what might have happened to her mother; it’s that, more than anything, that convinces me. It’s clear that he cared for Nora Bean.
News spreads fast about the disappearance of Sandra von Meller. Lionel’s clearly been successful in convincing Tonya to report her daughter missing; it’s all over the local news and in the local gazette. Sheriff Garrity calls Juniper and me in to give our statements, looking both sheepish and defiant, and I don’t hold myself back from giving him a swift dressing-down. Once I’m done with that, though, I tell him everything I know. Juniper takes even longer than I do when she talks to him, and by the time the two of us head home for the day, the sun is setting.
“I’m so tired,” Juniper says when we get inside. She throws herself face-first onto the couch, groaning on impact. “But my brain won’t shut up.” Her stocking-clad feet dangle off the edge of the sofa, wiggling to the beat of some unheard song. She’s got on a skirt made of corduroy, a dark red color, with a white turtleneck underneath. It doesn’t look comfortable, but I can admit it’s very her.
“I know,” I say, my voice grim. “Mine won’t either. We should try to get some sleep, though. Maybe take some Benadryl or something.”
“Meh,” she says, turning her head so that she’s looking at me. “I’ve got some insomnia medication somewhere. It makes me kind of loopy, but it works well.”
“Take that,” I say, nodding.
“I don’t like feeling groggy when I wake up.”
“Are you going to be able to sleep on your own?” Because I know I won’t. My mind is racing with everything that’s happened. I’m still having trouble reconciling my friend Rocco with Juniper’s potential psycho father Rocco.
“No,” she says in a dull voice. “I’ll stare at the ceiling and jump every time I see a shadow.”
I shrug. “Your call.” Then I sit down on the couch, right on top of her legs. “I’ll just rest here until you decide.”
She laughs, wiggling her legs. “You’re such a child.”
“Am I?” I say with a grin. I let her continue to muscle her legs back and forth until she finally manages to topple me off of her. I slide to the floor, still smiling. Then I look over my shoulder at her. She’s sitting up now.
“Hey,” she says, her eyes sparkling, her hair somehow extra pink. “I like you.”
“Yeah,” I say as my smile fades into something softer. “I like you too.” These aren’t words I’m used to saying; I don’t have these kinds of conversations. But this thing with Juniper…I’ve fallen into it. Slipped into it, really, with astonishing ease. Maybe because she found her way here first, and I simply held on for dear life while she dragged me along after her.
Her mind is magical, and her heart is strong.
How could I not follow her into whatever rainbow dimension she hurled us toward?
“Go to bed,” I say, reaching up and curling my fingers around hers. “Tomorrow is a new day.”
She nods and swings her legs off the couch. Then she stands up, lifting her arms high over her head as she stretches. It causes her shirt to ride up a few inches, and on her back I can just make out a hint of the tattoo that’s inked over her scar.
What if I hadn’t found her that day, all those years ago, digging through a dumpster for her breakfast? Would we still be sitting here like this? Would we have traveled separate paths?
Or would fate have brought us together in a different way?
“You look like you’re thinking big thoughts down there,” Juniper says, and I realize with a start that I’ve just been sitting here, staring up at her and zoning out.
“Do you believe in fate?” I say. I don’t know where the words come from.
“I believe in people,” she says, like my question isn’t strange at all. She holds her hand out to me, and I take it, letting her pull me to my feet. “I do believe in a higher power of some kind, but mostly I believe that people create their own luck and chances and fortunes.”
“What about soulmates?” I say, because I’m interested to hear her answer.
She smiles at me. “No,” she says. “I tend to think that almost any two people could be happy together if they were both determined enough. But”—she shrugs—“really, what do I know?” Her smile turns mischievous as she reaches up with both hands and pulls my face down to hers. “Why?” she says, planting a kiss on my lips. “Do you think we’re soulmates?”
I grin, prying her vice-like grip off of me. “That’s way above my pay grade.” I kiss her right palm, then her left. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Mmkay,” she says with a little smile. “I probably won’t be up before you leave.”
