French Vanilla & Felonies

by Erin Huss

"I told you, Joyce left this morning. I'm the apartment manager now. According to your lease, the rent is due on the first. I'm not sure how asking you to pay the rent on the apartment you are renting is so offensive to you."

  She released the counter and stood up straight, hands on hips, head cocked, angry face on. "That's fine. I'll talk to my lawyer about this."

  The front door swung open, and Mickey, my new (to me) upstairs neighbor, walked through. An older, round man with dark hair and thick scars running down his dark forearms. "I'll kill you. I'll take you to hell and bury you there," he mumbled to no one in particular while Apartment 3 hammered on about her lawyer. I leaned over to see if a Bluetooth was in either of the man's ears. Both were empty. "The government is gonna take it…" he continued as he walked to the other door and swung it open. "Gonna take it…"

  "This is beyond ridiculous." Apartment 3 was still going. "Fine! Whatever. I can tell you're going to be that kind of manager." She slapped her wallet on the counter, clicked her pen, filled out a check, yanked it from the binding, crinkled it into a ball, and tossed it at me.

  It bounced off my forehead.

  I unraveled the check wad and: "It's dated for the fifteenth? If you postdate a check, it's still considered late."

  I thought her head was going to implode.

  But before it could, the front door swung open again. In came Scarlet pulling a dolly piled with boxes.

  I ran to hold the door open for her, leaving Miss I-have-a-lawyer in the midst of a mental implosion.

  "Thanks. This is the last of it." She held out the paperwork we'd given her yesterday along with the apartment keys.

  "You're done already?" I squeaked in surprise. That was fast!

  "Kenneth didn't have much. I took a few things and scheduled for the Donation Truck to come pick up the rest. They'll be here Friday afternoon." She kicked her dolly to an incline and readjusted the bag on her shoulder. "My address and phone number are on the paperwork if you need me."

  "Hello?" Miss Let-me-chuck-my-postdated-check-at-your-face raised her hand. "We were in the middle of something here."

  "Hold on," I told her. Then I shifted my attention back to Scarlet. "I want to apologize if I came across as harsh yesterday. My intention was not to make you feel worse. I only wanted to know what happened."

  "You and me both." She pulled her bag up her shoulder again. "The coroner's report came back. Kenneth was strangled, and the police don't have a suspect, and they don't appear to be in any hurry to find one." She chocked back a tear.

  "Hell-ooo!" hollered Miss I-am-the-center-of-the-universe.

  "Hold on!" I snapped. My gosh! The job listing wasn't joking when it said applicant must have the ability to multi-task without becoming violent (or was it flustered?) either way, I was almost there.

  Back to Scarlet. "Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help with the investigation or whatever you need," I said, and I meant it.

  "All I want is justice for my brother."

  "Me too." I reached around the dolly and gave her a hug. We then said our good-byes, and I held the front lobby door open while she wheeled her dolly through.

  I watched her walk down the uneven bricks, toward her car. Kenneth Fisk was strangled to death despite the gun beside him?

  "Hello!" Miss On-my-last-nerve interrupted my thoughts. "You interested in doing your job today?"

  Ugh. Right.

  I assumed my position behind the counter. "Where were we?"

  "You were denying my legal right to a grace period," she said.

  "Right. Yes, there's no such thing. Rent is due on the first."

  "I'm sure my lawyer would be more than happy to fill you in on the law."

  Man, she was annoying, completely irrational, and…hmmm? I leaned over the counter to peek at her stomach.

  "Oh my gosh!" Miss Doesn't-appear-to-be-pregnant scoffed. "Are you checking me out?"

  "Er…no."

  "This is just…no… I'm not doing this." She threw her hands up then turned around and left. Taking her wadded-up check with her.

  Who knew collecting rent would be so difficult?

  As the day continued, I heard everything from "my grandma died" to "a gypsy stole my money." Larry, in Apartment 32, couldn't pay his rent because of his hemorrhoids. I didn't ask for specifics, but he shared them anyway. I was ready to pay his rent for him if he would stop talking about it!

  Blech!

