by Erin Huss
Kevin's mouth twitched upwards into a crescent. My heart lifted. Everyone needs someone in his or her corner.
I was right, I thought, just before the door slammed in my face. The wood stopped an inch from my nose.
Or maybe not.
I stared at the red, spray-painted number, debating if I should knock again or obey the sign. My shoulders sank with defeat.
Perhaps it's time to start listening?
I headed back down the stairs, my mood sinking with each drop of my foot, rejection swimming around my head like a shark preparing for the kill. So much rejection—first by Chase, who'd pulled away so fast you'd think I was contagious. Now Kevin. Of course there was also Tom, and how could I forget about Patrick who'd rejected me twice before settling.
My life had crumbled into small, unrecognizable pieces. Much like the picture frame that once hung in the hall. I'd felt despair at various times in my life but never like this. I'd always been able to reframe my mind, focus on my resources, and find a thread of hope to cling to and figure out the problem.
I was losing grasp of that thread.
Cutting through the grass, I hugged my chest, my eyes secured to the ground. Engaged in my pity-party-for-one, I hadn't noticed the footsteps approaching and nearly face-planted into Spencer's chest. He was holding his lease out as if he were about to make a public decree. Without saying a word (might as well start listening to Patrick), I sidestepped to the right, out of his way. He shuffled over. I sidestepped to the left. He shuffled over. I turned around and walked in the opposite direction, and he jumped in front of me. This whole keeping-my-big-mouth-shut thing was becoming rather difficult.
"Please listen to me?" Spencer finally said, pushing his glasses back up the ridge of his nose. He was still sporting his coffee-stained blue scrubs with Dr. Spencer Bryant, DDS embroidered above the pocket and blue Crocs with white socks. "I've been reading over the lease, and I believe I've taken care of everything. I'd like to show you. If things are up to par, would you consider not going through with the thirty-day notice? I just moved here, and I'd like to stay. I really hate moving." He flipped to the ninth page of the House Rules and pointed to the paragraph he'd highlighted. No Water-Filled Furniture Allowed in the Apartment. "It says in the apartment, so I put them on the patio. And I got rid of my stingrays and won't be selling them anymore. So there isn't any illegal activity going on either. I'd like to show you."
Huh?
Not speaking was no longer an option because I had to ask, "What are you talking about? What's a stingray?" Code for oxycodone, perhaps?
Misreading my confusion, he placed his thumbs and pointer fingers together to make a diamond. "They have a diamond head and are bottom-dwelling marine rays. They're fresh water, and I realize they're illegal here in California. I didn't think it would be that big—"
"Spencer," I cut him off, more confused than ever. "I know what a stingray is. Tell me what a real stingray is."
He stared at me with a blank expression until it hit me. "Holy crap!" I gasped. He wasn't selling drugs or guns or pregnancy tests. He was selling fish…or…er…stingrays. "No, no, no. Spencer, I saw several people coming and going from your apartment carrying brown bags. You can't put water in a brown bag." He was a dangerous criminal. Dangerous criminals don't sell stingrays. They generally don't wear Crocs with socks and have DDS after their name either…ugh.
"I put the plastic bag in the brown bag so no one sees. Look. I'm sorry. I assumed Joyce knew and didn't care. I moved my setup with my smaller, legal fish. Can I please show you?"
My tongue felt thick, and I struggled to speak. "Um… I… Fine, sure, whatever. Hold on." I surrendered, mostly out of curiosity. "Give me one second, and I'll meet you at your apartment." I turned around and slid my phone out of my back pocket and composed a text to Amy.
About to enter Apartment 36, Spencer Bryant, in case I die or go missing.
I hit Send. If Spencer turned out to be the criminal I'd made him out to be (and oddly, I hoped he was), Amy would be able to identify my killer.
Spencer's apartment smelled like chicken nuggets, Old Spice, and latex. A card table with four plastic folding chairs was set up in the dinette area. No furniture aside from a circular futon in front of a too-large-for-this-room television, at least seventy inches, mounted to the wall with a waterfall of black, red, and blue cords behind it.
