Mint Chip & Murder

by Erin Huss

  Lilly happily swiped her donut and danced over to my car, humming a celebratory tune.

  "I'm so sorry," I said to Chase. "I have no idea why she'd say something like that."

  "You don't?"

  "No, I absolutely don't."

  Chase nodded his head, as if answering an internal question. "Please text me all the information you have." He handed me the donut box and bag of ice cream. "I'll talk to you later." He walked back to his car, which was parked next to the maintenance garage.

  I swiped a maple bar. Adulting is hard.

  Lilly was already in her booster seat, buckled in, still humming, when I got in the car. I reattached the rearview mirror, pumped the gas a few times, turned the key, and we were on our way to the Burbank building. "Are you going to tell me why you said that to Chase?" I asked, keeping my eyes on the road. Morning traffic was a beast.

  "'Cause I want him to go away forever," she said matter-of-factly.

  "Do you not like Chase?"

  "I like hims."

  "It's him. Did he hurt your feelings?"

  "No. Hims is very nice."

  "He. Then why did you tell him to go away forever? That really hurt his feelings."

  "'Cause I was thinking it in my head, and then it came out of my mouth."

  "Why was it in your head?"

  I could hear her shrug her little shoulders as I inched onto the freeway behind a line of cars. I wanted to press for more details, but I knew the more I pressed, the more this would become "a thing." If I let it go, she could as well. There was no way Lilly had this thought on her own, though. Not at three years old. Someone must have said something, and I had a good idea who that someone was.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Excellent time-management skills.

  Fox was in the courtyard doing yoga when I arrived at the Burbank building. "I thought you were getting rid of the goats?" I asked.

  "The guy doesn't take returns." Fox twisted his leg up and over his head. He had on fewer clothes today. Just a tank top and short neon-green shorts, leaving very little to the imagination.

  "Wow, you are really flimsy," Lilly said. "And I like your pets."

  "He's flexible," I corrected and pushed her aside, taking a protective stance should I need to fend off a goat attack. The brown goat was standing beside Fox while the white one was on his back. They appeared to be in a better mood—ouch!

  Spoke too soon.

  "Mother…bleepin!" I hobbled around, rubbing my leg. "The goats need to go, Fox."

  "What if they're service animals?"

  "Yoga isn't considered a service."

  "Why not? I found a dead body, and I can't even tweet about it, so I'm doing my yoga. The goats help maximize my zen."

  I opened my mouth then snapped it shut. Dammit! He had me there.

  "Can I pet your goat?" Lilly reached out her hand, and I swung her up onto my hip.

  "Don't touch her," I said.

  "Why?"

  "Because she bites."

  "Why?"

  "Because…just because."

  Fox lowered into the splits. "The goats have been pretty chill. They just don't like you."

  "Well, the feeling is mutual—ouch!" Breathe. Breathe. Breathe through the pain. "Fox," I said through gritted teeth.

  "I'll find them a new home."

  "Today," I grunted.

  "As soon as I'm done. You ever heard of the Zankla books?"

  "What?"

  "They're about the Tarian people."

  "What?"

  "They're super hot right now."

  "What?"

  "I've got an audition tomorrow for the role of the goat shapeshifter in the Soldurian Clan."

  Heaven help me, I had way too many starving actors in my life.

  "I'm really feeling the character," he said. "It's a role I was born to play."

  "Good luck." I limped up the stairs to Apartment 14B with Lilly still on my hip. The door didn't have a notice from the police, and I deemed it safe to enter.

  "Ah! It's so hot!" Lilly fanned her face.

  Agreed. It was like stepping directly into a convection oven. Holy hell! I opened all the windows, which would have helped if there were a breeze outside. But there wasn't.

  I'd need to hurry. If it was hot in a second floor apartment, then it was going to be surface-of-the-sun hot in the attic. I wanted to check if there were more barrels up there.

  The cable company's ladder was folded and up against the wall. Perfect.

  Lilly stuck out her tongue like a dog. "Why is it so hot?"

