Mint Chip & Murder

by Erin Huss

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  MINT CHIP & MURDER

  Cambria Clyne Mysteries book #4

  by

  ERIN HUSS

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  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2020 by Erin Huss

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  To Ashlyn & Emma, my two favorite aspiring authors.

  Keep writing!

  Acknowledgements

  A big thank you to Gemma Halliday, Susie Halliday, and everyone at GHP. To Jed, Natalie, Noah, Emma, Ryder, and Fisher, you are my motivation. Thank you to Paula Bothwell for your beta and editing—you’re the best!

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  PROLOGUE

  We all make mistakes. You know it. I know it. Every nineties teenager who spent a decade over-plucking their eyebrows knows it, too. Some mistakes are small. Like when you accidentally set your alarm for p.m. instead of a.m. and wake up late. Some are inconvenient. Like when you forget to take the trash cans out and have to live with smelly garbage for a full week.

  There are the bigger mistakes. Like, oops, I forgot to take my birth control pill (hello, baby), or miscalculated the month's expense report (goodbye, bonus), or used the expired meat for dinner instead of throwing it away (hello, food poisoning).

  Then there are the catastrophic mistakes. The mistakes that destroys lives, or even end them.

  This is what makes my job interesting. As an apartment manager, I'm privy to all my residents' freak flags, secrets, fears, and mistakes. Whether I want to be or not.

  Trust me. It's not a job for the easily annoyed, argumentative, or anyone prone to migraines. It's a job for me…or at least I thought it was.

  I made a whopper of a mistake, and I'm not sure anything or anyone will ever be the same.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cambria J. Clyne

  Highly motivated property manager seeking to take next career step with a respected property. Skills: Exceptional communicator

  "What in the world are you doing?"

  Fox, from Apartment 19B, gazed up at me, using his hand as a visor to block the sun. "Yoga."

  "Why are you wearing so many clothes?" He had on at least three sweat shirts, two beanies, mittens, and several pairs of sweat pants, like one of those padded guys who train police dogs to attack.

  "I'm doing hot yoga." Fox pulled his right leg up and over his head. He was surprisingly flexible. I could barely touch my toes.

  "Can you do this in your apartment and not in the middle of the courtyard where people are walking?" I asked.

  "No way, man," he said on an exhale, eyes closed, forehead glistening. "My place is too hot for them."

  "Them? Them who—ouch!" I looked down to see what had nipped the back of my leg. "What the heck? Where did this goat come from?"

  "It's for me," Fox said. The small white goat trotted up on his back. "I'm doing hot goat yoga. Big audition Wednesday. I've got to get zen."

  I wasn't sure how a barnyard animal on your back was supposed to help anyone zen. Not that it mattered because, "This is a no pet property…hold on. What is she eating? Is that…money?" I spun around. "Oh, come on!" My purse, which I had placed on the table two minutes ago, was now on the ground, the contents scattered. A small brown goat stood among the mess.

  Oh, for the love of all that is unholy in this world!

  The mom in me took over. I cupped my hand in front of the white goat's mouth. "Spit it out right now."

  The goat listened about as well as my three-year-old did, and swallowed.

  "Your goat ate all my money!" Really, he only ate a dollar. Until payday, that was all my money. "You need to—ouch!" The brown goat bit the back of my calf. Sweet mother bleepin'!

  My name is Cambria Clyne. I'm an onsite apartment manager slash goat chew toy.

  "You should try yoga. You need to chill," said Fox.

  As much as I could use a good chill—especially after my disastrous New York trip—wearing eight layers of clothing with a money-eating animal on my back didn't sound like a good way to decompress.

  That's what ice cream was for.

  There were about five different house rules Fox was currently in violation of. Not that I had the time to run down each infraction. "We can talk about this incident later. Where is the cable guy?"

  "Not sure." Fox lowered himself to the ground, looking as if he were about to do a push-up. The goat jumped down and screamed. I had no idea goats could scream. It sounded like a person had climbed inside the little creature and was crying for help. It was quite unpleasant.

  "The cable company said they'd be here between twelve and five." Fox sat up, crossed his legs, and started to hum.

  "Fox?"

  He continued to hum while the goat continued to scream while I continued to curse under my breath and rub my sore calf.

  Sometimes I really hate living in Los Angeles.

  I shook Fox by the shoulders until his eyes opened. He stared up at me as if I'd just woken him from a deep sleep. If only I could shut my brain off so easily.

  "Your message said the cable guy would be here at noon," I said.

  "I didn't want to risk you missing him. I've been living with slow internet for eight days. And you've been too busy vacationing." He squeezed his eyes shut. "By the way, I saw you on TV."