“That’s fine. Get some sleep.”
She nods, blows me a kiss, and then heads toward the stairs. I watch her until she’s disappeared from my view, a dopey smile on my face the whole time, like a lovesick fool.
I putter around in the kitchen for a bit after that, staring at our refrigerator, which still has all the notes we’ve made on it. That stresses me out, though, so I pace aimlessly instead. I open the fridge, peek in the pantry. Do a lap, then look again. Surprise, surprise, no new foods have magically appeared.
I look several more times anyway. Then, remembering something Juniper said, I pull out my phone.
“Ma,” I say when she answers.
“Oh, don’t call me that,” she says, and I picture her waving her hand at me. “You sound like one of those New Jersey Shores boys.”
“Jersey Shore,” I say, amused.
“Whatever it’s called. Those kids needed a parent or two,” she mutters.
I smile. “That’s actually why I called,” I say.
Silence.
“Not because of the show,” I say quickly. “It’s because—ah—I’m dating someone.” I stumble over the words, but I know my mother hears them, because she gasps.
“Is it this woman you’re living with?” she says. “Caroline—Caroline!” she shouts, and I stifle a groan. “Your brother has a girlfriend!”
From the background, barely audible, comes Caroline’s response: “It’s about time. Details!”
“No details right now,” I say firmly. I can’t handle that conversation at the moment. “I just wanted to let you know, because her mom has passed, so I told her she could borrow mine. I told her—” I clear my throat. “I told her my mom is pretty great.”
“Oh,” my mother says, her voice suddenly wobbly. “Oh, dear. Her mother passed away?”
I nod. “Years ago.”
“What about her father?”
I think of Rocco and Lionel Astor, frowning. “No father is in the picture.”
“Oh, dear,” my mother says again, and I can just picture her fretting. “That won’t do. Caroline? Caroline!” she shouts.
“What?” my sister’s voice says, sounding exasperated. “Why are you yelling? I’m right here.”
“Oh, sorry, sweetie; I didn’t realize. Just listen up. Aiden’s girlfriend—what’s her name?”
“Juniper,” I say, and Caroline echoes the same thing.
“Juniper,” my mother says. “Juniper needs a family. I want you to go over there tomorrow morning, Caroline, and tomorrow evening we can all have dinner together—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say quickly. “Slow down. She has a brother; they get along well. She’s not completely alone. So no one needs to come over here in the morning. And we’ve got a lot going on this week, so probably no dinner tomorrow.” Inexplicably, a lump has begun to form in the back of my throat, spurred by my mom’s immediate call to arms—no hesitation, no questions, just love. I swallow thickly. “I just meant that I’m dating her, and I like her, and I hope you’ll be welcoming. That’s—” I clear my throat, squeezing my eyes shut a few times to get rid of the sting. “That’s all I meant.”
“Oh,” my mother says, and her voice softens. “Of course, sweetheart. Of course we will. Although”—now her words turn stern—“we should discuss how you’re living in sin.”
I can’t help it; I smile.
She’s truly the greatest mother in the world.
When I’ve finally maneuvered the phone call to an end, I return to the living room and sink into my reading chair, swiveling just briefly to pull a book from my shelf. I grab one without looking, my mind lost to my exhausted thoughts.
I open the book and am pleasantly surprised to find that my random grabbing led me to Shakespeare once again; As You Like It this time. One of my favorites, actually. I begin to read, trying to force my brain to pay attention.
It’s slow going.
At some point, I hear several disconcerting thuds from upstairs; a few seconds later, Juniper blunders down the stairs, dressed in her pajamas. Her eyes are more closed than open, and she’s moving like a zombie.
“Juniper?” I say as she lurches dazedly into the bathroom, only barely missing the doorframe. But she doesn’t answer; she just closes the door behind her, and I look back to my book. We haven’t reached the converse-through-the-bathroom-door stage of our relationship yet. So I once more turn to my reading, trying to focus.
