Juniper Wiles, page 3
I haven’t worked in film or TV for years now, but I still get calls from Greta about requests to appear at comic cons and the various permutations thereof. I used to call her back to turn them down, but I don’t even bother anymore. She might think it’s okay to charge fifty bucks to have your picture taken with some besotted fan, but I think it’s reprehensible. My choice. Everybody else can do whatever the hell they want.
I can’t lie. I love how the residuals from DVD and merch sales allow me to not have to think about where my next paycheque is coming from. So long as I keep my expenses reasonable and the money doesn’t dry up, I can probably keep doing this for another ten years. But that doesn’t mean I have to pretend to be Nora.
Except tell that to this guy.
“How much do you charge to take on a case?” he asks.
“A million dollars.”
He laughs. “No, seriously.”
“Seriously, I’m a real person, not a character in a book or TV show, and you need to leave.”
“But—”
“Or seriously, I’m going to have the manager throw you out and bar you from ever coming back.”
“You can’t do that. This is my favourite coffee shop.”
“Then you know what to do.”
We lock gazes and I swear he stands there for a good half minute before comprehension finally dawns in his eyes. Turning, he stalks back to his table, shoulders stiff with anger. I return my attention to my screen and notice the time in the corner. So much for answering a few emails before I get to the studio. I sigh as I shut the laptop and drop it into my backpack where it rattles against my art supplies. Standing, I swing the pack to my shoulder and head for the door. I can feel the boy’s gaze track me as I’m leaving, but I ignore him the way I wish he’d ignored me.
How much do you charge to take on a case?
What an idiot.
Jilly leans over to look at the picture. “There’s a resemblance, isn’t there?”
She’s remembering the sketch she did, but I talked to him in the flesh. This is the same guy. They even give his full name in the caption. Ethan Law.
“Look,” I say, pointing to the name. “It’s definitely him.”
Jilly frowns. “But the article says—”
“That he disappeared a week ago, which is impossible because I saw him yesterday.” I continue to scan the article. “What? It says his body was found last night in Fitzhenry Park under some bushes. The coroner estimated he’s been dead for several days. A jogger found him because her dog wouldn’t come back to her. She walked over to get the dog and noticed a foul smell. When she pulled the dog back she saw a foot and phoned 9-1-1.”
I look up at Jilly. “How is that possible? I know I saw him yesterday—alive.”
Jilly’s frowning. “I’m surprised I didn’t twig to the photo after all that time we spent on the composite sketch yesterday. I glanced at the headline, but didn’t read further.”
She rises from the sofa and walks over to the table by her easel where she sorts through various papers and sketches until she finds yesterday’s drawing. We both sit back down on the sofa and compare the sketch against the photo in the paper.
“Same guy,” Jilly says, nodding. “I guess I really didn’t look at the photo.”
“Well, I got a good look at Ethan in the coffee shop yesterday.”
Jilly looks at me. “I guess he really did have a case for you.”
“Not if he was already dead.” I find myself shivering. “God, this is so creepy.”
“Maybe the case was to catch whoever killed him.”
“Yeah…I don’t think so.”
But Jilly’s not listening to me.
“You know what this means, right?” she says. “We need to take a trip back to the coffee shop.”
“And do what?”
“Investigate.”
“I think we should just leave it to the police.”
“Aren’t you curious if anyone else saw him yesterday?”
I hug my chest and look at her. “I didn’t see him. I saw a ghost.”
“Still.”
If only I hadn’t looked at that newspaper.
“You’ve got prints to sign,” I say to redirect the conversation.
“This is more important.”
“Plus I thought you were going to the soup kitchen this morning.”
“We can stop in at the Half Kaffe on the way.”
I sigh. “You pretty much have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“So that’s a yes?”
The truth is, I might be creeped out, but I am a little curious.
“Sure,” I tell her. “Why not?”
Jilly bounces to her feet. “Do you hear that, Bobo? The circumstances are tragic—no question—but we’re going to investigate a crime with Nora Constantine.”
“Not you, too.”
“It’s a team up!”
“You know Nora’s a fictional character.”
Jilly smiles. “So you keep saying. Yet here you are.”
“Except I’m not,” I tell her. “Nora, I mean.”
But Jilly’s already on her way out of the room, the little dog trotting at her heels.
Jason’s behind the counter when we get to the Half Kaffe Café, except this time the name tag is pinned to the chest of a tall, African American woman with her hair in corn rows and the most gorgeous skin you could possibly imagine. She just glows. I’ve seen her in here before, but I can’t remember what her name tag said then.
I expect to be told that Bobo can’t come in, but as we stand to one side of the counter waiting for the line to be served, no one says a word. When a lull finally comes Jilly steps up to the counter and turns her high-wattage smile on the barista. She takes the sketch out of her pocket and unfolds it before handing it to—I guess we’ll have to call her Jason.
“Do you know him?” Jilly asks.
“Oh, wasn’t it just horrible what happened?” Jason says. “Ethan’s…was…a regular here.”
“We were wondering when you saw him last.”
