Mint Chip & Murder

by Erin Huss

  "I was so happy when you called," Dr. Dashwood said. "We were worried you wouldn't interview."

  "I was hesitant at first, only because I didn't want to quit my current job less than a year in." Also, I wasn't sure I even wanted to continue in property management. I'd already been cursed at, yelled at, shot at, actually shot, taken hostage, arrested, and now bitten by a goat. But Cedar Creek came with a big pay raise, and if there was one thing I'd learned from my New York trip, it was that I needed funds in reserve at all times because I was a terrible decision maker. Legal documents were expensive. Also, Lilly was starting school tomorrow, and preschool was basically the same price as a college education. "After careful consideration," I said, trying to sound more confident, "I believe this would be an excellent step in my career, and I know I'd do a good job."

  "I'm happy to hear it. Truth is, I thought we'd spend at least a month here, but we're ready to get back to Arizona and resume our normal lives. What we need is a manager who can function without constant supervision, and provide us with daily rundowns of what is happening. As you can imagine, we've been on damage control since the incident."

  By incident she meant the last manager was killed. I could understand why she wouldn't want to mention the murder of the previous manager to the potential new manager. Could put a damper on the interviewing process.

  "Shall we get started?" Dr. Dashwood sat up a little straighter, so I did, too.

  "Absolutely." My phone dinged from inside of my purse. Oops. "I'm so sorry. Incoming text message." I reached in and silenced my cell without checking it first. Whoever it was, they could wait.

  Dr. Dashwood launched into a series of questions regarding my previous employment, current employment, and about my knowledge of their management software system. Much to my surprise, I was killing it. Typically, interviews turned me into a sweaty mess, and I'd fumble over my words, swallow excessively, blurt out embarrassing TMI details, and start every sentence with "um."

  Not today.

  Today I was Confident Cambria! I knew my craft, and I'd seen just about everything you could think of since becoming an apartment manager, from skinny dippers at midnight to dead bodies in the dumpster. So when Dr. Dashwood asked me how I might handle a resident who was playing his music too loud, I could easily answer with, "I'd ask them once to turn it down. The second warning would be written in a formal complaint. The third would come with a Notice to Quit."

  The only problem was my freaking phone would not stop. It continued to pulse in my purse every few minutes, alerting me of an incoming text message. My daughter, Lilly, was with her dad. If it were an emergency, he'd call not text. If there were a problem at either of the properties I managed, I'd get a call on the emergency line. No one texts urgent information.

  I placed my purse on the floor and continued the interview.

  Dr. Dashwood spent the next thirty minutes going over the property specifics: the sauna, the pool, the spa, the gym, the theater room, the game room, the conference room, and all the other rooms that made up the massive apartment building.

  Mr. Dashwood didn't utter a single word. Instead, he sat there with the face of a man who was trying really hard not to fall asleep.

  "Then, of course, we have the manager's apartment located on the second floor," Dr. Dashwood said. "It's a two bedroom, two bath, and you'd receive a discount rent. I understand you have a daughter."

  "Yes, her name is Lilly and she's three." And she'll put her handprints all over those beautiful glass walls.

  Dr. Dashwood smiled. You could tell her teeth were capped and expensive. "Do you have your résumé?"

  "It's right here in my bag…" Oh no. The folder that held my freshly printed résumé was missing an entire side, and the crisp 8 ½ by 11, 100% cotton, white paper was gone.

  Stupid goat.

  I sat there, bent over, with my hand in my bag, flustered, my heart racing while every pore on my body began to pump out sweat at hyper speed. Crap.

  Crap. Crap. Crap!

  As I saw it, I had three options. I could one: tell them the truth. Say a goat ate my résumé. Then proceed to spend twenty minutes overexplaining how this had happened. I could two: say I'd email it to her. Or, I could three: continue to sit there in a sweaty, speechless mess.

  Number three was tempting, but two felt more professional. "I'm so sorry. I don't have my résumé on me right now. I'd be happy to email it as soon as we're done."

  The Dashwoods exchanged a look, a flash of disappointment on their faces. Dang it!