And I try hard. I cross my legs. Uncross them. Rest my ankle over my knee. I even manspread for a bit. But no matter what I do, I can’t get comfortable. And it’s not because my body is restless, either; it’s my mind. Pretentious as it might be, Shakespeare never fails to grab my attention. But tonight he’s falling short, and my brain is jumping to every whispered shadow I see, startling at the most innocuous of sounds. The slam of the neighbor’s car door, a dog barking, the refrigerator running; they all make me jump out of my skin.
I’m on edge.
Why am I on edge?
When I hear the sound of the front door lurching open, honest to goodness, I almost wet myself.
“Caroline,” I mutter, saying her name like a curse as I stand.
“Not Caroline.”
Two words, spoken in a soft voice. Friendly, even. But the hair stands up on the back of my neck, and it feels like someone has poured ice water into my lungs.
I hold back my sigh. I’m so dang tired; I do not need this today.
I look around grudgingly, hunting for anything that could be used as a weapon. My gaze scans the room and finds exactly nothing of use—why have I filled this home with unhelpful items like books and pillows and lamps?—so I turn on my heel to go to the kitchen instead.
Except my path has already been blocked—by Rocco freaking Astor.
My psycho murderous coworker, in my living room, holding—holding—is that a knife?
“Holy crap,” I say without thinking as my eyes narrow in on that blade. “Are you gonna stab me? Seriously?”*
All right. I would not be a good hostage negotiator.
But Rocco just barks a laugh, a sardonic, wheezing sound, before holding the knife up. It’s not huge, but it doesn’t need to be; that’s four inches of razor-sharp metal that will pop me like a balloon. Crap. I am not prepared for this.
“Hey,” I say, holding my hands up. “Let’s slow down, okay? That’s a pretty creepy knife you’re pointing at me. Can you put that away?”
“Sorry,” Rocco says with a shrug as he steps closer. “But no.” Then he sighs, and it’s the craziest thing I think I’ve ever seen; he’s looking at me like he always does. He looks completely normal, he sounds completely normal—except there’s a knife in his hand, and he’s very plainly threatening me with it. “But I told you, didn’t I?”
I clear my throat, shuffling backward toward the kitchen. “Told me what?”
Another laugh, casual and breezy. “I told you to stay out of it. I told you to stay away from my brother.” His smile vanishes as his eyes turn pleading. “Why didn’t you listen?”
And Rocco’s not a huge man, but something about the knife in his hand has elevated him to giant status. There’s also an uncomfortable feeling he’s giving off that makes me want to keep my distance even more—a weird cloud of chaos floating around him, like the dirt that surrounds Pigpen in the Charlie Brown comics. I skirt further back, trying to move slowly so I don’t set him off.
“Why didn’t you listen?” Rocco says again. His eyes, the same blue as Juniper’s, swim with unshed tears. “I like you, Aiden. You’re a great guy.”
Insane. He’s insane. And—holy crap—he might be my father-in-law one day.
My panicking brain takes this thought and runs with it. MY FATHER-IN-LAW IS INSANE, it screams. WHAT SORT OF FAMILY ARE WE MARRYING INTO?
No. Focus.
“Where is she?” Rocco goes on, wiping his eyes with the hand that isn’t holding the knife. “I like her too. This is so sad. Where is she? Her car was here.” He steps sideways and flings open my bedroom door, glancing inside only briefly before moving to the door of the coat closet. He throws that door open too, swearing under his breath when he sees the rows of jackets and piles of shoes.
My heart thunders in my chest as his eyes land on the bathroom door—behind which I know he’ll find Juniper, though I don’t know what she’s been doing in there all this time. I can only hope she’s heard what’s going on and is preparing herself.
Rocco grasps the doorknob and eases the door open, giving it a nudge so that it swings wide. He sticks his head in; I shuffle hastily to the side so I can see too.
And there, sitting on the toilet, naked as the day she was born from the waist down with her pants around her feet, is Juniper.