  When five o'clock arrived, I quickly flipped the locks on the lobby doors before anyone else could storm in. I'd successfully made it through my first rent day, collecting nearly half the rents. I hoped the rest would be waiting in the drop box, with the late fees attached, when I returned Sunday (aka Moving Day).

  All ancient equipment powered down. Lights off. Einstein retamed. Two layers of lip gloss applied, and I was ready to tackle the last two items of business before I scurried home to finish (and start) packing.

  One) deal with the maintenance man.

  Two) check out Kenneth's apartment.

  Chase had arrived in the morning with a crew of men recruited from the Home Depot parking lot. Within minutes the carpet was gone, the walls were primed, and the toilets and sinks were trashed. We had not exchanged pleasantries since he was far too busy doing his job and I was far too busy Googling how to do mine. I was ready for him though.

  During my shower the night before, I prepared a cleverly scripted speech expressing my anger in an eloquently condescending way. I held up a bottle of Pantene as Chase's proxy and told it I was an honest, hard worker and even if he attempted to sabotage this job for me and my small, defenseless, hungry child, I was not one to hold a grudge (which was mostly true sometimes). I reminded the shampoo I was now its boss, but I did it with a glower that said "watch your back" and a hair flip that said "I'm too good for you." Then I sauntered off (well, as much as I could in my tiny shower), swaying my booty in a way that said "Mmm hmm, coulda had this and blew it." Oh, it was good. I took another shower in the morning to perfect my glower.

  I had seen the hired workers leave, but I knew Chase was still working because he had to check in with me before he could leave, because I was his boss.

  Mwhahahahaha.

  I stepped into my apartment. The last time I'd been there was shortly after Joyce had peeled out of the parking lot. So much had already been accomplished. The Smurf carpet was now a plush pecan color. Cream linoleum covered the dinette and kitchen floors, the walls were a shiny eggshell, and the tiled counters were now bare wood, ready for the laminate.

  I strolled down the hallway, amazed at the difference. I peeked into the first bathroom. The uninstalled toilet sat near the door, and the sink was in the bathtub. It was still so surreal to think I'd get two full bathrooms. Two. A luxury I hadn't had in my entire adult existence. The smell of freshly applied paint and newly installed carpets temporarily abolished all thoughts of murder, black doors, spider webs, guns, naked grandparents…and replaced them with pure, childlike excitement.

  I'd been treading for so long, barely able to keep my head above water. Now it was time to swim. This was the fresh start I'd been waiting for.

  I stepped across the hall into the master. With my hands clasped over my heart, like a child at Christmas, I looked around. My stomach bubbled with all the possibilities. I had a bedroom all to myself.

  Only me.

  Just mine.

  All mine.

  Mine. Mine. Mine.

  All…by…my…self…

  It was a notion far more depressing than I'd anticipated. A tinge of loneliness stabbed at my heart.

  As promised, Joyce's massive armoire towered in the middle of the room. I ran my hand across the smooth surface, tracing the dark, natural swirls with my finger, deciding if I should paint it, stain it, or trash it. I yanked open the cabinet doors, releasing a batch of hoarded nicotine. I coughed and gagged and slammed it shut.

  Trash it. Definitely trash it.

  While waving my hand in fron
t of my face, warding off the offensive smell, the squeal of a drill pushing a screw into the wall caught my attention.

  Showtime!

  I peeked into the master bathroom and saw Chase standing on a step stool, holding a bronzed light fixture against the wall with one hand while the other worked the power drill. Drywall dust coated his hair and stuck to the scruff on his face. He was intently focused on his job, and I was intently focused on his bicep.

  I sincerely believed I'd find him repulsive after what he'd said. Unfortunately, he was just as attractive as the day I met him, if not more. Suddenly, all my anger soared out the window, and my insides started to hyperventilate. I turned into one of those annoying girls who forgot their convictions the moment a cute boy arrived. I was a total cliché, and it didn't bother me, which totally bothered me. I was nothing but a giant ball of contradictions, but I couldn't move because my legs were all watery, so I stood there staring like an idiot.

  Chase stepped down and admired his work, crossing his arms over his chest. I wanted to run away, go look for my convictions, and staple them to my forehead so I wouldn't lose them again, but I couldn't tear my eyes away.