  This interview just took a nosedive.

  My stomach went all slithery, and I fought the urge to overexplain myself—a bad habit of mine.

  "Go ahead and email it to me," Dr. Dashwood said. "Let's have a tour. Shall we?"

  "Yes, please," Mr. Dashwood said, joining the conversation.

  Dr. Dashwood led the way, taking us down a long hall. The walls were beveled and cream, and the sconces were brass. I listened to the click of her heels on the marble flooring until she stopped at the elevator. "We'll start on the tenth floor." She pressed the button, and I could hear the hum of the motor from the utility closet.

  I really, really hated elevators.

  While we waited for the doors to part, I stole a quick glance at my phone. I had eleven text messages from Fox.

  Fox: Cable guy is here, but Mr. Nguyen isn't. Can he go in?

  Fox: ?

  Fox: ?

  Fox: U there?

  Fox: Cable dude went into the apartment. He's in the attic.

  Fox: He accidentally knocked down a wall.

  Fox: Can he move the drum behind the wall?

  Fox: ?

  Fox: ?

  Fox: He can't get to the cables unless he moves the drum.

  Fox: U there?

  "Cambria?"

  I gazed up at Dr. Dashwood. "Yes?" I asked.

  "I said would you rather start with the amenities? Or do you need to take care of personal business?"

  "Oh, no, no. This isn't personal." I forced a laugh, which sounded an awful lot like a Miss Piggy impression. "It's a resident who is texting me. He's having trouble with his cable, and they're there in the attic and… It can wait." I dropped my phone into my bag. "The amenities would be wonderful." I flashed a smile.

  "Very well. They're located on the first floor. Right this way." Dr. Dashwood continued down the hallway, talking about how they'd purchased the building years ago with the idea of turning it into one of Los Angeles's top luxury apartments. She pointed to the art and the rugs and told me she'd worked with a designer to come up with the classic theme. I oohed and ahhed and nodded along until she turned her back and I could text Fox back.

  Me: How did he accidentally knock down a wall?

  Fox: It was really just some wood taped together.

  Me: And there is a drum?

  Fox: The one in the attic behind the wall in the corner. Can he move it?

  Fox: Never mind. He said he can't move furniture. Can I move it?

  I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

  Me: Please don't touch anything until Mr. Nguyen gets there.

  "What do you think, Cambria?" asked Dr. Dashwood.

  I hid my phone behind my back and spun around. "Wonderful," I said, even though I had absolutely no idea what we were talking about.

  "So you like the idea?"

  Dr. Dashwood looked so excited that I couldn't help but answer, "Of course," with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

  "See, dear?" Dr. Dashwood placed a dainty hand on her husband's shoulder. "He didn't believe any manager would agree to take on the task, but I knew you would. Residents will love the variety. And no other community in the area is doing it."

  Oh no, what did I just say was a good idea?

  My phone buzzed. I ached to read the message, but Dr. Dashwood was still talking to me. "Let's continue our tour," she said, and we spent the next twenty minutes walking through each of the many amenities Cedar Creek offere
d. The pool was so blue it almost hurt my eyes. The theater room looked like…well, a movie theater. The gym looked like a 24 Hour Fitness. When we moved to the underground parking garage, I began to realize how much work managing this place would be. Yikes. I'd need an excellent assistant manager and an even better maintenance crew.

  Speaking of which.

  "What about the rest of the staff?" I asked. When they'd asked if I'd interview for the position, there was talk of allowing me to hire the maintenance supervisor and assistant—should I get the job, of course.

  As if on cue, a golf cart zoomed by with Cedar Creek Maintenance painted on the side. The cart stopped in front of a utility closet, and a tall man with a ponytail of brown hair grabbed a tool bag from the front seat.

  "That's Stan," Dr. Dashwood said. "We were simply desperate for a new maintenance supervisor, and he was able to start right away. As you can imagine, this place requires constant work to maintain its elegance."

  Oh. OK.

  "We will have our new manager interview assistant managers," she added as an afterthought. "It's important that everyone work as a well-oiled, crime-free machine."