  My heart hiccupped. I did not want to think about New York. Not today. Not ever.

  I checked my watch. It was almost three o'clock, and I had to leave soon if I was going to miss traffic.

  From the thirteen messages Fox had left for me while I was away, I knew his internet was "inhumanely slow," and the cable company had to get into the attic in order to replace old wiring. The problem was, there were only four apartments that had access to the attic. I had to be there when the cable guy went in because all four units were occupied.

  Wait a second.

  Aha! Apartment 14B had attic access, and they'd moved out earlier in the morning. I hadn't had a chance to walk the apartment yet, but that shouldn't be a problem.

  "Here's the deal," I said. "I have to be somewhere important in an hour. Apartment 14B moved out this morning, and I'll unlock the door. You can have the cable guy go through the
attic in there. But he can't touch anything else." I grabbed my phone and sent a quick text to Mr. Nguyen, the maintenance supervisor, asking if he could swing by—ouch! "Stop biting me," I warned the little brown goat with a stern shake of my finger.

  Note to self: Google what diseases goats carry.

  Not that either one of them had broken the skin, but still. My hypochondriac mind had to know.

  I finished my text and itched my nose using the backside of my hand. I was allergic to most things with fur, and goats were no exception.

  Fox stood and rolled up his yoga mat. "I totally freaked when I saw you on TV. I was like 'dude, that's my apartment manager on Celebrity Tango!'"

  And we're back to that. Great.

  I'd had two seconds of airtime during a quick scan of the audience on the season finale of Celebrity Tango. Two seconds. I'd already had a number of texts from friends, family, and residents saying they saw me. I'd underestimated how many people watched the show, and how recognizable my frizzy hair was.

  "Bummer your friend didn't win," Fox said. "Third place isn't so bad."

  "Not too bad," I agreed. Third place wasn't too bad at all, considering we thought she'd get kicked off during week one. However, according to Amy, third place was "the most horrid thing to ever happen" to her. I'd reminded her about that time she was framed for the murder of her costar, and she threw a golden stiletto at me. I guess horrid was subjective.

  "How do you know Amy Montgomery?" Fox asked.

  "We've been best friends since the third…grade." Gulp. I faltered when Fox began peeling off all his shirts, revealing a glistening six-pack. Oh, my. Yes, he's cocky, demanding, a royal thorn in my side, and I wouldn't shed a tear if he decided to move. He was also young and chiseled, and I was only a human being with eyeballs.

  "I'd like to get on the show," he said. "Can you ask Amy for me?"

  "I think you need to be a celebrity to be on Celebrity Tango."

  "No problem. Have you seen my latest spread?"

  "Are you talking about the STD billboard?"

  "Yep."

  "The one where you're crying?"

  "Yep."

  "The one along the 5 freeway?"

  "Not just on the 5," he said. "That was a national campaign. It's also on the 405."

  He must not have understood what national meant. "Congratulations—ouch!" The goat nipped at my calf. "Fox!"

  "I know. I know. I know. I'll call the guy. I'm only renting them for the hour."

  "You can rent a goat?"

  "Sure. You can rent anything in Los Angeles."

  "Good to know."

  "By the way, why are you so fancy?"

  "I'm not that fancy." I was wearing a blue Anthropology dress that matched my eyes and looked good against my pale, freckled skin. The dress was the most expensive thing in my closet, reserved for first dates and interviews only. Today was the latter.

  Not that I could tell this to Fox.

  I couldn't tell any of my residents.

  Not until I was offered the job. Right now, I was the onsite property manager for a forty-unit apartment building in Los Angeles. I also managed a thirty-two-unit complex in Burbank. The building was close to Warner Bros. Studios, which meant most of my residents were varying degrees of starving actor. Actors who did things like hot yoga in the middle of the courtyard with little angry goats.

  Note to self: Add no barnyard animals allowed on premises to house rules.

  I went upstairs, unlocked Apartment 14B, and peeked inside to make sure there were no furniture or dead bodies left behind (you never knew in this business). The apartment was fairly clean, crime-free, and furniture-free. Perfect. I snapped a few pictures—specifically of the three years' worth of food crusted along the insides of the oven.

  Move-outs would often scrub the entire apartment from floor to ceiling to toilet to bathtub, but forget to open the oven. A total bummer for all parties involved. For the resident, because I couldn't hire the cleaning company to come out for one thing. They charged me for the entire unit. A bummer for me because I had to deal with an irate former resident who was charged for cleaning when they spent hours doing it themselves.

  Moral of the story?

  Always check the oven.

  I took one more picture with a date-stamp (should The Case of The Dirty Oven go to small claims court), then deemed the apartment safe for the cable company.

