by Erin Huss
"I-I-I-I-I-I…" I was still stammering when Silvia walked away, her silk robe flapping in the wind behind her while I stood there like a statue carved of mortified flesh. "I-I-I…no." No. No. No. No! I fumbled my phone out of my bag. Chase knew how I felt about Silvia. The woman had criticized me since I started working there. She even started a rumor on an apartment review website that I'd had a threesome with the retired couple in Apartment 22! Sure, the review was eventually deleted. Not before it had been seen by thousands of potential (and current) tenants. I was still getting messages from nursing home residents asking if I had vacancies.
This was horrid!
I sent Chase a text.
Me: Did you OK a date with Hampton and Silvia?
Three dots danced in the corner of my screen while he typed his response.
…Still waiting…
It couldn't possibly take that long to write no.
…Still waiting…
"Mommy!" Lilly called my name, and I looked up from my phone. She cut across the courtyard grass. "Mommy!"
I bent my knees and braced for impact. Lilly jumped into my arms, and I kissed the tip of her nose. "Hey there, kiddo. What are you doing here? I thought you were with Daddy."
"He dropped her off." Mrs. Nguyen ran up, her forehead glistening and her breath labored. "You need to wait for me," she said to Lilly. "I getting too old."
"Are you OK? Do you need to sit down?" I put Lilly on the ground. "Should I get a chair?"
"Stop your fussing. I'm not dying." She gave me the once-over. "Why are you so fancy?"
"I had an interview. Patrick doesn't know."
"You decided to do the job next door? Why?"
"It's an excellent opportunity for me and Lilly. I'm so sorry."
"Don't apologize to me. This is good. But Mr. Nguyen told me about your newest dead body. What did the Cedar Creek owners say about that?"
"They don't know, and, for the record, it's not my dead body. A resident found her. I wasn't even on the property."
"You're cursed."
"You are probably right." I grabbed Lilly's hand and started towards my apartment. Mrs. Nguyen walked with us. "Where's Tom?" I asked.
"He said something came up with work, and he dropped Lilly with me. He looked terrible. Awful. What happened to his arm?"
"It's a long, complicated story." As were most stories involving my one-night-stand-turned-baby-daddy. Thomas "Tom" Dryer (as in the appliance) was a defense attorney who represented the poor and falsely accused. He too had superhuman good looks. Was tall. Very tall. Dark hair. Hazel eyes. Looked like a young Dylan McDermott, if you squinted and tilted your head to the side. My parents thought he was gay, but he'd slept with just about every woman in the United States of America, so I knew he wasn't.
"Your life is a mess," Mrs. Nguyen said.
Ain't that the truth. "I'm sorry Tom dropped her here. He never even sent me a text." I checked my phone to be sure. Nothing from Tom or Chase.
"You don't need to say sorry. What you need to do is get your life figured out."
"I'm working on it."
"Work harder." We stopped at my door, and Mrs. Nguyen tucked a loose curl behind Lilly's ear. "Be good," she said, and the two conversed in Vietnamese while I waited. I loved that Lilly was fluent in two languages at the age of three. I was barely fluent in one language at the age of twenty-nine.
We said good-bye to Mrs. Nguyen and watched her walk to her apartment in the back of the building.
"When did Daddy drop you off here?" I asked Lilly.
"Forever ago."
That could be anywhere from ten minutes to an hour in toddler time. "Sorry I wasn't home. Let's make dinner, and we can…" I shoved the key into the lock of my apartment, and the door pushed open. Weird? I peeked my head in. "Hello? Anyone here?" I had locked the door and set the alarm that morning. I was sure of it. I'd found myself on the wrong end of a gun enough times to know the importance of home security. "Hello!" I called out again.
The keypad for the alarm was visible from the front door, and the light was green, signaling the alarm for my apartment was off.
"Stay here," I told Lilly and dug my pepper spray out of my bag. The lid had been chewed, rendering the spray completely useless. Damn goat!
At least it would make a good prop.
Unless my intruder had a gun.