  "Because these units don't have air conditioners."

  "Why?"

  "Because the owners didn't have the place ducted."

  "Why?"

  "These are wonderful questions," I said. "Keep them in your head, and I'll answer them when we're done. OK?"

  "Why?"

  I handed her my phone.

  "Yay!" She plopped down on the floor without another word. That should keep her busy for a few minutes. Still, I couldn't let her bake. So I ran downstairs, grabbed a fan from my office, hurried back, and plugged it in. Lilly was so engrossed in the show she was watching on Netflix, that she didn't even flinch when I picked her up and positioned her in front of the fan.

  That's better.

  I locked the door, set up the ladder, and climbed into the attic. As expected, it was stifling. Well over a hundred degrees. Sweat dripped from my forehead, and I did a quick look around, careful not to touch the pink stuff.

  There were no other barrels up there. The pillow must have been collected and taken to the medical examiner. The previous resident, May, had said that Alvin and Sherman in Apartment 2B had a friend sleeping up here. She didn't say if the friend was male or female, and I wondered if the victim could have been crashing up there before she was killed.

  There were a few sporadic windows, allowing for sunlight to peek in. I examined the corner where the barrel was. A dark ring had formed on the floor, and there were several deep gashes in the wood.

  Apartment 4B, where May had lived, was directly below. The entry into the unit was roughly five feet away from where the barrel had been. I checked the framing around the access point, to see if it had been damaged. Nope. The wood looked perfectly intact. The opening was about an inch wider than the base of the barrel. It would be hard to remove them without causing damage.

  There was a narrow walkway to the attic access point into Apartment 2B. Unlike 4B, the framing around the door was scuffed, chipped, and splintery. This was consistent with May's account of the two roommates frequently using the attic as their own personal storage facility.

  I was sweaty, and a little light-headed. It was awfully hot up there, and I was mindful of the time, being that my phone was currently babysitting Lilly. I had to hurry. But first, there was a space with plywood flooring off to the side, and I ducked under a beam to check it out. A window allowed enough light in for me to see. Five rusty-colored circles matching the one in the corner were stamped into the wood. The fact that the circles were so visible made me think those barrels had been there for a long time before they were removed.

  This meant someone had to have moved four barrels, leaving the one with the woman behind. Why wouldn't they have taken the one with the victim? You'd think that would be a top priority. Surely, whoever stuffed her in there couldn't have thought it would be a permanent solution. The barrel sat atop wires, for goodness' sake. At some point in the future, those wires would have had to be replaced. It seemed to me that whoever moved the barrels had no idea there was a fifth hidden.

  I climbed down, grabbed my phone from Lilly, settled her after she threw a massive fit, and we walked to my office. Fox and his goats were gone. I'd have to deal with that situation soon. Even if he considered them service animals, I'd need the documentation. His poor downstairs neighbors. I thought living beneath Mickey, who tromped across my ceiling several times a night to use the bathroom, was bad. I couldn't imagine two goats prancing around.<
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  My cell rang. A number I didn't recognize flashed across the screen, and I answered. "Hello."

  "It's Dr. Dashwood from Cedar Creek."

  "Oh, hi." I closed the door and sat on the hard plastic folding chair at my desk. Lilly started to ask me a question, and I pressed my finger to her lips. She channeled her inner Captain Marvel and pretended to blast me with photons. "How can I help you, Dr. Dashwood?"

  "We don't seem to have the right number for Patrick Elder. Can I get it from you?"

  My stomach did a somersault. I really didn't want her talking to Patrick. But she couldn't hire me without speaking to my current employer. "Of course. Let me check." I tried not to sound as anxious as I felt. I should have told Patrick last night about the job interview so he wouldn't be blindsided when the Dashwoods called.

  I went through my contacts and read off his work number.

  "That's the one we have as well," Dr. Dashwood said. "But that line has been disconnected."

  "Are you sure?" I rarely called Patrick on his work line, but I had used the number before, and it did work. Weird. "Let me give you his cell." I rattled off the numbers.