  Down the stairs I went, through the courtyard, and past Fox. I managed to escape with only one new goat bite and made it to my car parked down the street. It was hot, and the smoggy air stung my lungs. I was looking forward to the end of summer. Mostly because I missed the cooler temperatures, but also because it meant the end of tourist season.

  Speaking of tourists, I got stuck behind a double-decker bus coasting down California Street, going towards Warner Bros. Studio. Passengers had their phones out, taking video and pictures of what? I had no idea. There was nothing but apartment buildings, a coffee shop, and a few palm trees along this road. All I knew for certain was they were going five miles per hour and I had someplace to be.

  Once I was able to get on the freeway, traffic was surprisingly light. I arrived at Cedar Creek Apartments with ten minutes to spare. I rolled up to the curb and gripped the steering wheel, while peering up at the building.

  You are doing the right thing, I reminded myself. It's perfectly reasonable to want to advance in your career. You are doing the right thing.

  Still, it felt like I was being unfaithful. Like I was sneaking around, seeing other properties behind my boss's back. Which, I suppose, was exactly what I was doing. Patrick would not be happy when or if I quit, but he'd be exceptionally unhappy if I left to manage the property next door.

  That's right. Cedar Creek was located next to the Los Angeles property where I both lived and managed. Roughly three million apartment complexes in the county, and I was asked to interview at the building twenty feet from my front door.

  I parked around the corner, not wanting to risk one of my residents seeing my car in the carport and thinking I was in the office. Or seeing my car in front of Cedar Creek and come looking for me there.

  I'd spent a significant amount of time overthinking this.

  Cedar Creek Apartments was an imposing ten-story building with a gated wraparound parking lot and an underground parking structure. A cobblestoned walkway led up to a pair of whimsical wrought-iron doors. Brilliant red and yellow flowers were dispersed throughout the lavish landscaping. A koi pond glistened near the entrance, and trees towered like a fortress around the perimeter of the property, prohibiting guests from seeing the apartment building next door. A smart move by management. Cedar Creek looked like a Four Seasons, while my property looked more like a motel.

  A well-managed motel, I might add.

  I hurried down the sidewalk, keeping my bag close to my side, going through "selling points" in my head. You should hire me because I'm driven, and passionate, and knowledgeable, and hard-working, and I have excellent—oomph.

  There was a step. A big step. A step painted red with a large, hard-to-miss sign warning pedestrians of the impending step. A step I always forgot was there until I was on my hands and knees and staring it.

  Honest to goodness, Cambria. Get it together.

  I dusted off my knees, rolled my shoulders, raised my head, and tried walking again. This time more successfully. I managed to make it to the front door without incident and rang the intercom. While I waited, I smoothed down my hair, which I'd nicknamed Einstein because it was dark and curly and had the I-just-rubbed-a-balloon-on-my-head look to it.

  Mr. and Dr. Dashwood greeted me at the door, standing shoulder to shoulder, wearing manufactured smiles He had on a sweater vest and loafers. She had on pearls with a cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. They looked like the type of people who spent their nights having dinner at "the club."

  "Welcome, Cambria." Dr. Dashwood made a sweeping gesture with her arm, and I stepped inside. The place smell
ed of honey and lavender with a hint of corporate air conditioning. The leasing office was to the right behind a glass wall with two mahogany desks on either side of the room. To the left was the lobby. The walls were beveled and painted a cream color with large abstract art hung every few feet. The coffee table was glass and positioned between two low-back couches. The place screamed sophistication, elegance, and money. Three words you'd use to describe the Dashwoods.

  My three words would be resourceful, clumsy, and hungry.

  Self-doubt began to worm its way into my thoughts. Could I manage a place like Cedar Creek? Could I live in a place like Cedar Creek? The lower-middle class were my people. Could I ditch my people for a fancy high-rise?

  Then I saw the Wow Fridge near the hallway—basically a refrigerator filled with treats and drinks for residents to enjoy. And there was the Kids' Corner on the other side of the lobby—basically a table with coloring books and crayons along with a small dollhouse. These little features felt more like me.

  Food and crayons were basically my life right now.

  "Please have a seat." Dr. Dashwood sat on the couch and crossed her ankles, resting her dainty hands in her lap. She had a diamond-studded bracelet dangling around her wrist and a wedding ring with a diamond roughly the size of China on her finger. My gosh. I had no idea how she lifted her hand with that thing on.

  Mr. Dashwood plopped down beside his wife and stretched his legs out in front of him. He already looked bored.

  I hugged my purse and slid onto the couch opposite them. The coffee table between us appeared to be a mile long, and I could feel myself shrink a little.