Then it wouldn't be a good prop at all.
I had my phone in one hand, and the pepper spray-less in the other, and tiptoed into the living room. My apartment was a two bed, two bath, with a square kitchen that had a counter overlooking a dining area. A hallway led to the bedrooms and bathrooms, and the main living space was spacious with enough room for a couch and television.
"Oh, my gosh," I said under my breath. I'd left a bowl coated with ice cream on the TV stand this morning, and it was gone. Lilly's pajamas were folded nicely and sitting in a laundry basket instead of in a pile on the floor. I checked the kitchen. All my dishes were done, by hand, and sitting in a drying rack on the counter. The pizza box I'd crammed into the trash can was gone. The appliances had been wiped down and the floor swept.
I dialed 9-1-1 and opened the door to the office. The alarm sounded off, and I typed in the code. My office and the attached lobby were my favorite part of the property. I'd designed them myself (after I'd burned the place down, but whatever). The furniture was sleek, the art abstract. There were two palms by the door, and we had a vibrant orange accent wall. My desk was bamboo and littered with papers and random keys, the shredder was full, and the counter overlooking the lobby had a thin layer of dust.
The dispatch operator answered on the third ring. "Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?"
"Yes, someone broke into my apartment, and they…cleaned it."
"Someone broke into your apartment, and they…cleaned it?" the operator repeated, her voice monotone. I could almost hear her rolling her eyes.
"Yes." I twisted open the blinds in my apartment. "The windows are even clean."
"Are you sure this was a break-in?"
"I mean"— I did a full spin—"nothing is broken."
Lilly pushed the front door open. "Can me come inside now?"
"It's I, and no. Wait right there." With my pepper spray in hand, and a dispatch operator who likely thought I was nuts in my ear, I walked down the hall. My bedroom door was cracked open, and I could hear the faintest sound of movement. "I called the police!" I kicked open the door and screamed.
"Ma'am, are you there?" the operator asked.
I clutched my chest. "Yes, I'm… It was a misunderstanding. Sorry." I hung up and tossed my phone at Amy, who was lying on my bed with AirPods on and a giant stuffed elephant beside her.
"Oh, hey!" Amy plucked a pod from her ear. "What's with the pepper spray?"
"I thought someone broke in." I leaned into the hallway. "Lilly, you can come inside! It's only Auntie Amy!"
"Only. Gosh. What a reception." Amy swung her legs over the side of the bed. "By the way, your place was a mess."
"I was in a hurry this morning. What are you doing here?"
"My life is in shambles."
"Again? What happened?"
"I danced ten hours a day, every day, for weeks. For what? Third place! Guess what third place gets you?"
"The bronzed dancing shoe trophy?"
"Nothing! Literally nothing. My agent hasn't received anything. It's seriously the most horrid thing to ever happen to me."
"What's with the elephant?"
"I bought it for Lilly at the airport. It's cute, right?"
Honestly, it was a little freaky looking. The eyes were the size of saucepans, and the body was the size of a small horse. Not sure where I'd store it, but I appreciated the gesture.
"Auntie Amy!" Lilly came barreling into the room and jumped onto the bed. "Ahhhh! What is that?" She pointed to the elephant.
"It's a present for you. Do you like it?"
"No. I hate it!"
"Why? Look. His n
ame is"—Amy checked the tag—"Blimpo."
"He's scary." Lilly started to whimper and covered her eyes. "Make him go away!"
"How about we put Blimpo away for now." I removed the offending toy and shoved him into my closet. He barely fit.
"Talk about bursting my bubble," Amy said. "That thing was fifty bucks."
Lilly peeked between her fingers. Once she saw the giant elephant was gone, she perked back up and started jumping on the bed. "Hey, Auntie Amy. I saw you lose on TV."
