Page 4 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

When I first decided I wanted to be a writer, I was planning on traditional publishing. Send the query letters to New York, get a billion form responses, send out another round, on and on until someone liked my work enough to represent me.

But that dream slowly shriveled as the rejections kept coming in, and it began to look less shiny when I began comparing it to other avenues. I ended up finding a little niche in the indie market, publishing my books myself in online marketplaces. It gives me control over every aspect of my work, from my schedule to the covers I use, and that’s something I don’t think I could give up now that I’ve experienced it.

“You’ll probably need a new pen name, then, right?” Roland says, pulling me back to our conversation. “Can you sell romance and mystery with the same name?”

“No one would stop me from using the same name, but I would probably want a new one,” I say glumly. Setting up new personas is kind of the worst.

“You want something a little darker, but not too on-the-nose—”

“SpookyPants McWhodunnit,” I cut him off.

“Subtle,” he says. “Understated. I like it.”

I grin. “Tell Lance I said hello. I need to go; I’m here.”

“I will. Don’t call me again too soon.”

I shake my head and hang up before maneuvering my beat-up old Volkswagen Beetle into a parking spot in front of one of the town’s only coffee shops. I’m coming from the wrong direction for the angle of the parking spaces—my bad—so I end up executing a million point turn before I get into the space. Then I sigh and get out, locking the car and taking a few steps back to check my parking job.

It’s still crooked.

And, I realize with a start, the same little sedan that was driving an inch behind me down Main has pulled in next to me; a couple people in bright pink, staring at me and my car.

Like they know I’m new in town. Like they know I’m not great at parking.

I resist the urge to tell them off, going inside without a backward glance. As far as I’m concerned, if I’m inside the lines, anything goes.

The coffee shop hasn’t changed much in the last six years. There are people I don’t recognize working behind the counter, but the tables are in the same place, and the same artsy pictures still adorn the walls. The menu looks exactly like it used to as well, down to the ninety-nine-cent mini muffins they bake and sell every morning. I inhale deeply and smile at the scent of hot chocolate and scones.

My feelings toward Autumn Grove are complicated, but I have only love for Grind and Brew.

I give the girl behind the counter a vague, nodded greeting before ordering one steaming mug of raspberry-infused hot chocolate and two cranberry-orange scones. Then I find a seat at my favorite corner table and plop down into the chair.

“Three-ninety-nine for the world’s best hot chocolate,” I say to myself as I think back to the cafe where the Blind Date Incident occurred. “And that place wanted nine dollars.” I shake my head and take a sip of my drink, despite knowing better; sure enough, it burns going down my throat. I take another sip anyway, just one more, because it’s been so long since I’ve had Grind and Brew’s raspberry hot chocolate. Then I put my mug back down and wait for my drink to cool like a sane person, smiling as I watch the wind and the leaves dance outside the window.

Yes, I’m currently failing as a romance writer, and yes, I’m currently living out of my car, but I’m also sitting in my favorite coffee shop on the planet, drinking my favorite drink. I have two delicious scones sitting in front of me. I’ll meet my new roommate in a bit, and then I won’t be homeless anymore.

After that? Well, the world—or at least Autumn Grove—is my oyster.

So watch out, oyster.

Juniper Bean is coming for you.

2

IN WHICH AIDEN LAYS DOWN THE RULES

Ican’t find any freaking toilet paper.

“Rodriguez,” I bark over my shoulder as I dig through the supply closet. We’re down to the bare bones in here, and as always the sight of our dwindling supplies stokes my temper. “Where’s the toilet paper?”

Rodriguez mutters under his breath from behind me, something about “baseball coach” and “stubborn idiot.” He just gets his knickers in a twist because I usually call people by their last names, which he says makes him feel like a kid on a peewee baseball team. It’s a habit by this point, though, and he’s right—I am stubborn.

“It’s in the bathrooms,” he says after he’s finished his verbal mutiny.

I turn to face him. “What, all of it?” I say. “We’re completely out?”

He shrugs his burly shoulders. “If there isn’t any on the shelves, then yeah.”

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