Page 31 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

When I spot my pink-haired roommate, though, all those plans and possibilities fly out of my head as I try to make sense of what I’m seeing.

Juniper is standing in the middle of the room, her eyes narrowed in concentration. She’s wearing…well. I don’t even knowwhatshe’s wearing. It’s some sort of ode to Halloween—black leggings patterned with white ghosts, an oversized orange sweatshirt, and one of those headbands that has two long springs coming off the top. The springs are attached to little pumpkins, which dance wildly with every little move she makes. There’s a slightly manic gleam in her eyes that has me approaching slowly, my hands outstretched in a placating gesture.I come in peace,those hands say.Don’t bite me.

“Hey,” I say, my voice deceptively calm. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” she says breathlessly. “Good. It’s going good.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, concealing my skepticism as I nod and look around. There are fall decorations strewn everywhere, an explosion of fabric leaves and red-orange garlands and fake pumpkins. There’s also an honest-to-goodnesstwigtangled in Juniper’s hair—how on earth did that even get there?—so that it looks like she’s just tumbled out of a tree. Her shirt, I also notice, is on inside out.

It could not be clearer that nothing is good with this woman right now. I don’t blame her; I’m not feeling good either.

“So,” I say. I try to keep my voice conversational rather than accusing or confrontational. “Where did you get all of this?”

“At the store,” she says distractedly. She’s still got that feverish spark in her eyes as her gaze ping-pongs around the room. She tilts her head, considering something, which makes the little pumpkins on her headband flop sideways.

I look at my watch, frowning. “Already? It’s only nine-forty-five. When did you have time to go to the store?”

Juniper puts her hands on her hips and rolls her eyes. “It’s almost ten, Aiden. Some of us have been panic breathing since six. Every time I close my eyes, I see—I see that—” She swallows, her gaze shuttering briefly, before aiming a bright smile at me. “Well, anyway,” she says. “I just needed something to distract myself.”

“That’s fair,” I say slowly. I’m not sure I want a distraction myself—I need to know who this girl was—but I understand the desire.

“I tried to write,” she says, grabbing the length of garland in a pile at her feet and holding it up. “But I’m sort of stuck on this scene.”

“Do you write books?” I say, blinking at her with surprise.

“I do, yeah,” she says. She begins running her hands down the length of the garland, searching for the end. “I teach yoga to pay the bills, but I write too.”

“I thought you didn’t like that stuff—reading and writing.”

“When you knew me, I didn’t. But you did a good job tutoring me.” The smile she gives me now is more real than the one she tried to force out before; it’s soft, grateful, reminiscent. “Really, you’re the reason I ended up learning that I love to write. It’s what I studied in college. I got my yoga teaching certification alongside it, but in my dream world, I would just be able to write full time.”

“Huh,” I say, nodding. I can’t say I’m not impressed. She’s right; when I was tutoring her, she really struggled in her English class. “What do you write?”

“Ha!” she says, holding up the other end of the garland in triumph. “Found it.” Then she looks at me. “Well, I used to write romance—oh, wait.” She wrinkles her nose. “You’re probably a literature snob, right?”

“A little,” I admit. “But I’m not the kind of person who thinks romance is trash. I think there’s a place for well-written romance. No one said all books have to be deep and moving all the time.”

She shakes her head. “That’s true, but look—you’re already assuming that romance isn’t deep or moving.”

I stare at her, lost for words. She’s right, I realize; I completely made that assumption. But it’s not correct, is it? Sure, some love stories are superficial, but the same can be said of any genre.

“But romance can be deep. It can be moving,” she goes on.

“You’re right,” I say grudgingly. “I stand corrected.”

“Anyway, I used to write romance, but now I’m trying to write a murder mystery—a decision I made before the events of last night, believe it or not. But I’m only in the first scene, and I’m already stuck.”

I nod. “Well, good luck.” I cast one last glance around the living room. “And don’t leave it messy like this, please. Finish decorating now that you’ve got all this stuff.” With that I turn and head back to my bedroom, where it looks like I’ll be hiding for a while longer now that fall has exploded in my living room. I don’t want to get roped into decorating—

“Hang on,” Juniper says, and I freeze.

Crap.

“What?” I say, not turning around.

“You know,” she says slowly, and I can hear the soft padding of her footsteps as she approaches from behind. She sounds far too calculating for my peace of mind. I shove my hands in my pockets, preparing to stand my ground.

When she steps past me and into my line of sight once more, I sigh. Her eyes are narrowed in consideration, and she’s giving me a blatant full-body scan—a slow perusal that leaves me feeling too warm.

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