  Finally noticing my wobbly presence, Chase turned and delivered an infectious grin. I wanted to slap him and kiss him and fire him and… Ahhh! Get a grip, woman!

  "Hello," he said

  "Hello," I said back.

  "Hi," he said.

  "Hi," I said back.

  It was tantalizing conversation.

  "How are you doing with everything?" he asked.

  "I'm doing fine, and you?"

  "Good. I just finished," he said.

  Finished? I glanced up at the fixture. It was upside down and crooked. The caulking around the toilet was thin in some parts, thick in others, and mostly globby and smeared all over the floor.

  Is that medicine cabinet on backwards?

  I tried to open it.

  Sure is.

  Lilly could have done a better job. This was my fresh start, my chance to swim. How was I supposed to swim if I couldn't even open my medicine cabinet?

  And just like that, my convictions returned, my legs resolidified, and my glower appeared. "Are you serious?" I asked in an eloquently condescending way.

  He looked around, confused, scratching the scruff on his face and causing the drywall dust to fall to the ground. My legs started to go all liquidy again. I imagined him as a bottle of Pantene. "I'll be back tomorrow to finish the first bathroom…" I wasn't sure if this was a question or a statement.

  "I'll also need you to finish this one," I said, glower still in place. "I'll send you a text with the items I'd like you to address, specifically, the giant armoire in my room that I need removed, please." Hair flip. Glower. Hair flip. "Now, before I leave, I wanted to discuss our working situation."

  "Situation?" He looked confused.

  "Yes, situation." Hair flip. Hair flip. Ouch. Neck kink. "I know you didn't want to work with me, and I wanted to assure you I have a very high—"

  "Who said I didn't want to work with you?" He took a step closer, placing his drill on the paint-spotted counter.

  "It doesn't matter. What does is—"

  "No, it does matter. Who said that?" he pressed again, mirroring my glower.

  I grunted. This was supposed to be a one-sided conversation. "Joyce mentioned it. It's not important—"

  "Why would she say that?"

  "Would you stop interrupting me?" I snapped. I was losing momentum. "I wanted to assure you I have very high standards regarding…stuff…" Dammit. I forgot what came next. "Please know I plan on working here for a long, long time. You can find someone else to maintenance if you don't like me." Did I just say someone? Crap. "Somewhere, somewhere else to maintenance," I quickly added.

  Chase stared at me. I squirmed. He asked for permission to speak with an arch of his brow. I nodded my approval. "My buddy applied for the job as well, and I wanted him to get it, that's all. It wasn't personal. I don't even know you. I like working here. I don't think there's any situation."

  "Huh" was my response, because I couldn't think of a better one. During my rehearsal, the Pantene bottle never spoke of any friends. It never spoke at all. Joyce could have mentioned the friend. It would have lessened the blow. "OK then, well, glad we got that out of the way. I'll text you the items I'd like you to fix tomorrow. You may leave." I turned and sauntered off as planned except, crap. I sauntered too soon.

  I back-peddled to the bathroom. Chase was staring at his phone.

  "One more thing," I started, glower in place. "Kenneth Fisk's sister returned the keys to his apartment today. We'll need to get it turned over as soon as possible. That's all." I turned and sauntered off again, swaying my booty until I whacked it on the doorknob. Smooth.

  My hipbone throbbed. I pretended not to notice and kept on swayin' until I was out of his sight.

  Ouch.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  If the Leasee dies during the leasing period, the estate of the deceased will be held liable for damages and cleaning costs, should the estate fail to claim damage.

  I stood in the middle of Kenneth Fisk's studio apartment. Scarlet had packed her brother's belongings into boxes and labeled them clothing, hats, kitchenware, books… They were stacked into a pyramid atop the bare mattress along with a lamp and a few other household items like blankets and pillows, with a handwritten note for the Donation Truck taped to the front of kitchenware.