He'll definitely need to patch that before he moves.
No pictures on the wall. Nothing on the kitchen counters. The scratchy tan carpet was filthy, littered with specks of dirt, crunched leaves, and tiny papers.
I followed him through the hall, past the linen cabinets, and into his room. A green comforter lay heaped on the floor next to the bare queen mattress. Clothes, sweat-ripened socks, scrub tops, boxers, grease-soaked napkins, pizza boxes, and books were sprawled across the floor. A lone picture of Han Solo with his blaster pointed, hair feathered, and face smoldering was hung on the wall.
"This way," Spencer said, sliding open the patio door.
I stepped outside. "You've got to be bleeping kidding me." Fish tanks. Five long fish tanks lined the perimeter of his rectangle-shaped patio. Not the beautiful tanks with the colorful fish, fake treasure chests, artificial plants, and aqua pebbles lining the bottom. Just tanks filled with water, a pump, and dozens upon dozens of light and dark blue fish.
Fish!
"These are frontosas," Spencer said proudly.
I stared at him.
"It's a type of African cichlid," he explained. I had no idea what that was. "I breed them, they're absolutely legal, and I only sell them to my ichthyologist group."
Ichthyologist group?
"Did you sell the stingrays to the ichthyology group as well?
He nodded, proudly. "It's a group we started in dental school."
Fish-loving dentist.
I was wrong. Spencer had nothing to do with the murder. He had nothing to do with the backpack and the stolen car and the pregnancy test. He wasn't impregnating anyone. He was too busy making fish do it.
My phone vibrated in my back pocket. Amy. "Hello," I answered, peering into one of the tanks holding a school of fish with humps protruding from their smug little fish heads.
"Cambria, what is wrong with you! Who is Spencer Bryant, and why are you going into his apartment if you think he's about to kill you?" I suspected she didn't remember texting me the exact same message last night.
"Don't worry. I was wrong."
Spencer knelt down and sprinkled red flakes into the tank holding the smallest fronto-whatever. The fish flurried to the surface, grabbing the food and swimming back down to the bottom. I wanted to cry.
"You were wrong about what?" Amy asked. "Who is Spencer?" I could hear the hangover in her voice still.
"He's a tenant. A dentist who sells fish." The word left a bitter aftertaste.
"Like real fish, or is this code for something?" she asked.
"Nope, like little Nemos."
"Frontosa," Spencer corrected, standing upright and dusting the fish food off his hands.
"Seriously?" Her voiced perked up into a sober range. "A dentist? Huh. Is he single?"
I rolled my eyes and looked around at the fish tanks and then back up at Spencer and then into his room with the Han Solo poster and sheetless mattress. "I'm going to take a stab in the dark and say yes."
"Oh really." I could hear the smile in her voice. "Give him my number."
"No."
"Come on."
"No."
"Please."
"Not a chance."
Spencer took a step toward me. "You know I can hear both sides of your conversation, right?"
Uhhhhhhh…
"I'll call you back, Amy." I shoved the phone into my back pocket, clasped my hands in front of me, and gave Spencer an apologetic smile.
Awk-a-ward.
Spencer brought his hands to his hips. "Your friend said that you thought I was going to kill you?"
I
opened my mouth, about to spit out a pathetic attempt at an explanation, then opted for the truth. "I saw people leaving your apartment with bags and assumed it was drugs and that you had something to do with Kenneth Fisk's murder."
Spencer stood frozen.
"I told the police to look into you as a possible suspect," I added, to, you know, make the situation more uncomfortable.
Spencer finally came to. "If you thought I had something to do with Kenneth's murder, then why did you willingly come into my apartment, alone."
Good question. "I am a poor decision maker" was my answer.
"A fair assessment." He pushed his glasses back up the ridge of his nose. "At least that explains why the detective came to my office to question me. I thought it was weird she didn't come here."
