by Erin Huss
Before I could dwell too much on the paranormal, Chase showed up. Chase Cruller (as in the donut) was once the maintenance man. He was now a detective for the great city of Los Angeles. Which kept him busy. There were a lot of criminals around these parts.
Chase was also sort of my boyfriend. He has dark blond hair, green eyes, a five o'clock shadow no matter the time of day, rock-solid abs, and I'm pretty sure he could be an underwear model if he weren't busy fighting bad guys.
He sidestepped the debris to avoid dirtying his shiny shoes. He had on a gray tailored suit and black tie, the outfit reserved for super-official detective duty.
"What are you doing here?" I asked him.
"I saw the fire trucks driving down Sepulveda and had a strange hunch they were coming from your place." He looked around, taking in the new landscape of the lobby. "What happened?"
"The wax warmer caught on fire, so I doused it with my water, and it caught on fire more."
"That's unfortunate." He brushed a fallen ash off his sleeve.
"Very. So why are you so formal?" I tugged on the lapels of his jacket "Funeral or press conference?"
"Press conference?" Chase narrowed his eyes. "You haven't heard the news?"
"Been a little busy." I waved to the crispy lobby. "Why? What happened?"
"Jessica Wilders was murdered."
I gasped.
"Her assistant found her at home this morning with multiple gunshot wounds."
I gasped.
"Wasn't pretty."
Jessica Wilders was the star of Ghost Confidential. Amy would argue there was no "star," that it was an ensemble, but that was only because she couldn't stand Jessica—who was the star. Jessica was a skeletal brunette with dark eyes and a gap between her two front teeth—what she was known for. She played Lola Darling, a ghost trapped in the body of her ex-husband's new wife, who was also her killer's sister. It was gripping television.
I'd met Jessica at a cast party once. I'd tagged along as Amy's last-minute date. Her boyfriend had to work late because "he's a doc-tor," Amy had announced upon arrival. About thirty minutes into the night, I'd managed a short but meaningful conversation with Jessica. She asked me where the bathroom was because she thought I worked there. Too starstruck to form words, I pointed a crab leg toward the commodes. This was the extent of our interaction, and now she was dead.
"That's horrible. Do you have any idea who killed her?" I asked Chase.
"No suspects and no solid leads right now, but we'll get there," he said.
I wondered how Amy had taken the news. Come to think of it…where is Amy? She said she was coming over, and that was hours ago.
Chase checked his watch. "I have to head to the station now. This is the highest-profile case I've ever worked so…"
"I'll see you when I see you." I hid my disappointment with a smile. "No worries. Go catch the killer, and I'll be here, trying not to burn anything else down."
Chase pulled me closer and tucked a strand of Einstein behind my ear. "Thank you for understanding."
"Of course." I wrapped my arms around his waist. I could feel the holster on his hip. I'm not going to lie—knowing he was packing heat was kind of hot. "You can make it up to me later."
"Oh yeah?" A devilish grin spread across his face. "What did you have in mind?"
"Gee, I don't know. Let me think about it." I played coy. The man knew what I wanted.
Chase leaned in and kissed me. His stubble was rough against my face, but his lips were sweet and firm. My legs went to goo.
"Is this what you had in mind?" he whispered against my mouth.
"Actually, I was going to say ice cream, pizza, and the latest Liam Neeson movie, but this is a good start."
Chase laughed. "I'll call you tomorrow."
"You better." I gave him a playful smack on the rear.
Chase sidestepped the debris on his way to the door, when in came Tom, with Lilly at his side.
Oh geez.
Tom Dryer (as in the appliance) was my one-night-stand turned baby daddy. He was a criminal defense attorney. Does mostly pro bono work. Which kept him busy. There were a lot of poor criminals around these parts.
If you squinted and tilted your head to the side, Tom looked like a tall Dylan McDermott. He could probably be an underwear model too. My parents thought he was gay. But the hundred or so women he'd slept with over the course of his lifetime would attest otherwise.
Tom was wearing basketball shorts, a Lakers tee, sandals, and a frown.