  The apartment walls were naked. The cabinets empty, aside from a bag of plastic forks. In the closet a lone wire hanger dangled from the rod, and a pair of well-worn loafers lie on the floor. I flipped the switch in the bathroom, and the light flickered on. The tub had a dark ring around the inside and a thin bar of Zest on the ledge. I found a paper taped to the back of the door: Couch to 5K Running Plan. A nine-week training program for beginners. The edges were wrinkled and paper crisp from condensation.

  I followed the high-traffic grooves in the carpet from the bathroom to the bed to the living area to the kitchen and back again. A perfect circle ten years in the making.

  It reminded me of when I was a kid. My Grandma Ruthie and I would spend our Saturdays at estate sales. We'd walk through the homes of Fresno's recently deceased and dig through the stuff relatives deemed worthless—knickknacks, pictures, clothing, vases, wedding dresses. It was an eerie feeling going through their stuff. Often, I'd get this feeling that the ghost of the recently departed was looming over us, shaking his or her head in despair as strangers bought their possessions for cents on the dollar. Grandma Ruthie called this the "shivily wivilies"—when every hair on your body stands on end, the air feels heavy, and you have an acute feeling that you're being watched.

  This is exactly how I felt in Kenneth Fisk's apartment. I had a bad case of the "shivily wivilies."

  It was creepy.

  Really creepy.

  Not creepy enough to leave.

  I continued through the apartment looking for what, I had no idea. The police had spent a full twenty-four hours in there—it's not like I was going to uncover anything incriminating. All I did find was a bag of trash under the sink, a cook book in a drawer, and a daily planner on the closet shelf. Other than that—nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  The boxes were folded not taped, making it easier to slip the items I found into the allotted donation box (also easier to snoop around). As promised, the clothing box contained just that—clothes. Jeans, shirts, Lands' End sweatshirts. The hats box didn't disappoint either—a bowler hat, well-worn Dodgers caps, and several straw fedora hats.

  In the books box?

  Books.

  Lots of books. Mostly about trains. An Encyclopedia Britannica. The entire Twilight Series.

  I opened the trash bag. Inside?

  Trash.

  Lots of trash.

  Protein bar wrappers, a banana peel, takeout menu…stuff you'd expect to find in a trash can.

  Next, I flipped open the planner to O
ctober. Last week, Kenneth had a colonoscopy. He was set to get his eyes checked this coming Thursday. DMV Friday. Lunch with Scarlet Saturday.

  My conclusion: Kenneth Fisk was in fact Joe Schmoe.

  There was even a novelty T-shirt with Joe Schmoe printed across the chest.

  So who would want to kill Joe Schmoe?

  Scarlet wanted justice for her brother. I too wanted justice for Kenneth Fisk. I also wanted a safe environment to raise my child and a peaceful place for my residents to reside (happy residents = less vacancies = happy Patrick = employed Cambria, or however that equation went).

  I locked Kenneth's apartment and left. The sun had set, and residents were meandering home from a day of work—some carrying mail, others with bags of groceries, most staring at their phone. It was all very ordinary.

  In the parking lot, asphalt crunched under my Converse sneakers as I walked to my car parked along the wall. The back lot was dim, and I used my phone to light the path.

  Note to self: Check about parking lot lights.

  It took several pumps of the gas, a quick prayer, and a few bleeps to get my car to start. Once it coughed to life, I was on my way. The front gate shook, rattled, and leisurely rolled open while I sat behind the wheel and waited. A silver hatchback with illegally black windows bounced over the railing and teetered across the driveway past me. I could just make out the outline of a person behind the dark window. I waved, unsure of what else to do. The car stopped.

  I stared.

  The person behind the dark window stared.

  Then, with a pop of the exhaust pipe, the hatchback roared forward and took a sharp right turn into its assigned spot. Leaving a cloud of smog behind.

  I glanced into my rearview mirror to catch which carport the car parked in.

  Number 40.

  Looked like Kevin was home.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Tenant agrees to use the emergency line for real emergencies only—Fire, Flood, Blood.

  I took a mental break from all things murder related for the weekend. It was time to move. Despite the hundred-and-one-degree heat, a rental truck on the brink of exploding, and a cranky toddler, Tom, Amy, and I still managed to get all my belongings from one apartment to the next.