"They questioned you!" I said, happy to know the police followed up on my lead.
Spencer's eyes narrowed.
"I mean…" I cleared my throat. "They questioned you?"
"Yes, they did." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I had to take time away from a patient to be grilled for almost thirty minutes."
Spencer was clearly upset, but I had to ask. "What did they ask, and what did you say?"
He dropped his arms. "Monday is my early day. I left for work about 5:45 and saw Kenneth walking in a hurry toward the back stairwell. I waved to him, but he was on the phone, and I don't think he saw me."
The message on the answering machine was left at 5:45 a.m.! Which meant Kenneth was on the phone, leaving the message when Spencer saw him. Kenneth had already witnessed whatever it was that warranted the call, and if he was walking toward the back stairwell, that something happened back there.
"You said all this to the detective?" I confirmed.
"Of course. I have nothing to hide."
I glanced at the fish tanks.
"Besides this," he added. "Look, I had nothing to do with Kenneth Fisk. I gave all my information to the detective. I moved my tanks to the patio. Do you think I can stay? Because you obviously don't have a reason to kick me out now."
Ugh, that.
"I'll get back to you," I said, not looking forward to the conversation where I tell Patrick that Spencer's fishy behavior is actually fish.
"And by the way," said Spencer. "I am single." He flashed a smile and pushed his glasses up the ridge of his nose.
"I'll let her know."
Note to self: Turn volume down on your phone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Landlord is entitled to at least one mental breakdown during the length of the rental agreement.
I felt like a scarecrow—hollow and made of only straw and clothing. No bones to keep me vertical. No brain to process the monumental mess I made. I lay on my bed, spread out like a strawy starfish, with my newly retrieved drug box open and on the floor beside me. I watched the blades of the ceiling fan spin around and around and around and around into a blur.
To recap.
Me: Teardrop of Death is a murderer!
Reality: Teardrop of Death is Kevin's boyfriend.
Me: Spencer is selling drugs!
Reality: Spencer breeds fish.
I'd say I should stick to my day job, except I wasn't exactly killing it there either.
Patrick: Don't tell Spencer why he's being served a Notice to Vacate.
Me: OK!
Reality: Tell Spencer everything then set him up with my best friend.
What a mess.
I flopped my straw-filled head to the right and got a sideways glance of the armoire still standing in the middle of the room. "I should have taken your lead and never left my apartment," I told it, as if speaking to Joyce. "I should have asked more questions about Kevin, about rent collection, and the job. I have no idea what I'm doing, and I have a sinking suspicion it isn't even that hard of a job. I was wrong about Spencer. What was I thinking? That someone who sold drugs would bag them up like a grocery store? 'Would you like your narcotics in paper or plastic?' Who killed Kenneth? Who stole Daniella's car? And why did it all go downhill the day I started? Why did Chase make a move and then pull back? Why do I try and fix things? Why can't I listen? Why do I make a mess out of everything I touch? Why am I talking to an armoire? Ugh." I flung my arm over my eyes.
I've lost my mind.
The office cordless phone rang. I felt around for it with my free hand then brought it to my ear without looking. "This is Cambria."
"Patrick here."
"Hi, Patrick. How are you?" I tried to sound as cheery as one who talks to furniture could be. I knew why he was calling. He'd spoken with Kevin, and now I had to tell him I was wrong about Teardrop and Spencer.
"I heard the police were in the office today?" he asked curtly.
"What did Kevin tell you?" I thought it best to hear what version he'd given Patrick before I added in my own account.
"Kevin? I haven't heard from him. What did Kevin do that warranted a visit from the police?" Now he sounded irritated.
I gnawed at my thumbnail while weighing my options. "Nothing," I finally said, surrendering to my conscience. While I believed Kevin telling anyone to go into my apartment without my permission was wrong, I couldn't imagine what would happen to him if he were kicked out. I couldn't live with that. He needed to stay, especially if there was a substance abuse situation. This was even more clear to me after a swig of Benadryl and a tub of ice cream.
