Page 13 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

I stand and stare at that headstone for probably three full minutes before I finally approach.

I don’t believe in ghosts; not like you see them in the movies and horror stories. But now, settling myself in the cold grass in front of this tombstone, I can’t help but imagine my mother making this corner her own—a welcome mat and lights woven through the tree branches, rearranging plots when she gets bored of the layout, playing house in a way she never did when she was alive. It’s a nice image, though one that I will keep to myself forever. I think we all think about weird things sometimes, but we’re never sure exactly how weird other people are, and we don’t want to give ourselves away for fear that we’re the strangest one in the room.

I sigh, letting myself slump a bit as I pick at the grass. The holes in the knees of my jeans are letting in more cold air than I’d like, but this is something I promised myself I’d do.

“Hi, Mama,” I say, staring at a mossy spot on the headstone. “I’m back.”

The weight of expectation sits heavily on my shoulders as I continue to look at the mossy spot. I’m grateful that it’s caught my attention; it gives me something to focus on while I try to organize my thoughts.

“I’m not sure exactly what I want to say, except…” My voice trails off as I pull more aggressively at the grass in front of me, blade by blade, chipped black nail polish and shaking hands. I clear my throat. “Except I guess…I’m angry. I’m trying not to be, but I am. But now that we’re living in the same town, it sort of feels like we’ll need to get along, I guess. So that’s why I’m here. To tell you that we need to get along.”

I’m rambling, and if anyone could hear me, they’d probably think I was a crazy woman, carrying on a one-sided conversation with a tombstone. But I’m not sure anyone can be judged by what they say to their deceased. We all keep the dead in our own ways; they never leave us. Not really. The parting of life from a body can never erase memories or teachings or likenesses.

I’m just one of the people that talks to her dead, I guess. I’m okay with it.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and go on, “In spite of everything, I’m doing pretty well. And I’m going to keep doing well. Everything you put me through—it hasn’t held me back.” I squeeze my eyes tightly to rid myself of the tears trying to fall.

I don’t know how it’s possible to miss someone and resent them, to love them and hate them all at the same time. To be glad they’re gone and simultaneously wish they were still here. The human brain is little more than three pounds and can be held in two cupped hands, but the emotions it produces are so big, so nebulous and tangled. And sometimes those tangled emotions feel like thorny brambles that I’ve stumbled and fallen into, scraped knees and scarred palms that constantly remind me of the past.

How much of that past do I keep? How much do I let go? And how do I separate the two?

My mother was consumed by her past, though she never shared any of it with me. She would type away for hours at a time on her old laptop, writing stories she wouldn’t let me read; when I was older, she would promise.Maybe someday.Telling her truths, she called it. But she hid those truths from me.

Now that she’s dead, now that I have them in my possession, I don’t want them. And I try to forget about them until I can work up the nerve to throw them away.

“Anyway,” I say with another sigh. I finally stop tearing at the grass—at this point I’ve created a bald patch that the landscaper surely will not thank me for—and lift one hand to the headstone, running my fingers over the grooved letters proclaiming Nora Bean a beloved mother. The stone is cold and rough, but that suits Nora. She’s not a marble kind of woman. “I guess I just wanted to tell you that. That I’m doing my best to thrive, and that I’m trying to let go of the past.” I swallow again. “I’m not sure when I’ll come back, or even if I’ll come back at all,” I say frankly. “So behave yourself, all right?”

I can almost imagine my mother laughing at the request. She was a defiant personality; asking her to behave wouldn’t have done much. I was the same way in high school, but I like to think I grew out of it; I’m not sure she ever did.

I sigh, looking around at the weak sun trying to peek through the clouds overhead. I don’t know what to do now; I don't know where to go or who to be when I get there. Rooming with someone from my past is a development I didn’t see coming, and I’m not sure how to play it; I don’t want to expend energy and effort trying to be the person he remembers, because I’m not that girl anymore. But it’s also sort of scary being truly myself in front of someone that was so important to me at one time, no matter how simple my feelings for him were.

