Page 76 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

I can’t figure this man out. I really can’t. Sometimes he seems to dislike me; sometimes the opposite seems true. He held my hand with no complaint. And right now, despite the fact that he’s not looking at me,his arm is still around my shoulder, no longer squeezing so tightly. His thumb rubs back and forth, back and forth, little patterns that I can feel despite the blazer separating my skin from his touch.

No time to think about that, though. My attention is riveted on Tonya as I wait for her to answer the question. She seems to be choosing her words carefully. Finally she speaks.

“The pageant life can be difficult on the girls, I admit—”

“But your daughter was okay with that?” Aiden cuts her off, and I elbow him as discreetly as possible. He needs to dial back the aggressiveness by like 200 percent.

“She’s been in pageants all her life. She doesn’t know any different. When she was a little girl I told her it would be fun—like playing dress-up. But ultimately she’s learned and grown so much.”

“So you lied to her.”

“Parents lie to their children if they think it’s what’s best for them,” Tonya says to Aiden, the words clipped. “I’m sure the two of you are no different.”

A strange prickle of foreboding plays over my skin when she says this; somewhere deep down inside, an uncomfortable chord twinges. But I force a smile and nod. “Of course,” I say.

The ice in Tonya’s expression thaws a bit as she goes on, “And my daughter has had lovely experiences for the most part. She’s very beautiful and very intelligent—”

“So her time in the pageants will help with her college applications as well,” Aiden says; he clearly can tell that he needs to tone it down a bit.

“Oh, yes,” Tonya says, nodding. “In fact, she’s currently touring schools and speaking to admissions faculty. She’s going Ivy League, of course—”

“Of course,” Aiden echoes with a hearty smile that doesn’t suit him at all.

“And she told me just yesterday that the interviews have been going very well. The thing is, these girls learn social skills, grace, poise under pressure—all highly relevant skills.”

“Ah,” I say, swallowing. The velvet friction of the couch tugs uncomfortably against the fabric of my pants as I shift. “So she’s been keeping you updated; that’s wonderful. How does she sound when you talk to her on the phone?”

And for the first time, Tonya von Meller’s immaculate expression falters. “I—well—we haven’t spoken on the phone yet,” she says with a tinkling laugh that falls just shy of convincing. “I’ve called, of course, but she’s a responsible girl, so she doesn’t like to talk while driving, and of course she’s very tired at the end of the day.”

“Oh, dear,” I say, letting overt concern drip from my words. “I do hope everything is all right.” A stab of guilt hits me square in the gut on that one; everything isnotall right, and Tonya has no idea, and I’m here pretending anyway.

But it truly would be helpful to see exactly what Sandy’s killer has been texting her mother. Pictures especially would be good; any information we can glean will only help at this point. Even better would be convincing Sandy’s mom that something might be wrong.

“Of course everything is fine,” Tonya says with another one of those laughs. She doesn’t believe her own words, though; she’s starting to fidget, her bony fingers fiddling with the gaudy silver bracelet draped over her wrist.

And my heart breaks unexpectedly for her. Because all the worries that might be going through her mind, all of the worst-case scenarios she might be talking herself out of—they’re true. They’ve happened.

Her daughter is gone, and yet somehow, somewhere, the killer is pretending to be her. It’s a nightmare. I don’t have children and it still sounds horrible. I can’t imagine what it would actually be like to experience that.

“Well, if you say so,” I say. Now I inject my voice with just enough skepticism to leak through. “Ifyou’resure, that’s all that matters.”

“Of course I’m sure.” Another laugh, clipped this time, and forced and sharp around the edges. “Why, look—she texted me just this morning. A nice photo, see?”

My gut twists at the clear desperation in her voice, at the coaxing, convincing tone that I know she’s using only on herself. But I lean forward, ignoring my gaping top this time so that I can see the photo she holds up—one of Sandy with her hair pulled into a ponytail, making a peace sign at the camera. I try to look more closely, but then Tonya scrolls sideways.

“And another from the other day, see?” she says as a new photo appears.

Another Sandy von Meller, smiling again, the sun casting her in a halo of light. She’s got on a fuchsia hoodie, a color that looks good on almost nobody—but it looks good on her. The hood is pulled up, the strings tied so that it scrunches around her face, but her blonde hair peeks out nevertheless. Even like this, she’s truly beautiful. There’s something almost defiant in her smile, too, a glint in her eyes that makes me think she would have been a handful. Maybe that spark means that she fought back against her attacker, at least.

I commit the photo to memory as well as I can, since it would be too weird to ask for a copy. I wish she would show us one that might have been photoshopped, but I can’t ask for that either. When I lean back into place, though, finally tearing my eyes away from the picture, Tonya is still looking at it. Her face is a mask of stone, the only hint of concern betrayed in the lines around her mouth, the tight press of her thin lips.

Yes. Whatever she’s told Garrity, she’s worried.

Is it a mother thing, I wonder—that instinct that something is wrong? Or is it a human instinct? The human brain is incredible. One theory is that gut feelings and intuition are actually our subconscious mind connecting dots and spotting patterns that our conscious mind is unaware of.

What patterns is Tonya von Meller spotting? Which dots has she been connecting in the dead of night when she can’t sleep?

The three of us jump when Tonya’s phone rings.

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