He wasn't my sort of boyfriend. Tom didn't do relationships. There were feelings there. He knew it. I knew it. Chase knew it. No one talked about it. Which made this reunion sort of awkward.
Blissfully unaware of the tension in the air, Lilly ran up and wrapped her arms around my legs. I swung her on my hip and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "What happens to the lobby?" she asked.
"What happened was there was a fire." I swept a dark curl off her forehead. "There were three fire trucks here."
Lilly's hazel eyes went wide. "Did you get to ride in one?"
"Not this time."
"Wow, Cam." Tom stepped in further and stood beside Chase. They acknowledged each other with a quick jerk of their chins. "You OK?"
"I'm fine. It was a silly mishap." I giggled what was supposed to be an endearing giggle but sounded more like an old-lady cackle. 'Cause I'm smooth like that.
"Oh no!" Lilly slapped her forehead. "Are my dolls OK?"
"I think they are. Why don't you go check."
Lilly scrambled to break free from my grasp and ran into the apartment. The situation became fifty times more uncomfortable without the toddler buffer around.
"So…" I rocked from heel to toe. "How 'bout them Dodgers?"
Chase shoved his hands into the front pockets of his slacks. "They choked in the World Series."
"I hardly call losing in game seven a choke job."
I'd forgotten how much Tom loved his Dodgers. And how much Chase didn't love the Dodgers. He was an Angels fan.
Bad icebreaker.
"Um…so, Jessica Wilders is dead." 'Cause murder is a better icebreaker?
Honestly.
Note to self: you suck at icebreakers.
"I heard about that." Tom turned to Chase. "Are you working the case?"
Chase nodded his head.
"That should take up a lot of your time." Tom perked up and looked at me. "I'll call you tomorrow."
Oh geez. I had no idea how to handle so much male attention.
I pulled at my collar. "You know what? I have to clean up this mess and call Amy to be sure she's OK."
I ushered the two outside. "Thank you for stopping by. Take care. Talk to you later." I closed the door and locked it, which did little good since the window was missing and I could hear the two arguing baseball outside.
I grabbed my phone and called Amy. It went straight to voicemail. Even if Amy and Jessica Wilders didn't get along, I knew Amy would be devastated. I tried calling her again. It went straight to voicemail.
I sent a text.
Heard about Jessica. Are you OK?
CHAPTER TWO
See also: Exterminator
The next morning I awoke with a gasp, imagining Jessica Wilders had snuck into my apartment and beat me on the back of the head with the urn while Chase and Tom stood by in their underwear and watched.
It was the sexiest nightmare I'd ever had.
I should have skipped the midnight ice cream binge.
The clock claimed it was 7:00 AM. The time confirmed when the ceiling creaked. It was my upstairs neighbor Mickey performing his morning bathroom march. Then came the swoosh of the toilet, slam of the seat, psshhhh of the sink, and thud of him hurling himself back into bed, just as he did every freaking morning.
There was no point going back to sleep. Lilly would be awake soon, and it was March 1. I pulled the covers up to my chin, threw my hands behind my head, and waited.
My phone buzzed from the nightstan
d. I didn't have to look to know it was my mom calling. Every year on March 1, at exactly 7:01 AM, my mother called to tell me the story of a teenager from Fresno who endured a long, drug-free labor only to have an emergency C-section because her baby had an "unusually large head."
That's right. March 1 is my birthday.
Which meant two things:
One: I'd spent nearly three decades on this planet and still had no clue what I was doing.
Two: my birthday would always and forever land on rent day.
I let the call go to voicemail. Not because I didn't want to talk to my mom, and not because I didn't enjoy hearing about my gigantic noggin and my mother's dainty lady bits (as lovely a visual as that was). Jessica Wilders had just murdered me in my sleep. Amy had yet to call me back. The lobby had burned down. I had the inspection tomorrow. I was a wee bit stressed. If I answered, she'd hear the angst in my voice and ask what was wrong. Not just ask either. She'd hound me until I broke, and I hadn't exactly been forthcoming about my troubles since moving to Los Angeles.
