by Erin Huss
"Momma, why do you call a fairy that doesn't shower?"
"Oh." Guess we're moving on. "I don't know. What do you call a fairy that doesn't shower?"
"A stinkerbell!" She giggled, and milk spewed out of her nose.
I handed her a napkin. "That's a good one. Hey, why did the chicken cross the playground?"
"Why? Why? Why?" Her eyes went wide in joyful anticipation.
I love her.
"To get to the other slide!" I laughed at my wittiness.
Lilly did not.
"Oh come on. Get to the other slide instead of the other side? That's funny."
She shook her head. "No, it's not."
I'm not going to lie—that stung. "Normally, it's the chicken crosses the road to get to the other side, but in this joke it's slide because it's a playground, and playgrounds have slides. It's a play on words." If you had to explain the punch line, the joke was a dud. But I continued anyway. "The chicken didn't cross the road. He crossed the playground."
My lame joke was interrupted by a knock on the door. Lilly and I looked at each other and smiled. It was Tom. Or Chase. Hopefully not both. Unless they were in their underwear. Then I might not mind so much.
Or it was a resident who'd locked himself out.
Probably a resident.
Hopefully, he wasn't in his underwear.
I turned off the alarm, unlocked the deadbolt, swung open the door, and… "Kevin?"
CHAPTER THREE
See also: Budtender
Kevin pushed past me, dropped his bag on the couch, and kicked off his shoes as if he were home. His auburn hair was slicked back and peppered with more gray hairs than I remembered. The studs in his ears were gone. His complexion was brighter, and his demeanor steady. He looked good. And it was hard to look good in a gray sweat suit.
"Tom, by the way, is an awesome attorney," he said. "Got me out of rehab. Just had to do my time, and now I'm clean as a whistle." He whistled to add to the effect.
"What a surprise to see you…" I closed the door slowly, weighted by shock. He wasn't supposed to be home for another two months. "Welcome back."
"It's good to be back." Kevin brought his hands to his hips and looked around. It was the first time he'd been inside my apartment. Prior to his drug conviction, we weren't on the friendliest of terms. During most of our encounters, he was high, and loud, and belligerent, and naked. I wasn't a big Kevin fan. Once I'd learned his backstory, my opinion of him softened. Over twenty years ago, his parents (the really old and really rich owners of the building) exiled him here after they found out he was gay. The deal was he didn't have to pay rent, or utilities, and could do whatever he wanted so long as he didn't contact them. My single thread of hope for their sense of humanity was that they'd sent Kevin to their favorite property.
Kevin and I had exchanged letters while he was locked up, and I now considered us on friendly terms—friendly enough for me to finally introduce him to my daughter.
"Lilly, this is Kevin. He lives in Apartment 40," I said.
Lilly waved a donut.
"Hey, kid." Kevin took a seat at the table and grabbed a maple-glazed bar. "Don't be an idiot when you grow up."
Lilly shrugged her little shoulders. "OK."
"And never go to prison. It sucks."
"What's prison?"
"It's where you can get any STD you want."
Her little mouth fell open. "Ohhh, I want an STD."
"No you don't!" I clapped my hands. "So, um, Kevin, have you been to your apartment yet?"
"No." He licked maple off his fingertips. "I came here first because you have the key."
Oh, right.
"Let me get it for you." I went to the office and grabbed his key from the safe. Mom was right where I left her. I thought about my dream and rubbed the back of my head.
"Is that an urn?" Kevin asked from the office doorway. He was now working on an old-fashioned glazed.
"Yes. A resident left it behind when they moved."
"Saw something about urns on that show Ghost Confidential. Harboring one that doesn't belong to you disturbs the deceased and causes bad luck."
"I don't think that's a real thing."
"Maybe. But Lola Darling messed with an urn in last week's episode then got knocked off in real life yesterday. My Uber driver told me all the details. Sounds gruesome."
"Yeah, I heard it wasn't pretty." I checked my phone. Almost 8:00 AM and still no word from Amy.
Lilly skipped in, crawled into my chair, and began spinning. Her favorite activity.
"So what's with the lobby?" Kevin pointed with his chin. "You redecorating?"
I followed his gaze. The window was boarded up with wood. The furniture was gone. The restoration company had removed the drywall and carpet. They'd also set up air scrubbers and hydroxyl machines that made the air smell less like smoke and more like chemicals.