And she’s asleep.
That stupid sleep medicine. Why did I recommend it tonight, of all nights? Her head is propped in her hands, elbows on her knees, and she’s snoring slightly, her mouth gaping open.
“Juniper!” I shout, turning my body and slipping my hand into my pocket for my phone.
Juniper startles awake in a flurry of chaos, blinking rapidly and looking completely out of it. She peers up at Rocco and I, frowning. Then she reaches one hand out.
“Papa?”
Rocco yelps and scrambles backward, slamming the door shut, breathing hard, looking horrified.
For one eternal second, there’s complete silence, broken only by the sound of our breathing and Juniper’s clumsy stumbling on the other side of the door. Then Rocco rounds on me. My breath catches in my throat at the look on his face, and in that moment, it finally becomes real—it finally becomes undeniable.
This man is a killer.
Gone are the tears; gone are the twinkling eyes. No smile, no amusement. Just cold indifference and a maniacal gaze. He advances on me, the knife raised—
Just as Juniper bursts out of the bathroom.
“Hey!” she shouts drunkenly, jabbing her finger in Rocco’s direction as she stumbles toward him. “Hey. When someone is naked on the toilet, you don’t just burst in. That’s rude. It’s rude!”*
Rocco swivels away from me, holding the knife up in her direction instead. She gasps when she sees it.
“Hey,” she says again. “Hey—”
I yell an incoherent warning as Rocco takes a swipe at her. But her addled state has rendered her slow, and she doesn’t move in time—I watch with horror as the knife slices her upper arm. It begins bleeding immediately, and for a second, Juniper just stares at it in shock.
She blinks once. Twice. And then she looks back at Rocco.
“Hey!” she screams—and I do mean screams. “I am the fruit of your womb! You can’t stab me—give me that. Give me that!” She rushes at him, reaching for the blade with her bare hand, grabbing it and wrenching it from his grasp, which is clearly limp from shock.
Drug-addled Juniper is not the brightest Crayon in the box, but I’ll give her this: she’s fearless.
The whole scene plays out strangely. It’s not like an action sequence from a movie; there’s nothing rehearsed or choreographed or smooth about what’s happening. There’s no intense background music, no theatrical lighting. It’s all chaos and shouts and confusion by the light of my reading lamp. I’m screaming at Juniper not to grab a knife by the blade with her bare hand, Juniper is screaming at Rocco about how good fathers don’t try to murder their daughters, and Rocco is looking more and more confused by the second as his head whips back and forth between the two of us. There’s blood everywhere on Juniper—streaming from her hand, staining her shirt—and tears are streaking down her face.
“You killed them!” Juniper screams, dropping the knife and cradling her sliced hand to her chest. “People died! Get out. Get out! You’re not welcome in this house!”
“Ope,” I say quickly, holding my hands up. Then I look at Juniper. “Absolutely support you in however you choose to involve your father in your life, but we do sort of need him to stay here until the police come.”
“Oh,” she says, blinking at me. “Are the police coming?”
I glance at Rocco, whose face is running a wide gamut of colors and emotions. “I called them when we were bursting in on you in the bathroom.”
“Oh,” she says. “Okay.”
Rocco resembles nothing so much as a cornered animal now. He lunges for the knife on the floor, but Juniper turns and grabs from behind her the bust of Shakespeare that sits on my bookshelf.
My lovely, expensive, very heavy bust of Shakespeare.
I know a moment of both regret and relief—regret for the Bard, relief for my girlfriend—as Juniper brings the bust down on Rocco’s head just as he’s scrambling to his feet, knife in hand. It connects with his skull, giving a sickening crunch, and he falls immediately to the floor—still and silent.
“William,” I say faintly to the blood-smeared bust, cracked in half on the floor. “Did you kill my father-in-law?” I’m not sure I’m completely in my right mind anymore; in fact, I can feel my hands and legs shaking. I think I’m probably going into shock.