My parents had divorced when I was eight years old, and even though my dad remarried, neither went on to have more kids. So it wasn't as if I had siblings to take some of the pressure off. Like—Cambria is a hot mess, but luckily we have another child to rest our unfulfilled life wishes on.
It was part of the reason my parents thought Tom was gay. When I told them I was pregnant, the conversation went like this:
Mom (rolling eyes): "This isn't some guy you picked up at a bar, is it?"
Dad: "Oh no, Cambria."
Me: "No! We were together…kind of." For about fifteen minutes. After we left the bar.
Dad: "Were?"
Mom: "Great. Another man who can't stick it out for the sake of his kid." She shot my dad an evil eye. I couldn't have her giving Tom the same eye. It would make my baby's life miserable.
Me: "It's not like that. I'm just…not his type." As in, I wasn't a slut—though previous actions would suggest otherwise.
Mom: "Ohhhhh, I get it. I saw something like this on Dr. Phil."
Dad and Me: "Huh?"
Mom: "Kids who are raised by a straight mother and a gay father. It makes for a well-balanced child."
Should I have corrected her? Probably. But if I had, my mom would have thought Tom was a horrible parent for not attempting to keep his family together, when in reality he was a doting father. Lilly was lucky to have him. So I kept my mouth shut, and now my mom loved Tom. She marched in the Gay Pride Parade every year in his honor.
Sometimes it's vital to withhold information for the well-being of your baby daddy.
My phone buzzed again. I knew it wasn't Amy. She didn't wake up this early. It was Dad. I could deal with Dad. He didn't study the fluctuation of my voice the way my mom did.
He was already on the second chorus of Happy Birthday when I answered. My dad had a jolly voice. It didn't matter if you were his child or the mailman—he spoke to everyone like they were the most important person in the world.
"Thanks, Dad," I said.
"I didn't wake you, did I?"
I sat up slowly and readjusted my pillow for better back support. "No, I was awake. How are you doing?"
"We're good. Work's been slow, but my boys have been on a winning streak." My dad coached the varsity boys' basketball team at the high school. "Rebecca took over the debate team, and that's kept her busy."
Rebecca is the woman my dad married. She was my high school Spanish teacher—a five-foot-nothing blonde who sounded as if she were on a helium drip. It didn't matter if you were her stepdaughter or the janitor—she spoke to everyone like they were the janitor.
"Tell me what's going on with you, kiddo. How's work?"
"It's going. There's an inspection tomorrow—"
"Is that Cambria on the phone?" Rebecca shrieked in the background.
Oh no.
"Can I talk to her?" she asked.
Say no. Say no. Say no.
Not that I didn't want to speak to Rebecca.
OK fine. I didn't want to speak to Rebecca.
She'd managed to commandeer any and all father-daughter time since she entrado en mi vida.
"Calvin! Let me have the phone!"
Yes, my dad's name was Calvin, and yes my last name was Clyne. And of course his plumbing business was called Calvin Clyne Plumbing, with a picture of my dad recreating a classic black and white Calvin Kline ad with his jeans on, smolder in place, and a plunger slung over his shoulder. It made high school real fun.
"Feliz cumpleaños, Cambria!"
Ouch, my eardrum.
"I can't believe how big you've gotten!"
"Gee, thanks, Rebecca."
"I've been watching the news. I can't believe Jessica Wilders was murdered. Does Amy know anything?"
I sunk back down and pulled the comforter over my head. "I don't think so. Can I talk to my dad?"
"'Cause you know, I tell all my students that I used to teach Amy Magnolia. One of the stars of Ghost Confidential!"
Guest star, but whatever.
"I'm curious if the show can go on without Lola Darling."
"I don't know. Is my dad there?"
"What will happen between Lola and Frank? Can you ask Amy for me?"
"Sure. Lola and Frank…hello?…hello?…poor connection…I…ju…got
…to…so…nice…talk—" Click.
It was my birthday, and if I wanted to hang up on the woman my dad married, then I could. Except, crap, I felt guilty about it.
Not guilty enough to call her back.
I sent Amy another two texts then rolled out of bed and shuffled to go pee and weigh myself. The morning rays peeked through the blinds, and tiny dust particles danced in the light. Lilly called them "morning sparkles."
