Page 5 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

“For the love,” I say, rubbing my temples. “We have a full week left until the end of the month.”

Rodriguez shrugs again. I guess it’s too much to expect him to get worked up about this situation; he never does, even though we run out of basic supplies every month. The Autumn Grove Food Bank is the most underfunded, understaffed, underappreciated government creation Idaho has to offer; I think they spend more on the landscaping at the post office than they do on the necessities for us. What makes matters worse is that the current frontrunner in the race for governor will most likely cut our funding even further if he wins. I’d love to march over to the Heights and give him a swift kick in the rear, but Rodriguez says I’m not allowed to, and he’s the boss. Rodriguez has been the director of the food bank for the better part of thirty years, and he says he’s made his peace with the fact that we’re an afterthought.

Of course, he also says that most of his gray hairs have come from working here, so I’m not sure how peaceful he really feels behind his bushy silver brows and black-brown eyes.

“All right,” I say. I glance at my watch; I need to meet the new tenant in half an hour. “I have time to run to Forester’s before I have to leave for the day. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.” With that I spin on my heel, edging past Rodriguez—who only reaches my shoulder because his hair adds an inch and a half to his height—and down the hall.

“Get dish soap too,” he calls after me, and I curse under my breath, waving to let him know I’ve heard.

It’s not the fact that I’m buying supplies with my own money that bothers me. I’m happy to help out, although the little things do add up, and I’m on a school counselor’s salary. It’s more just that I shouldn’thaveto. I shouldn’t have to buy toilet paper or dish soap or whatever else we’ve run out of. But I’ve been volunteering here several times a week for the last ten years, and I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve finished a month under budget. We’re not stupid with money—the state just doesn’t allot us enough of it.

And yet, as frustrated as I am with the whole place, I know I’ll keep coming back. The class disparity in Autumn Grove is subtle, often hidden behind fresh coats of paint and smiling faces, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s real. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And maybe it’s naive, or wishful thinking, but I just don’t want anyone to go hungry.

I can’t do much, but I’ll do what I can.

I make it to Forester’s Market in seven minutes, driving exactly the speed limit the entire way there. Gale Forester looks up when I enter, an expectant smile on his face, but that smile dissipates when he sees me, melting into a disgruntled scowl.

Gale does not appreciate my unasked-for opinion on some of his price points.

“Don’t worry, Gale,” I say as I pass, not bothering to hide my smirk. “I’m in a hurry today.”

Gale slumps with relief and waves me on with a stern look. I book it to the far side of the store where I’ll find all the cleaning and bathroom supplies, my brown wingtips squeaking on the linoleum as I weave through the shoulder-high aisles. It takes me ten seconds to grab a bulk package of double ply toilet paper and a three-pack of dish soap, and then I hurry to one of the two check-out lanes. Gale rings me up, and when the cash register display shows me my total of almost thirty-eight dollars, I point my finger at it as I hand over my card.

“We’ll talk about that later,” I promise the glaring man in front of me. I take the bag he’s holding out with one hand and use the other arm to hug the bulk toilet paper to my side.

“I’m always glad when you leave,” Gale calls to me as I head for the doors.

“Me too, Gale,” I say, and then I’m gone, through the front entrance and speed walking to my car. The toilet paper and the dish soap receive the honor of riding in the back seat among all my stray books, and then I get in. I floor it across the parking lot—and by “floor it,” I mean I go six miles an hour in a five-miles-an-hour zone—and pull out onto Main, the stores and shops whizzing past as I drive.

I’m just noticing a truly creative parking job in front of Grind and Brew when my phone rings.

“Are you on your way to the coffee shop?” my sister says when I answer, bypassing any sort of greeting. Caroline is the type of person who’s perpetually in a hurry, even when she has nowhere to be.

“Uh,” I say as Grind and Brew disappears in my rearview mirror. “Not quite.”

“Aiden,” she says, her voice warning. “You want to make a good impression. The new tenant signed a year’s lease. You might be living together for quite a while.”

“It will be fine,” I say as I pull into the food bank parking lot. “He’ll understand.”

“She,” Caroline says.

“Sorry?” I say, distracted. I park as close to the entrance as possible.

“She,” Caroline says again. “She. Her. Female.”

“A woman?” I say with a frown. I sandwich the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I get out of the car. “Did I sign off on that?”

“You most certainly did,” Caroline says cheerfully. “I asked you a week and a half ago.”

“I have no recollection of that.” I grab the groceries from the backseat and then kick the door closed, hurrying up the steps and to the entrance of the food bank. Rodriguez seems to have been waiting for me, because he opens the door when he sees me coming. “I have to run,” I whisper to him as I shove the twenty-pack of toilet paper into his fumbling arms. I set the bag with the dish soap on the floor in front of him and then turn around and head straight back to the car.

“Well, you did,” Caroline says, her voice blaring through the phone. “I asked if you would be okay living with a female tenant, and you said, ‘I’m trying to finish grading before midnight, Caroline. Do we need to talk about this now?’ So then I asked you again if you cared if the new tenant was a woman, and you said, ‘I don’t know, do whatever you want.’”

“I’d hardly call that agreeing,” I say, rubbing my temples. A headache has been brewing since I raided the nearly empty supply closet earlier, but this bit of information dials the pain up a notch.

“You told me to do whatever I wanted,” Caroline says. “And Iwantedto find a new tenant so I didn’t lose a thousand-plus dollars of income a month. Are you on your way yet?”

“Yes,” I say with a sigh. “I’m getting in the car right now. Who is this woman?” It’s too late to change the situation now; I may as well prepare myself.

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