"Did they come to question Spencer?"
"Well, here's the thing about Spencer." I ran my hand along the rich fabric of my comforter, procrastinating. "The thing is he actually was doing something illegal. He was selling stingrays."
"Is that some kind of narcotic?"
"No, it's actually a real stingray. The ones with diamond-shaped bodies who dwell at the bottom of the ocean… I mean, this type is in fresh water, so in a lake. I don't think he had anything to do with all the crime. He stopped selling the stingrays and moved his fish tanks to the patio and would like to stay."
"What about the man from last night?"
"Well, here's the thing about the teardrop tattoo guy. Turns out he was visiting a friend for the night only. He lives in San Bernardino. It looks like he doesn't know Spencer and wasn't even here last week."
"OK. If the setup is fine, and you don't think Spencer is involved in any criminal activities, he can stay. I don't care. One less vacancy to add to the pile." Patrick's voice was tense. My stomach hurt. "I received a call from Silvia Kravitz saying you kicked her out because she complained? She also gave me another story I don't care to confirm about you and her neighbors. She told me the police were in your apartment?"
That woman was seriously getting on my nerves. "It was a misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding?" he repeated. I nodded yes, forgetting he couldn't see me. "At what point do we step back and evaluate when this all started? I've never had so many calls from tenants in all my years of property management. Since you started we've had a murder, a car theft, and now we have a seventy-five-percent run rate on Rent or Run and 2 stars in both safety and management. Now we've got a crowd moving out next month, putting you at a—" His fingers tapped at a calculator. "—eighty-percent occupancy rate? It's a bad situation. Now I have this application for an Alice Burns with a copy of a student ID card sitting on my desk. Where's her license? How do you know this is really Alice Burns? You have no photo identification? The picture on her student ID is small and grainy."
I continued to gnaw on my thumbnail. "She said she lost it, and she's only a roommate."
"Only a roommate?" he repeated, growing angrier. "Roommates still live there. Roommates still pay rent. Roommates are added to the lease. Per your time card, you went over the application process with Joyce. This should not be news to you."
I slapped my forehead.
"Were you even aware Vincent Romero had a three-month deposit?" Patrick continued. "We only collect three-month deposits from applicants who have iffy credit. He's been a model tenant from what I see, but the point is, I
have to trust my managers to look into these things. To look at the bigger picture, collect the rents, maintain at least a ninety-five percent occupancy rate, a low Rent or Run rate, and do a decent screening of applicants. Before I get the application, you should have already verified employment, past rental history, and done a Google search. I'm still missing some rents. When Joyce was there, she never had a single eviction. Not one. In twenty-five years." He exhaled into the phone. "I'll be there tomorrow morning so we can chat more about this in person."
I'm fired.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Landlord agrees to fulfill all reasonable maintenance requests within a reasonable amount of time as long as the Tenant is reasonable.
It felt as if I'd been punched in the stomach. After everything I'd been through, I was fired. Why else would Patrick come down for a "chat"? It's the twenty-first century. We can chat via phone, Skype, FaceTime, text. No need to speak in person unless it was to serve termination papers. I took a bullet, figuratively, for Kevin, and where did it get me? Fired.
Tears clogged the back of my throat as I stormed over to Alice's apartment. I was not going down without a fight. Nope. Not me.
I passed Mickey, who was arguing with himself, and then Alex and Trent, who were arguing with each other. Larry was on his upstairs balcony, nursing a Bloody Mary as he sat in an old-school aluminum lawn chair with yellow and white webbing. The resident from Apartment 7 marched by, avoiding eye contact, with a stack of moving boxes in her arms.
I continued with determination to Apartment 39. Chase rounded the corner, coming from the carports, scrolling through his phone. I pretended not to notice him, keeping my eyes on the destination. Remaining employed was more important than dealing with whatever that was that happened.