“Why would you—” her eyes widen. “Hey, you’re Jilly Coppercorn. I love your art. I’ve always wanted to tell you that.”
“Thanks. Sorry about your friend.”
“He wasn’t a friend, just a familiar face. I only knew his name from writing it on the cup. Rough, what happened to him though.”
She closes her eyes and shakes her head as if clearing her mind, then looks back at Jilly, her eyes bright once more. “I can’t wait for FaerieFest this weekend,” she says. “I’ve got a different outfit worked out for each day.”
Jilly smiles and prompts her to talk about her costumes, but another customer shows up so Jason deals with the man’s order. When she’s done she calls to the back room to get someone else to come out and handle the counter. The girl that appears has short spiky hair and a lot of piercings. Her name tag reads “Tess,” which I suppose might or might not be her name.
“Can you cover me for ten minutes?” Jason asks her.
“Sure.”
“Hey!” Tess calls after us as Jason leads the way to a free table. “You can’t have a dog in here.”
“He’s not a dog,” Jilly tells her. “He’s an alien abductee who got trapped in this shape by Venusians. He used to work in a coffee shop just like this one before it happened, so he’s like your brother-in-arms, if you stop to think about it. You’re not going to toss out a fellow barista just because he’s had some bad luck, are you?”
The confused look on Tess’s face is priceless.
“It’s okay,” Jason says. “They’re only here for a couple of minutes.”
“It’s on your head, Amana,” Tess tells her.
I adjust to the name change as we sit down.
“Why were you asking about Ethan?” Amana asks.
“Juniper,” Jilly says, giving a nod in my direction, “met him in here yesterday.”
“But the news said…”
“Exactly! It’s uncanny, don’t you think? We were wondering if anybody else saw his ghost or if it was just Juniper he was haunting. Were you working yesterday?”
“I’m still trying to get my head around the idea of an actual ghost being in here,” Amana says.
“This city’s full of mysteries,” Jilly says.
“Yes, but…” Amana turns to me. “And you’d never met him before?”
I shake my head.
“Then why would he be haunting you? Just saying he existed.” She looks around the café. “I’m not being pranked, am I?”
“He wanted me to take on a case,” I tell her.
“A case? Are you some kind of a detective?” She cocks her head as recognition dawns in her eyes. “Damn it if you’re not Nora Constantine! I wondered why you always looked so familiar.”
“Except I’m not. I just played her on a TV show. But Ethan was convinced that I was her for real.”
“You mean…Ethan the ghost.”
“I know how it sounds,” I tell her. “But I also know what I saw.”
“We thought we should find out more about him,” Jilly says. “And if anybody else saw him yesterday.”
“Around what time was it?” Amana asks.
“Noonish to one,” I tell her.
“Robert and Emma were working that shift. I could ask them.”
“That’d be great,” Jilly says. “Do you know any of his friends?”
Amana shakes her head. “Like I said, I never really talked with him. But sometimes he was with a guy who works in the used bookstore down the street.”
“Burns’ Books?”
Amana nods. “But I don’t remember his name.”
“That’s okay,” Jilly says, getting up from the table. “We can find out. You’ve been a big help.”
Amana gives a nod, not really hearing her.
“A ghost,” she mutters, mostly to herself.
She’s still sitting there with a dazed expression when we leave the Half Kaffe.
Burns’ Books is across the street and down the next block, tucked in between a little Vietnamese pho restaurant and a card and paper shop. The window’s full of old fairy tale books—Andrew Lang, K.M. Briggs, the Brothers Grimm—no doubt to take advantage of the festival this weekend.
“I haven’t been here in ages,” Jilly says as she checks out the window display.
Bobo puts his paws on the wall and tries to look in, but he’s too short.
“Where do you go for used books?” I ask.
“Sometimes I go to Turtle Moon but mostly I go where I always have. I get Christy to drive me out to Holly’s shop.” She glances at me. “I like to support my friends—plus she’s got a hob. I wonder if they have a hob in here.”
“I never know if you’re kidding me or not.”
“Why would I kid you about a hob?”
“Why indeed?”
“You were much better about the Nora Constantine thing with Amana,” she says, abruptly changing the subject. “Good for you. We should all embrace our triumphs.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to call the show a triumph. It’s not like we ever got nominated for an Emmy, and we did get cancelled.”
“But after three seasons. That’s pretty good for TV, isn’t it?”
“I suppose.”
Jilly gives me a serious look. “You know, you’re a promising artist but you’re a great actor, or at least so I’ve been told.”
“What do you mean, so you’ve been told?”
Jilly smiles. “You know me. I don’t watch much TV. I’ve never seen your show.”
I have to shake my head. This is so her.
“So what makes you think I’m any good?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Someone came back from the dead just to meet you.” She waits a beat. “And Wendy loves the show. I think she’s watched all three seasons a half-dozen times.”
“She could have bad taste.”
Jilly shakes her head. “Oh, no. She has impeccable taste. She’s our friend, isn’t she?”