  Couldn't argue with that.

  "Of course, we are still interviewing candidates for the management position," Dr. Dashwood continued. "It's vital that our new manager be honest, hard-working, and not be involved in scandal of any kind. The news has finally died down since the incident. We don't want Cedar Creek's name in the papers ever again, unless it's to talk about the beautiful ambiance and high-class living quarters."

  "Of course," I said, wondering if she'd heard about the three murder investigations I'd been involved in. One had been her previous manager. I was actually shot on the premises. If she had chosen to forget the shooting, fine by me.

  That was the old Cambria, anyway. The new Cambria didn't get herself involved in criminal cases. I mean, what were the odds I'd happen upon a dead body again?

  My phone buzzed.

  "You are on the top of our list," Dr. Dashwood said. "Should we hire you, how much of a notice would you need to give next door?"

  "My contract says thirty days, but I'd like to give my boss enough time to find someone new if I took the job."

  "If." Dr. Dashwood grasped her pearls. "Do you have other offers? Because we have excellent benefits." She snapped her fingers.

  That must have been Mr. Dashwood's cue to speak. "We offer medical, dental, and vision. You'll receive monthly bonuses, a discounted apartment, and reimbursement for your cell phone."

  I almost passed out. I'd known it would be more money (a lot more money). But monthly bonuses? Plus vision! My eyes were fine, as far as I knew. I'd never been to an optometrist. But only because I didn't have vision insurance. Maybe I was clumsy because I needed glasses.

  OK, I really want this job.

  Not that money was everything.

  But you can't put a price on vision.

  "We'll be doing a full background and credit check on you," Mr. Dashwood said. "And we'll need to speak to your previous and current employers."

  The thought of them calling Patrick made me nauseated.

  "Is that a problem?" Dr. Dashwood asked.

  "No, it's only that I haven't told my boss that you asked me to interview here." My phone buzzed. Oh, for heaven's sakes! "Can I just…um…use the restroom?"

  "Absolutely. It's upstairs. I'll show you."

  "I know where it is," I said and hurried up the stairs. Last month, when the previous manager went missing, I'd spent quite a bit of time there. It's part of the reason the Dashwoods asked me to interview. They were impressed with how I'd stepped in to help without asking for pay. I'd also unraveled a massive scandal involving inflated rents, secret accounts, and a convoluted gambling scheme—really, why wouldn't they hire me? I was basically a detective with an expertise in Fair Housing laws.

  The bathroom was down the hall, near the maintenance office. I pushed open the door and took a seat on the toilet. I had six new text messages from Fox.

  He'd sent me a picture of the drum. In my head, the drum was a drum, as in a percussion. My head was wrong. This was a drum you'd store water or grains in. It was metal, dirty, covered in webs, and I'd call it a barrel not a drum.

  Fox: I'm going to move it.

  Fox: U there?

  Fox: It's really heavy.

  Fox: What's in this thing?

  Fox: Can I take the lid off?

  Fox: U there?

  I had no idea what was in the barrel or where it came from, but it looked like it had been there a long time.

  Me: Please don't touch anything until Mr. Nguyen gets there.

  Fox: Can I pry open the lid with a crowbar?

  Me: Please, please don't touch anything with a crowbar.

  I composed a separate text to Mr. Nguyen, asking for his ETA, when there was a knock on the door.

  "Cambria? Are you all right in there?" Dr. Dashwood asked.

  "I'm perfectly well," I said in an awkward, high-pitched voice. "I'll be out shortly."

  Mr. Nguyen texted back: I'm ten minutes out.

  Perfect!

  Me: Mr. Nguyen will be there in ten minutes. Don't touch anything.

  Fox: Too late. I opened the lid, but it looks like someone is in there.

  Me: You mean something?

  Fox: SomeONE.

  Me: As in a person?

  Fox: A dead person. A really, really dead person.

  Me: Are you sure?

  Fox sent me a picture he took looking down on the barrel. The photo was dark and out of focus. I was able to vaguely make out the top of a human head with dark hair.