"Thanks for the reminder, kid." Amy stood, grabbed Lilly, and swung her up on her hip. Amy and I had been best friends since the third grade. We grew up in Fresno and moved to Los Angeles when she decided to be an actress. I'd tagged along because that's what I do. I'm a tagger-alonger. Amy was tall and thin and had blonde hair. Like ninety-two percent of all C-list actresses in Los Angeles. Which is why she added in colorful highlights to differentiate herself. Today, she had teal tips and pink streaks.
"How long have you been here?" I asked.
"A few hours. I had to know why you've been ghosting me."
"I haven't been ghosting you." Unless ghosting meant not returning text or calls—then, yeah, I was ghosting her.
"All I know is that I saw you at the party after the finale. Then I get a text from you three days later with the shocked face emoji, barf face emoji, two flowers, and an upside-down smiley face. What does that mean?"
"I don't remember." Which was the truth. "Shouldn't you be home with your boyfriend?"
"He's at a dental conference in San Diego. Don't change the subject. What happened in New York?"
"I'm hungry," Lilly announced.
"And I will feed you, child," I said, grateful for the interruption.
"Not so fast, Clyne." Amy followed me down the hallway, Lilly still on her hip. "I want to know what happened."
I opened the fridge and pulled out the bread and butter. "We had a nice trip."
"Can me have sparkle toast?" Lilly slipped out of Amy's arms and went to the fridge. By sparkle, she meant raspberry jam.
"What happened?" Amy demanded.
I dropped the bread into the toaster and set the dial.
Amy drummed her fingers on the freshly polished counter. "I am literally not leaving until you tell me. I know that face. Something bad happened." She gasped. "Oh hell, are you pregnant?"
"You're pregnant!" Lilly cheered. "Yay! I get a baby sister!"
I shot Amy a look. "No, I am not pregnant, and let's not say that out loud, please."
"Are you sure?" Amy asked. "Because the last time you made that face was when you were pregnant with Lilly. Did Chase knock you up?"
"What does knock up mean?" Lilly asked.
Oh, geez. "It's um…when you…um…" I was not prepared for this conversation.
"It's when you get a knock on the noggin." Amy made a fist and lightly tapped herself on the head.
Lilly made a face. "That doesn't sound good. I don't ever want Mommy to be knocked up."
Oh, geez.
The toaster dinged. I pulled out the toast and added butter and "sparkle."
"Cambria!" Amy was growing impatient. I couldn't blame her. We talked about everything, but I wasn't ready to divulge the details of my disastrous trip. Mostly because I wasn't ready to deal with the aftermath. Not yet.
"I promise I'll tell you everything once I've had time to process." There were things I had to figure out on my own without Amy's input. She had a lot of opinions when it came to my love life.
"Wow. Was it that bad?"
"Yep." I cut Lilly's toast in half and walked it over to the table.
"What's with the back of your legs," Amy asked. "Are those hickeys and a rash?"
"They're goat bites, and I fell into insulation. It's been a rough day."
"Your job is weird."
"We had a mishap at the Burbank property today." I stepped into the office, to get out of Lilly's earshot, and Amy followed. "A dead person was found in the attic."
Amy's eyes went wide. "You found a dead person. Again?"
"I didn't find it," I said, keeping my voice low. "A resident found the body shoved into a barrel. Police said she could have been there for years."
"That's disgusting." She did a full body shiver. "No more details, please."
"The thing is, they'll use dental records to identify her, but if they can't, they'll release the story to the public to see if anyone else can help identify the victim."
"Why is that a problem?"
"I ended up interviewing next door, and they will not want to hire me if I'm involved in a high-profile murder investigation. Not after what happened to their last manager."
"I can see their point. If they want to stay away from scandal, they shouldn't hire you. You're cursed."
"So I've heard."
"Why don't you look at the missing person website to see if there's anyone who matches the description of the victim?" Amy asked.
"That's a brilliant idea."
"You're welcome." She rolled a chair up to my desk, and we started the search. Turns out there are an alarming number of missing people in California.
"The person was female and petite with brown hair." I scrolled through the pictures.
"Well, that narrows it down," Amy said with a roll of her eyes.
