Page 107 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

“You’re right,” he says. He frowns. “That sounds awful.”

I nod. Then I take a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

“I’m glad you showered and changed out of your yoga clothes,” Aiden says as he follows me up the brick steps.

Me too. I don’t necessarily care what Lionel’s opinion of me is, but I’d like to at least feel good about myself when I’m coming in at such a disadvantage.

A nice-looking lady answers the door when we knock, but her niceness is thrown into question when she gives us a quick once-over, sniffs, and then swings the door open wide and retreats without waiting. I hurry in after her, Aiden at my heels.

“This is most irregular,” she says over her shoulder. “I advise you not to make such visits a habit. Mr. Astor is a very busy man.”

“We won’t,” I murmur, taking in every inch of the place I can see. It’s decorated in deep reds and golds, heavy fabrics and brocade—sumptuous and gaudy, somehow sucking in the natural light and making it feel darker than it really is. It’s not someplace I would want to live, or even work. But maybe Lionel Astor likes that stifled, starchy feeling?

The lady leading us slows to a stop in front of a set of wooden doors, imposing and intimidating. She knocks twice, and a deep voice immediately responds:

“Enter.”

Seriously. That’s what he says. NotCome in, orIt’s unlocked. JustEnter.

“This man might be more pretentious than you,” I say over my shoulder to Aiden, who looks affronted.

“I’m not pretentious—”

“Bust of Shakespeare,Hamleton the weekends, collector’s editions,” I say, ticking items off on my fingers.

“There’s nothing pretentious about collector’s editions—”

But he falls silent when the lady clears her throat loudly, giving us a stern, pointed look. I guess she wants us, her audience, to be paying attention when she opens these crazy-big fancy-pants doors. So I nod with more deference than I feel, and she turns the handles, swinging the doors open wide.

And look. The interior of Lionel’s house is kind of the worst. But I have to admit: the man knows how to decorate a study.

There are floor-to-ceiling windows and warm wood paneling and bookshelves,somany bookshelves, lined with books in every size and color. It’s not quite Belle’s library in the beast’s castle, but it’s still gorgeous.

Aiden, the snob, looks impressed against his will, and I can see his gaze eating up those bookshelves. I bet he wants to explore just as badly as I do.

Unfortunately, we are not here to explore. We are here to talk to the man seated behind the mahogany desk at the head of the room.

He doesn’t stand up to greet us, even after the lady who brought us in has left and closed the door behind her. He just looks up, over the top of his glasses, and gestures to the chairs opposite his own.

“Hi,” I say, because someone has to say something. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

Lionel Astor’s bright blue eyes trail slowly over me and then Aiden. “I figured if I turned you away today, you would show up again another time,” he finally says, setting down the pen in his hand. “If you’re anything like your mother, that is.”

Aiden snickers under his breath, but I just nod.

“I’m not much like my mother, but you’re probably correct,” I say.

Lionel sighs. “Sit,” he says, once again pointing to the chairs. “And tell me what this is about. I don’t have a lot of time, so please be brief.” He reaches for the glass of water at the edge of his desk.

So I settle into my chair, and Aiden does the same. I take a deep breath.

And then I drop my bomb—keeping it brief, like he asked.

“It is my belief that you are either my father or my uncle.”

In hindsight, maybe I should have waited to speak until he wasn’t in the middle of taking a drink. But it’s too late now; I watch as the water he’s just drunk appears to go down the wrong pipe. He begins coughing, wheezing and choking and turning beet red.

Aiden rolls his eyes and then stands up slowly, rounding the desk. He thumps Lionel on the back several times, way harder than necessary. “Your delivery could use work,” he says to me.

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