“Hello?”
“Hi,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as flustered as she felt. “It’s Juniper Baker. From the library?” It wasn’t a question, but she couldn’t stop her voice from tipping up at the end.
“Juniper! Hey! Cora said you might call. What’s up?”
What’s up? Juniper didn’t know if she was more irritated by the fact that Cora had warned India about her or that India made it sound like a social call. They weren’t buddies. Still, Juniper decided to push on. “I was hoping I could talk to you about the Murphy murders. Cora says you’re kind of a true crime buff and that you might have some insight into the case.” What she didn’t say was: I want to know what you know. I want to know if it’s you who’s hell-bent on proving that Jonathan did it.
“Oh my gosh. This is like a dream come true. I mean, I’ve wanted to talk to you about Calvin and Elizabeth Murphy for years. Years. I never imagined I’d get the chance. Can you come over? Like, now? My husband is at a Beer and Hymns night at the Admiral and my kids are all in bed. I’ve just popped the cork on a bottle of pinot and it’s not going to drink itself!”
“Sure,” Juniper said, putting Barry’s car in reverse. “Now works great.”
* * *
India lived in a freshly constructed house at the end of an unpaved road that was part of a new subdivision in Jericho. Juniper hadn’t realized that new developments were going up, or that there was a market for the type of upscale two-story Craftsman that India called home. The lot beside her modern-farmhouse-styled mini-mansion was under construction, and across the street were two more lots with SOLD signs staked in the dirt. As Juniper turned off gravel onto the paved driveway, India came to stand on her bright, homey porch.
“Sorry about the mess!” India called over the distance between them.
Juniper clicked the locks on Barry’s car and jogged down the curved sidewalk toward the place where India waited, rubbing her arms against the cold. She was wearing a plush oversized sweater that fell off one shoulder and a pair of gray camo leggings. Clutching a delicate wineglass and sporting a perky grin, she made Juniper feel instantly frumpy and older than she was.
“It’s fine,” Juniper said, conscious of the snow and dirt that had accumulated in the tread of her hiking shoes. She couldn’t possibly wear them inside India’s new house.
But India already had an arm around her and was ushering her through the door.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” India said, pulling Juniper’s coat off her shoulders and hanging it with a flourish on a fleur de lis hook. “I mean, I’ve imagined it a dozen times. The chance to interview you, to hear what you have to say about what happened that night… The insight no one but you could provide into the case that was never solved.”
“Wait.” Juniper froze in the entryway, unwilling to take another step until she knew the truth. “I’m not here for an interview. And before we go any further I need to know: Are you working on a podcast about the Murphy murders?”
The question was abrupt, but it achieved the desired result: India’s reaction seemed genuine. “What?” she asked, eyebrows arching. “Someone’s doing a podcast about the Murphy murders?” Envy flashed across her features, and then she sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not me. But it’s a great idea—kinda wish I would have thought of it.”
The look in India’s eyes was too raw to be faked; Juniper believed her. She toed off her shoes and forced herself to smile. “How about that wine?”
India laughed. “I’ll make it a very generous pour. I’m a lot to take.”
The house was quiet and softly lit, and when Juniper followed India through to the kitchen and a cozy hearth room just beyond, she saw that a large-screen TV was on. But instead of HGTV or a charming Hallmark Channel romance, there was footage of a scruffy-looking man with dark hair and a quirky half smile staring straight into the camera.
“Is that Ted Bundy?” Juniper couldn’t stop herself.
“Oh my gosh. Yes! I’m watching Conversations with a Killer. The man was a total psychopath, but there was so much more to it, you know? No doubt that he was a narcissist, but I’d bet the farm we’re also dealing with some borderline personality disorder, possibly some schizoaffective disorder or bipolar. Where did that come from? I mean, what happened in his past to fracture his psyche to the point where he could hardly even be considered human?” Catching sight of Juniper’s expression, India trailed off, then grabbed the remote control from the arm of an artfully distressed leather sectional and clicked off the TV. “Sorry. Weird stuff. I know.”
“It’s why I’m here,” Juniper admitted. “Cora says you’re finishing up your master’s in psychology.”
“Abnormal psychology with an emphasis on behavioral neuroscience,” India said, pouring Juniper a glass of wine. “I’d love to be a psychological profiler for the FBI, but…” She shrugged, gesturing to the trappings of her domestic, small-town life and the wicker basket of toys in one corner of the hearth room.
“Life gets in the way?” Juniper suggested, taking the glass India offered and swallowing a mouthful of what tasted like cherries and cloves.
“Exactly. I’m not complaining. And we’ll see what the future holds. Besides, I have to finish my coursework first.”
Juniper felt quite sure that the capstone project wouldn’t be a problem for India. There was clearly much more to India Abbot than her pixie cut and casual demeanor suggested. Her chic nail polish and the impressive collection of braided bracelets on her left wrist almost seemed like decoys.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” Juniper said. “Cora speaks so highly of you.”
“And you. She adores you, you know that, right? You’re like a daughter to her.”
Juniper wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she took another sip of her wine and followed India to the couch. They sat on opposite ends, and India pulled her legs up beneath her.
“So…” she said, drawing out the word. “What exactly can I do for you?”
“I need help.” It practically burst out of Juniper. “I’m sorry, India, but I read your blog—”
India laughed.
“—and I know that there are many people around here who still think that my brother killed Cal and Beth Murphy.”
“You don’t?”
Juniper was stunned silent. “He’s my brother.”
“Ted Bundy was someone’s brother, too. That didn’t stop him.”
Juniper opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“Look.” India set her wineglass down on a natural-edge coffee table and leaned forward with her elbows on her crisscrossed knees. “I don’t think Jonathan killed them either.”
“You don’t?”
“He doesn’t fit the profile, and his actions after the murders would either classify him as a sociopath—which neither of us believes is true—or point to the fact that he didn’t do it. That he couldn’t do it. I don’t think for a second that he would kill Calvin and Elizabeth in cold blood over some free labor. Did they fight about it? Was it something he complained about often? Did he stop going over and running errands and doing odd jobs for them because he felt taken advantage of?”
Juniper realized that India was waiting for an answer. She shook her head.
“No,” India confirmed. “And what did he do the second he realized they had been shot? He called 911. Who does that? You’d be hard-pressed to find a case study where the killer called in his own crime and then stuck around to be arrested for it.”
“So, who?” Juniper could hardly choke the words out, her throat was so tight.
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Of course, we have all the usual suspects.”