Amy's sarcasm was in reference to the fact half of the people on the missing person list were petite females with brown hair. But none of the dates lined up. There were two women from the sixties, one from the late seventies, and the rest were from within the last five years.
I grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote down the names anyway. Francis Holland, Tammy Whitewood, and Larissa Lopez. I didn't bother with the women who went missing recently. Even an untrained eye could tell that body had been there a long time.
I should probably call Patrick to discuss what happened.
So I did.
"You found another dead body?" he asked after I told him the story. Apparently, Hampton had not talked to him yet. Oops.
"No, I didn't find any body. Fox did."
"It's distressing how many dead people have turned up since you were hired."
I hoped that wasn't his opening line when the Dashwoods called to verify employment.
"For the record," I said, "this body was clearly there prior to my taking over. Perhaps it's not that people have died since I showed up—it's that I'm more observant than the managers before me."
He made a sound. I couldn't tell if it was sigh or a grunt, or if he was crying. Could have been all three. Patrick had said at least a hundred times since I'd started that he'd spent too many years in property management. He was burned out. I could tell. Lucky for me, he was too young to retire. Thank goodness. If he did quit, we'd all be out of a job.
"Have you ever been in the attic?" I asked.
"No, there's never been a reason to."
"Have you ever been in the attic here?"
"No, there's never been a reason to."
Note to self: Check the attic here for dead bodies.
Scratch that. My eyes had already seen too much.
Note to self: Look into hiring a company who comes out to look for corpses.
"According to the police, the body looked to have been dead anywhere from twenty to thirty years, and it was a petite female with brown hair."
There was silence on the other end. So much so, I thought Patrick had hung on me. "Hello?"
"I'm here," he finally said.
"Chase is going to contact the McMillses. Do you know if they've talked?"
"I'm sure if the McMillses knew about a dead person in the attic, I would have heard. I think they took their yacht to Mexico. I don't know if they're back yet. I'll call Trevor in the morning."
I thought a dead body warranted a call tonight. But I wasn't about to tell Patrick how to do his job.
"Do you think Mr. or Mrs. McMills hid the body there?"
"The McMillses have a lot of money. They could find a better place to
dispose of a body than in the attic of their own property."
You'd think so, but I added the McMillses to the list of suspects I'd already mentally prepared anyway. Patrick had taken over management twenty-five years ago, and as far as I knew, the McMillses didn't have a prior management company. They had done everything themselves.
I ran this information by Patrick to double check.
"They had onsite apartment managers," he said. "But they didn't have a management company until I was hired. After Trevor graduated law school, he took over the trust, and I haven't spoken to the McMillses since. I don't know how involved they were in the day-to-day running of the properties before I got there. I do know the Burbank apartments had problems with wild tenants. There was a lot of turnover, not much enforcement of the house rules, and I heard there was a big drug problem. Mostly pot."
"I brought home files from the past few residents of the apartments with attic access," I said. "There aren't that many. Can I get the archives for the Burbank building?"
I could almost hear Patrick shaking his head. "Trevor McMills has all the files."
"Can you ask if I can have a look?"
"I'll ask. Why don't you let the police handle this?"
"Because…um…like I said, I'm much more observant. Plus, with cops there, I can't very well rent out Apartment 14B, and I hate vacancies." This was all true. Not my main motive, but absolutely true.
"You're committed—I'll give you that much."
"You know you couldn't do this without me." I regretted the statement as soon as it left my mouth. Why would I tell him this right before I quit?
Smart, Cambria. Real smart.
"You're right," Patrick said, and I felt like crap. "Curious, did the police say if they had any leads?"
"They didn't say. Can you think of any petite females who went missing?"
"I think I can be counted on to remember if a resident vanished," he said.
"I doubt it was a resident. I'm thinking it was a friend or acquaintance of someone who lived there. Any tenants who gave off a murderous vibes?"
"I remember hearing stories about unruly roommates in Apartment 2B. Two younger guys who worked in the film industry. They were known for their parties, and drugs. And they'd bring home a lot of women."