Even though I'd lived there five months, there were still unlabeled moving boxes stacked in the corner. Next to my bed was a red antique nightstand that a tenant had left behind when he'd moved. Above my bed was a framed picture of the Los Angeles landscape, also left behind by a move-out. California required me to store the discarded belongings for thirty days before I could get rid of them (aka use them as décor in my apartment).
There was a cherrywood television stand in the storage closet that had fifteen days left. I'd already claimed it.
Pushed up against the wall by the patio door was the giant wooden armoire the previous manager Joyce had left behind when she moved. It was empty, smelled like nicotine, and had to be dismantled before it could be hauled away. So, it stayed.
In short, my style was made up of other people's trash. Except for my bed. My bed was new. I'd used my Christmas bonus to buy a mattress and frame. It was big and modern and sleek and didn't match anything else in my apartment. But it felt like I was sleeping on a cloud of marshmallows. Or so I assumed.
In the bathroom, I stood at the sink and examined my face in the mirror. I didn't look any older. Tired? Sure. Pale? Always. Older? Not really.
What the… I leaned in closer. Why is adult acne even a thing? Like teenage acne wasn't bad enough, here were a dozen painful whiteheads to carry you through your twenties.
It's not right.
I put a headband on and slathered my face with soap. I thought about Jessica Wilders. Multiple gunshot wounds? What an awful way to die. Who would do that? How would they do it? I wouldn't consider Jessica an A-list celebrity, but she was at least a B+. She was well known but didn't grace the cover of tabloids like Jennifer Aniston or Brad Pitt did. Still, I was sure she lived in a gated community with cameras. It was weird that Amy hadn't said anything to me about it. Not a text. Not a phone call. Nothing.
I thought back to our last conversation. Amy said that she had something to tell me. I had serious doubt that something was the murder of her co-worker. She was too casual about it and—
A bloodcurdling scream came from Lilly's room. "Help! Emergency!"
Frantic, I scrambled to find a towel, blindly feeling around the counter. My hand landed on something
cloth-like, and I bolted, wiping the soap from my eyes.
"Momma, hurry!" Lilly cried.
I stumbled through her door, tripped on a toy car, and went butt first into Lilly's Barbie castle—taking out the roof and landing on a Ken.
"What happened?" I struggled to my feet and took note of the fact that I was wiping my face with the shirt I'd planned to wear that day.
"There's a spider!" She pointed to a black piece of fluff on the ground.
"Oh, sweetie." I half laughed, half sighed in relief, half cried because of the soap burning my cornea, and bent down to pick up the offending piece of fluff. "It's only— Ahhhh! It's a spider!" Not just any spider either. It was a giant tarantula with fur, native to Mars.
I screamed. Lilly screamed. I screamed. Lilly screamed louder. The spider raised its front legs, ready to attack. I used a book to scoop it up and dumped the mutant on the patio, along with the book, and locked the door.
It was traumatic.
Good thing I had donuts to take our minds off it. A birthday treat I'd bought for myself the night before. Donuts for breakfast was a Clyne family tradition that I started, that day.
Forgetting all about the spider, Lilly went for a sprinkled glaze while I opted for a swig of Mylanta. My throat burned, and I felt like hairy legs were crawling up my back and down my arms…
Blah-aha-aha-aha.
"Am I seeing Daddy today?" Lilly asked from the table. Her little legs swung beneath her while she ate.
"I'm not sure." I turned around to check the time on the stove. 7:30 AM.
"What am I doing today then?" she asked.
"You get to hang out with Mrs. Nguyen this morning while I do some work."
"So you can get ready for the owner ingest-tion?"
"Inspection. Well, really it's the trustee, not the owner." I poured Lilly a glass of almond milk and placed it next to her plate.
She took a sip and licked her milk mustache away. "Momma, what's a trust-eee?"
"That's a good question." I had to think about how to explain this to a three-year-old. "So when you're really old and really rich and don't feel like dealing with your millions of dollars and big property investments anymore, you hire someone to handle it all for you. That's a trustee. He makes sure the really old and really rich people stay really rich."