Page 12 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

Just think—this key was separated from Aiden Milano’s buns by a mere one or two layers of fabric, depending on whether he goes commando. My seventeen-year-old self would be over the moon.

“Thanks,” I say, smiling at him. “I’ll be there later. I’ve got a couple stops to make first.” Then, because I don’t know what to do with that look he’s giving me, I break eye contact and round the car, getting in without another glance at him.

When I look in the rearview mirror as I’m leaving the parking lot, though, he’s still watching me go—and the sedan that followed me here is gone.

* * *

My first stopafter Grind and Brew is Namaste, the yoga studio run by a man named Augustus Flanders. It wasn’t there when I was growing up, but I did see it when I was here for my mom’s funeral six years ago. I first got in touch with Augustus when I decided to move after the Blind Date Incident, and after sending him my certification, he told me he’d hire me when I came back to Autumn Grove.

The dream, of course, is to write full time. But even though I do bring in a decent amount from my indie sales every month, it’s not quite enough to live off of. I need something to supplement it. And if my sales begin to decrease, I’ll need to find something with more hours. Either way, a day job is my fate for now.

The yoga studio is on Center, above the hardware store. I have to walk up a narrow, dingy staircase to get there, but when I emerge from the stairwell, I’m greeted by a spacious room with lots of natural light. The hardwood floors are a warm, light brown, and the walls are a soothing cream color. There are plants hanging from several spots on the ceiling, making the whole place feel alive.

“Hello, hello!”

I spin around when I hear the greeting to find a large, muscular man—good grief, this guy ishuge,with muscles that can’t possibly be from yoga alone—striding toward me with his hand outstretched. He has on loose, comfy-looking pants and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and he’s smiling cheerfully in a way that makes the room seem even lighter than it already is.

“Hi,” I say quickly, shaking his hand—which is quite possibly the size of my entire face. “I’m Juniper Bean. We spoke over email and on the phone. You must be Augustus.”

“Call me Gus,” he says, and he’s still smiling as he goes on, “And I remember you. I’m happy to bring you on board; I need some help around here. Did you bring a copy of your certification? I can get that in your file, and then you can fill out the W-4 today if you’re ready. I’d love to have you start as soon as possible.”

“Yes,” I say. I hold back my sigh of relief, since it might seem unprofessional. But I was a little worried that he would somehow have changed his mind about hiring me or something. I pat my bag, using gentle hands so I don’t squish my scones. “It’s in here.”

“Excellent,” he says. Then he gestures to a closed door on the far side of the studio. “This way to the office, please!”

Wow. He’s so…happy. So cheery. Almost weirdly so. There’s even a spring in his step as he crosses the room ahead of me. Is he like this all the time? There’s no way, right?

But his good-natured smile remains in place the entire time he’s talking me through scheduling and hours, and it doesn’t even seem fake. He really just seems to be an upbeat, cheerful man—a bit of a strange guy, with all the smiling, but I’d rather have that than someone who frowns all the time. And interestingly enough, by the time I leave the studio, I’m also smiling happily.

But come on. I’ve got the job thing nailed down, and even though the yoga studio is small, it’s well-finished and full of a very positive energy that will create a great environment. How could I not be happy? It’s a huge stressor off my plate. Maybe Gus and I could even be friends, if he turns out to be a normal-enough dude.

When I get back to my car, I open my bag to make sure my scones are all right. Then I relax into my seat and buckle my seatbelt. I sit there for a minute, my fingers drumming on the steering wheel as I look aimlessly around. I note the store fronts, the passing cars, the car parked across the street—

My eyes jerk back to the parked car. I blink a few times, frowning. Then my phone buzzes, and I dig it out; it’s Roland, checking to see what I think of my new roommate. I don’t have an answer to that yet, so I exit the message without answering, placing my phone in the cupholder. Then I look back to the parked car—but it’s gone. I’m clearly imagining things.

Or hallucinating.

Or turning paranoid for absolutely no reason.

All good signs, I’m sure.

I shake my head and tuck my hair behind my ear. I know what’s going on here, really, and it’s not paranoia or hallucination or any of those things.

I’m stalling. I’m stalling, and my brain is filling in details to help me avoid the things I don’t want to confront. Because I have one more place to visit before I go to the house and get settled.

Can I put it off?

I could, I guess, but I’m not going to want to go tomorrow any more than I do today.

“No,” I say—talking to myself, and no shame about it—before I start the car. It rumbles to life with a few ominous-sounding clanks. “I need to get this over with.”

My drive takes me to the outskirts of town, to a medium-sized patch of land located smack dab between Autumn Grove and Valley Hills. It’s surrounded by a tall black fence that’s partially strangled by creeping vines, tendrils of green and brown and red that curl and suffocate the wrought iron. I’m not entirely sure the fence is necessary—why would people break into this graveyard? It’s not like there are any royal tombs to loot—but it is pretty, especially silhouetted against the gray skies.

I never had many opinions about graveyards until my mom died. Roland and I buried her body quietly, with no official funeral, in the cheapest plot we could find. After that I discovered that I actually like cemeteries. Autumn Grove’s cemetery is particularly beautiful this time of year. Yellows and oranges and browns dancing in the wind, a carpet of red leaves like blood staining the ground. It’s not bad, as far as resting places go.

My mother would probably approve, too. She wasn’t a warm woman, or a soft one, but she loved nature. I think she would like her little corner. I make my way there, walking slowly, not quite dragging my feet, but not making good time, either. This is the first time I’ve been back since her funeral, and I’m not sure I know what I’m doing here. Maybe I should have brought flowers. I wonder if Bonnie is still working at Bonnie’s Blooms, or if she’s retired and brought in someone else.

Even though I haven’t been here in six years, my feet seem to remember the path to my mom without having to engage my brain. They make lefts and rights on their own, crunching through the leaves and the grass until they’ve delivered me to my destination: a corner plot, marked by a small, simple headstone.

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