  "Thank you. And while I have you on the phone, I've been doing research about what we talked about yesterday. Are you comfortable with heat, or should we do smaller sizes?"

  Uh… "Huh?"

  "You said you loved the idea," she said, her tone accusing.

  "Oh yeah, right. Right. Yes. Of course. I think, um…smaller sizes are better?"

  "I absolutely agree."

  "Great." I wish I had a time machine. If I did, I'd travel to yesterday to see what I agreed to.

  "Hopefully we can get ahold of Patrick today," she said. "We're anxious to get everything settled."

  "Me, too."

  "We'll be in touch. " She hung up, and I heaved a sigh.

  First the full voice mail box and now the disconnected work line—certainly an odd coincidence.

  I called Elder Property Management's office, and—sure enough—the number didn't work. I tried not to jump to conclusions (Patrick was the killer, and he fled the country, never to be heard from again), but it was really hard to keep my brain from going to the worst-case scenario.

  I tried Patrick's cell phone, and the call went straight to a full mailbox. May's account of the barrels echoed through my mind. There were five, and right after Patrick took over management, they were taken away. Why were there barrels there in the first place? What was in them? More bodies?

  "Can we go?" Lilly asked.

  "Not yet, sweetie."

  "This isn't fun."

  She had me there. "A few more minutes." I yanked open the filing cabinet and searched for old maintenance logs. I found invoices dating back to the early nineties from a company called Handy Man Express. A handwritten work order was stapled to the back of each invoice. Most were for broken toilet seats, and all invoices were stamped PAST DUE in red. This was before Patrick took over. He always pays bills the moment they cross his desk.

  A man named Neo Doukas signed off each work order. According to Google, Handy Man Express was no longer in business. A quick search on LinkedIn, and I was able to find Neo. He owned a restaurant in West Hollywood that—according to Yelp—had the most authentic Greek food in all of Hollywood. Convenient, because I could go for a gyro.

  * * *

  Greek House was located on Santa Monica Blvd. between a gelato shop and a Subway. I parked in the lot across the street. It was only ten o'clock, and the restaurant didn't open until eleven. I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered in through the window. Greek House was nothing more than a counter with a soda machine and a register with a grill along the back wall. The menu consisted of ten items, and there was only seating on the front patio. It didn't look like much, but I had a feeling the food was good. There was no way Neo could afford the rent on Santa Monica Blvd. if it weren't.

  I could see that the back door was open, and I walked around to the alleyway, holding Lilly's hand.

  "Are we here to buy me new clothes?" she asked.

  "Not yet. We'll go shopping later. First, I need to speak to someone. It shouldn't take long."

  She thunked the heel of her hand against her forehead. It was cute. So I stopped to take a picture.

  There was a young guy—late teens/midtwenties (I sucked at age guesstimation)—unloading boxes from a delivery truck.

  "I'm looking for Neo Doukas," I said to the boy. He had dark, curly hair and thick eyebrows. His shirt had Greek House printed on the front, and his name tag said Neo. But he didn't match the profile picture on LinkedIn, and he was about thirty years too young to be the Neo I was looking for.

  "My dad's in the office," he said.

  I thanked him and stepped around the tower of boxes. The office was at the end of the hall next to the bathroom. The door was wide open, and sitting behind the desk was a handsome older man with wisps of gray hair, dark eyes, and a round nose. He was looking over paperwork, and I tapped on the door with my knuckles to grab his attention.

  "My name is Cambria Clyne," I said once he looked up. "I manage an apartment building in Burbank where Handy Man Express used to work. I found several invoices with your name on them, and I wanted to ask you a few questions."

  I could tell by the expression on Neo's face that he had no idea what to make of me. "I don't do handy work anymore."

  "That's fine. What I need from you is information."

  "I worked at a lot of apartment buildings in Burbank. You're gonna need to refresh my memory."

  Right. If only our apartment building had a name. "It's managed by Elder Property Management now, but before they took over, the McMillses ran the place."