“You know what?” I mutter to myself, shifting where I sit and leaning sideways so that the headstone props up my weight. “I’m just going to stay here for a while.” I dig in my bag—being careful of my scones, of course—and pull out my headphones. They were cheap, and it shows; the plastic casing on the wires is starting to strip in some places, and the left earbud plays at about half the volume of the right. But they get the job done, so I’m fine with it. I put them in and connect them to my phone, going to my classical playlist and finding the song I’m looking for, heaving another sigh when the sound floods through me.

Danse Macabreby Camille Saint-Saëns is a strange, eerie little piece that for some reason I love. It fits my current mood and location, telling the story of Death as he plays his fiddle to call the dead forth from their graves on Halloween night, making them dance until morning, when they return to the ground.

The brisk wind pushes my hair this way and that, but I leave it be, inhaling the faintly musky, sweet-smelling scent of decaying leaves as the haunting violin line soars overhead. The reds and oranges and yellows and browns take flight in the wind, dancing much like I’ve always imagined the deceased to do as Death plays for them. Skeletons, animated figures of bone, doing their waltz around the graveyard by the light of the moon—a ballroom festive and dark.

And I imagine Nora Bean dancing along with them, her head tilted back as she laughs at the stars for daring to shine when she’s no longer around to see them. She loved the stars.

I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow thickly, taking a few deep breaths to steady myself. Then I pull out my headphones and shove them back into my bag. I give the headstone one last pat before standing up. I’ve been sitting in the same position long enough that my left foot has fallen asleep; I shake it out, feeling the cascade of pins and needles as I regain feeling. Then I hobble back to my car like an old woman, favoring that foot the whole way. Call me a wimp if you want; that nonsense hurts.

I wipe my eyes and get rid of the smudged mascara before driving away. I sniffle a bit, dabbing at my nose with my sleeve—which is gross, yes, but everyone does it, and snot washes out anyway. I don’t want to rub my nose too much or it will turn red, and then Aiden will know I’ve been crying.

Although maybe he’s one of those guys who stays holed up in his room all day. I could see that being the case. Sometimes I feel like staying in my room all day too.

I just hope my room in this new house is as nice as it looked in the photos.

I’ve been to the neighborhood where Aiden lives—although I guess his sister owns the house?—but it’s on the other side of town from where I grew up with my mom. We lived on the west side of Center, where the houses are smaller and the grass overgrown. Now, though, I find myself driving down a picturesque lane, lined with trees and houses with white picket fences. Nothing quite as fancy as the Heights or anywhere over there, but still nice. It’s the perfect image of suburbia, something I would have scoffed and sneered at when I was in high school.

But I know better now. The reason this kind of neighborhood is the American dream is not that it’s fancy or aesthetically pleasing or whatever. Human beings like those things, but what we really crave is stability. We want to go to bed at night and know that things will still be okay when we wake up. We want to rest easy. And that’s the feeling a white picket fence gives off: safety. Stability.

Sometimes it’s an illusion, of course. But sometimes it’s not.

I find 18 Theabelle Lane with ease, thanks to the numbers posted on the picket fence posts. It’s prettier in person than in the pictures online, although that may just be because the leaves are so vibrant right now; they add splashes of color to the white siding and black shutters. There’s a porch and a large porch swing, one of those that’s more like a hanging platform bed than a bench. I’m already planning to turn that into a prime reading spot when the weather warms up. I smile at it as I walk up the porch steps and to the front door, imagining all the pillows I can justify buying for a swing of that size. Then I check the door handle.

The door is unlocked, so I let myself in and start looking around. My first, immediate thought is that Chip and Joanna would definitely approve. It’s an open floor plan, with hardwood floors and white shiplap on the walls.

Joanna is all about that shiplap.

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