  Guess I was wrong. Turned out there were people who delivered urgent news via text.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Can easily handle the deadly and unexpected.

  I told the Dashwoods there was a resident in desperate need of my help, and they encouraged me to go. I may not have mentioned the resident in need was dead, but they didn't ask. Instead, Dr. Dashwood said, "I'm impressed with your dedication, even on your day off."

  She'd obviously not spent much time as a property manager. Otherwise she'd know there was no such thing as a day off.

  I raced back to the Burbank building, double parked my car at the curb, smacked on the hazard lights, and crawled over the center console—the driver's side door was stuck shut, and had been since an incident with a runaway dumpster.

  There were no emergency vehicles or police activity of any kind. It wouldn't have surprised me if Fox had thought to text me before calling 9-1-1. He wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.

  Which got me thinking.

  What if the person in the drum was a prop? We were close to all the studios. A former resident could have stored a realistic corpse made of plastic in the attic years ago and forgotten about it. Seemed unlikely Fox would confuse a really, really dead person with a really, really fake one. But a girl can dream.

  Oh, please, please, please let it be a prop. Please, please, please.

  I found Fox in the courtyard, huddled near the stairwell with a gray-haired man wearing a cable company shirt.

  "Are you sure it's an actual person in the barrel and not a prop?" I asked in lieu of a hello. There was no time for pleasantries.

  The grim expressions plastered on the two men's faces answered my questions. Crap.

  "Cambria?" came a voice from above. I looked up. Mr. Nguyen was leaning over the railing.

  "Oh good, you're here." I felt a whoosh of relief. Mr. Nguyen was the most reasonable and trustworthy person I knew. "What's going on?"

  "There's a barrel in the attic, and inside is a dead person. Looks like it's been there for a long time."

  I slapped my hand over my mouth. Why-oh-why-oh-whhhyyy does this keep happening? Am I stuck in some sort of purgatory? Is this what happens when you spend your free time watching crime shows? Life begins to imitate art?

  Note to self: Start watching The Bachelorette.

  Then instead of
dead people popping up every freaking day, I'd have twenty men arriving in limos, vying for my affection, wanting to marry me—actually, scratch that. The premise hit a little too close to home. I should give up television altogether just to be on the safe side.

  "I can't unsee what I saw." Fox screwed his fists into his eye sockets. "Totally ruined my Zen."

  "Me, too." The cable guy pulled a package of cigarettes from his front shirt pocket.

  "This is a no smoking property," I said.

  "Lady, I just found a dead body." He placed the cigarette between his lips. "My nerves are shot."

  Yours and mine both, buddy. "I'm sorry for—ouch! What the…Fox, why is there a goat still here?"

  "It's possible I misread the ad and I accidentally bought them."

  "How do you accidentally buy two goats?"

  "I don't know, man. My brain is still tripping because of the dead person in the attic!"

  Marlene from Apartment 11A, who was casually walking by, paused midstep. She had grocery bags in her arms and concern all over her face.

  I smiled my best everything-is-fine-and-everyone-is-alive smile and waved. "Have a great day."

  Marlene wasn't buying it. "What happened—ouch!" The little brown goat head-butted her leg and chased her away before she could finish her thought. Marlene squealed and slammed the door to her apartment.

  Palm, meet forehead.

  "Please control the goats," I said to Fox, keeping my voice low. "Did you call the police?"

  He stared at me, as if the thought of calling the LAPD to inform them of the dead body had not crossed his mind.

  "Right. OK. Just…relax here, and I'll see what's going on." I went up the stairs, my hand gliding along the railing as I took each step. I could not believe Fox hadn't called the police. Then again, everyone handles stressful situations differently. For example, I obsessively ate.

  Speaking of which, I could have really used a gallon of mint chip right about then.

  Mr. Nguyen was in Apartment 14B, standing in the middle of the room with his phone pressed to his ear, speaking in Vietnamese. When he saw me hovering in the doorway, he covered the receiver and mouthed, I already called the police.

  Thank you, I mouthed back and stepped inside the studio apartment.