  "Oh, I remember the McMillses," he said with a snort. "Ernest and Dolores McMills were the cheapest rich people I've ever met, and they never paid on time." Neo gestured to the chair on the opposite side of his desk, and I sat down, sliding Lilly onto my lap.

  "And I see you brought Wonder Woman with you," Neo said, looking at Lilly. He reminded me of my grandpa. Rough voice, kind eyes, bushy brows.

  Lilly stuck her fingers into her mouth, as she often did when deciding to be shy.

  "She's Captain Marvel," I said. "Sorry to show up like this, but do you remember moving barrels from the attic when you worked for the McMillses?"

  Neo steepled his fingers under his chin. "I remember there being barrels up there, but I didn't move them."

  Shoot. "Did you ever look inside?"

  "All the time. There were five of them leftover from the contractors who built the complex. Ernest didn't throw anything away. Most were empty; some were filled with various materials."

  "Various things like a human?"

  Neo's eyes opened wide. "No, various things like steel, extra tiles, wood, nails, and rocks. I would remember if there was a person inside. Are you a cop?"

  "No, I'm an apartment manager with a c-o-r-p-s-e in the attic." I didn't want to have to explain to Lilly what a corpse was. My life would get a whole lot trickier once she learned to spell. "The c-o-r-p-s-e was a woman shoved into a barrel and hidden behind a makeshift wall. Looked like she'd been there for a long time."

  "How long?"

  "They don't know for sure, but at least twenty-five to thirty years. She was in her thirties, with dark hair, Hispanic, and she had dentures. Sound familiar?"

  Neo just stared at me. "I don't remember anyone fitting that description. We had a lot of turnover there. The tenants were loud and liked to party. I fished bras out of the palm tree more times than I care to remember."

  It was hard to imagine the Burbank property as a frat house. Then again, when I first took over the Los Angeles property, it was unknowingly a crack house. "Do you remember Alvin and Sherman in Apartment 2B?"

  "How can I forget? They were young set designers. Cocky little crapheads. They'd lug black bags up to their apartment and break the stairs. I had to replace several steps."

  "I heard they stored those bags in the attic. Do
you know what was inside?"

  He shook his head. "I know they had someone sleeping up there for a while."

  "What year was this?"

  "That was in the nineties. Ernest finally kicked them out after that. I bet if the friend had been willing to pay rent, Ernest would have let him stay up there, though."

  "And you're sure all those barrels were there the entire time you worked at the property?"

  "Positive. And there weren't any barrels hidden in the walls either. We would have found it when re-wiring the place for internet."

  "When did you stop working there?" I asked, afraid he'd say when Elder Property Management took over.

  "When Elder Property Management took over. Happens a lot when new management companies come on. They have their own people."

  Crap.

  "I was done with the property management business anyway. This was my dream." He gestured to his office. "Best Greek food in Los Angeles."

  Based on the aroma permeating from the kitchen, I believed him. My stomach growled. Before I could go stuff my face, I had to get to the bottom of the barrel.

  "What was Ernest McMills like?" All I knew about the McMillses was that they disowned their only son after he announced he was gay. Other than that, I knew they were rich, and they apparently had a yacht. That was the depth of my knowledge when it came to the McMillses.

  "He was a nice enough guy. Hated parting with money. I was shocked when they said that they'd hired a management company and were grooming their nephew to take over everything."

  "Why?"

  "Because he'd have to share his profits. I know they were having trouble with their son at the time, but I was still surprised."

  I did the math in my head and realized the McMillses hired Elder Property Management right around when they kicked Kevin out and sent him to live at the Los Angeles property, rent free, so long as he never contacted them. There might be more to that story.

  "And you're sure the barrels were still there when you left?"

  Please say no. Please say no. Please say no.

  "Positive."

  Dang it.

  This didn't necessarily mean Patrick had something to do with the murder. There was still Alvin and Sherman, who left right before Patrick was hired, and the McMillses, who owned the buildings. If Ernest was as cheap as Neo made him out to be, then he wouldn't have been OK with Patrick tossing the barrels.