Page 17 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

“Yes,” I say, rolling my eyes. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I tutored her, Care. She’s the one who tried to kiss me that one year at Christmas. That’s the girl you sold the contract to.”She’s not a girl anymore, my mind points out unhelpfully.

I ignore this, pressing down on the gas with a bit too much force when the light turns green again.

“No way,” Caroline breathes. She sounds just as shocked as I felt, which I can only imagine means her eyes are doing that bug-out thing they do sometimes. Caroline’s eyes are unnaturally big. It’s something I’ve always teased her about, usually in retaliation for her jibes about my crooked nose.

“Yes way,” I say, turning right on Center and heading down the smaller road that leads to the neighborhood. “The tenant now living in the loft once tried to kiss me. When she wasunderage,Caroline.”

“Wow,” she says. She’s silent for a moment, and then she says, “This must be fate, right?”

I shift in my seat, remembering with uncomfortable clarity that Juniper said the same thing. “It’s not fate,” I say. “There’s no fate.”

“Well, if it’s not fate, what is it?” Caroline says. “Is she pretty?”

“No,” my mouth says.

Maybe, my brain says.

“I don’t trust you. Send me a picture,” she says.

“Absolutely not.” I make a right turn, slowing down now that I’ve reached the neighborhood.

“Why not?” My sister should not sound this whiny, considering she’s nearing forty.

“Because,” I say, pulling onto Theabelle Lane. “A million reasons. It’s weird, for one. And I’m almost home, so I’m hanging up now.”

“Come on, Aiden—”

“Nope. Bye!” And with that I end the call.

Juniper is in the kitchen when I walk through the front door. She’s leaning over the kitchen island, her elbow propped on the countertop as she rifles through a stack of mail. She’s got on leggings and a thermal top, and she does not—I repeat, she doesnot—look pretty. I don’t like short hair or pink hair or leggings as pants. And even if I did, conventional attractiveness doesn’t do much for me in the first place.

So there.

“This is your pile,” not-pretty Juniper says, pushing everything except for a purple envelope toward me as I go to the cupboard for a glass. She doesn’t look at me; she’s still staring at the envelope.

I frown, pointing at it. “Do you have mail already?”

“Yes,” she says slowly, picking it up. When she turns to face me, though, she looks confused, bordering on disconcerted. “Except it only says my name. And I haven’t registered this address anywhere yet.”

My frown deepens, and I abandon my course. I can get a drink in a minute. Instead I hold out my hand. “Can I see?”

She shrugs and passes me the purple envelope. Sure enough,Juniper Beanis written on the front in a round, loopy writing I don’t recognize. It looks innocent enough.

So why is there a thread of uneasiness niggling at the edge of my mind?

“Do you want to open it?” I say, passing the envelope back to her.

“Kind of no?” she says. Her face twists up as she goes on, “I mean, it’s kind of sketchy, right? What if it’s anthrax or something? Hang on.” Her eyes narrow on me. “This isn’t from you, is it? Did you send me anthrax?”

My lips twitch at this. “I did not, no. I don’t think I have access to anthrax.”

“Because you had no problem letting me plummet to my death yesterday on those stairs,” she points out.

“I feel like if you’d plummeted to your death, you wouldn’t be yammering so much right now,” I say over my shoulder as I pull a plastic cup from the cupboard.

Juniper gasps, holding one hand to her chest. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” she says.

“Just open the envelope,” I say. I refuse to be amused by her antics.

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