With that, she opens the door and steps inside the store. A little bell sounds above the door, summoning a clerk from a closed doorway behind the cash counter. There are books stacked on the counter, books everywhere. The shelves are stuffed, more titles lean in tottering piles wherever there’s a spare inch of room. The store smells of old paper—not the kind of musty smell that comes from a book stored in a damp basement or a garage, but a dry, whispery smell that promises everything to a book lover.
I follow Jilly to the counter. The clerk is seriously good-looking but he carries himself as if he has no idea. A girl can tell this kind of thing. Kind of hip, but no hipster. Nerdy glasses like Elvis Costello used to wear, a button-down shirt with the top button undone. Short brown hair, a little messy, but none of that shaved-sides crap that I’m so over.
I’m so busy checking him out that it takes me a moment to realize that he’s doing the same. He smiles when our gazes meet. His eyes are a golden, greenish-brown and I don’t want to look away.
“I know you,” he says.
And just like that, the spell is broken. Here we go again.
Except he says, “You used to work out at Power Fitness—the one on Yoors, down by the mall.”
Really? How does he know that?
“You’ve got a good memory. It’s been a couple of years.”
He smiles. “What can I say? You made an impression. I used to see you in the weights room while I was working on my cardio.”
I’m very aware of Jilly smiling beside me, but I can’t help flirting right back at him.
“Stalker,” I say.
He laughs. “What made you stop going?”
“All the glass walls and mirrors, and people in their perfect workout gear. I decided to get back to basics.”
“So you’re still working out?”
“Two or three times a week. I go to O’Shaunessy’s now where I can just wear a T-shirt and sweats.” I don’t see any recognition so I add, “It’s an old boxing club on Palm Street, north of Grasso.”
“Yeah? That’s a rough area.”
I shrug. “Besides weights, I’ve taken up boxing. They’ve got all the fancy fitness gear out front, but it’s like a classic boxing gym in the back. They’ve even got a ring.” I lift my arms and do a couple of air jabs like a boxer warming up. “I love working the heavy bag.”
He steps back in mock alarm, which is when I notice Jilly leaning on the counter, grinning even harder at the pair of us. I drop my hands.
“You guys are so cute,” she says.
Bobo gives a little shimmy and grins up at us as though in agreement.
I feel a flush rise up my neck.
The clerk clears his throat. “Right,” he says.
He looks from me to Jilly, at Bobo, then back to me again. “How can I help you?”
“We were told that someone here is a friend of Ethan Law’s,” Jilly says.
All his humour drains away.
“Fuck,” he says. “It was just brutal waking up to that news this morning.”
“You were close?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I didn’t see him much outside the store—though we did go for a coffee from time to time—but he came in a lot. He’d help me sort books when a new collection came in, but I think it was mostly to get first crack before things went up on the shelf. He was really fixated on Emma K. Rohlin—do you know her work?”
I nod, wary. “She wrote the Nora Constantine books.”
“Yeah, they did a TV show based on them but I’ve never seen it. I’m pretty sure Ethan would’ve had the DVDs. He had multiple copies of all the novels.”
“We’ve all got our passions,” Jilly says.
“I guess. He was even emailing with her for a while. He’d talk about it all the time until it suddenly got cut off—I’m not sure who ended it. When I asked him what happened he said they had to stop because it was getting too dangerous.” A troubled look crosses his face and he pauses.
“Too dangerous how?” I ask when he doesn’t elaborate.
“I have no idea. You don’t think it has anything to do with him getting killed, do you?”
Jilly and I shake our heads.
“How do you know him?” he asks.
“Funny thing,” Jilly says. “Juniper met him in the Half Kaffe yesterday around noon.”
It takes him a moment. “I thought he’d been dead for a few days when his body was found.”
“That’s what they say,” Jilly replies.
“So how…”
He studies each of us for a moment.
“You’re sure you saw him?” he asks me.
I nod. “And I wasn’t too nice to him. He was pretty intense. It was hard to get him to back off.”
“Huh. That’s weird. I always thought he was into guys. Or girls who identify as guys.”
“What do you mean?”
“His partner came in with him a few times. She—I mean, he—is a trans kid.”
“Do you know his name?” Jilly asks.
“Edward something. Sorry. I don’t think I ever knew his last name.”
“Do you know how we can get in touch with him?”
“I’ve got a number for Ethan, probably his cell. I guess the police would have it if he had it with him when his body was found. But I’ll get it for you.”
I’m expecting him to look it up on the laptop that’s fighting for space with the crowd of books on the countertop, but he reaches down to a shelf and comes up with an old Rolodex. He flips through until he finds what he’s looking for and writes a phone number on a scrap of paper.
“So what is it that you’re doing, exactly?” he asks as he hands me the number.
“Investigating,” Jilly says before I can answer.
The clerk gets a puzzled look.
“We’re trying to figure out why his, you know, ghost approached me,” I say.
“His ghost.”
Some of the colour drains from his face. He looks uncertain for a moment, then sighs and pulls a cell from the pocket of his jeans.
“I thought this was a sick joke,” he says. “Or maybe one of those instances when a text goes bouncing around the internet before it finally gets to you. It also makes no sense. But it’s from Ethan—and it came this morning.”