"A wax melt caught on fire and took the lobby with it." I dropped the keys to Kevin's apartment into his hand. "Welcome home."
Kevin arched an eyebrow. "I assume you have everything in order?"
I nodded. He had asked me in a letter to fix his window, which was a huge step. Last year he'd broken it while in the midst of a drug-induced tantrum. If only he'd let me fix the rest of his apartment. It was a tweaker haven in there—nonsensical writings on the wall, ripped-up flooring, and missing cabinets. Barbies pinned to the wall with knives. The front door was black with the forty sprayed in red, dripping paint. And don't get me started on the mildew smell, but I no longer trusted air fresheners.
"The window is fixed, and I didn't touch anything else," I assured him.
"And you fed Viper?"
"Sure did." Viper was his snake. He ate one mouse a week. Talk about traumatizing.
"Got my mail?"
"It's on the headless statue by the door."
"Took care of my plants?"
"Errmm…" I tugged at the bottom of my shirt. "They…died."
"What!"
"Kevin, when you asked me to take care of your plants, I assumed you meant a houseplant. But you had—" I glanced at Lilly, who was on her third go-around in the chair. "You had a m-a-r-i…j?" Never mind. "You had w-e-e-d plants. Do you know how hard it is to take care of those?" I might have googled it. "And do you really think it's a good idea to have pot around when you're on p-a-r-o-l-e?"
"First." He held up one finger. "Stop spelling at me. Second." He held up two fingers. "Pot is legal now. And fourth." He held up four fingers. "Wait…what number was I—"
"Third."
"That's right. Third, I had a nice side business going on. What am I supposed to do for money now?" he asked in a way that insinuated this was now my problem.
"Get a job?"
He looked appalled, as if I'd just proposed he grow fins and become a show whale.
"Momma has a job," Lilly chimed in, still spinning. "She has owner incest tomorrow."
"Inspection! She means inspection," I quickly mended.
Kevin's face skewed into a question mark. "My parents are coming? Why would they come? They haven't been here in decades."
"No, no, no, noooooo. It's the trustee. He's coming," I winced, afraid of how this news would jolt his newly sober heart.
Kevin's lips went to a line. I thought he was about to cry, until he folded in half and wheezed with laughter.
He's cracked.
"The…trustee…Trevor…" Kevin said between gasps of laughter. "He's going to…eat…you…alive."
Wait, what?
"I have color-coded reports," I said, feeling defensive, and pointed to the manila folders on my desk to prove it.
Kevin rolled upright and rubbed at his eyes. "Wow, I haven't laughed this hard in a long time."
"I'm glad me getting eaten alive is so funny." I crossed my arms. "Why is he going to eat me alive?"
"Trevor is…" Kevin leaned against the desk while he searched for the right adjective. "Interesting," he decided. "He's my cousin. On my dad
's side. Total nut. He graduated from some nut law school and talked my parents into letting him run their wealth. I don't trust him. He's a nut."
"Your cousin?" First I heard of this news. "And a nut? How so?"
Kevin picked at his back teeth. "He's…a…a nut. There's no other word for it. Says I have negative energy." He shrugged. "Could be true. Not sure what he'll think of you. You talk a lot. I'd work on that."
"No I don't." OK, maybe a little, but only when I was nervous. Like during interviews, public speaking, doctor's appointments, and meetings with authoritative figures.
I choked on my own spit.
How had I not factored this into my preparations for tomorrow?
If Merriam-Webster were to define me, it'd say:
Cambria (came-bree-ah) Jane Clyne.
1. Awkward, overshares, nosey, says the word crap a lot, talks too much when nervous, not a good first-impression-maker, klutz, and overthinker.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
CHAPTER FOUR
See also: Surveillance
OK, so maybe it would be harder to impress the trustee, make Patrick look good, and get my golf cart than I originally thought. Which was fine because I had devised a plan.
Plan: clean the upstairs railings.
I didn't say it was good one.
But it was either take action or stress-eat ice cream. And I was trying this new thing where I didn't gain a pound a day. My clothes were about to stage an intervention.
Would cleaner railings make a difference? Like Trustee Trevor would say, "Wow, the apartment manager is obnoxious and starts fires, but the railings are superb. She's a keeper!"
Probably not, but it was the next thing on my to-do list, and Mr. Nguyen was busy installing the new lobby window.
First, Lilly and I stopped by Amy's apartment to check on her.
Amy lived in the third courtyard in Apartment 36 with her boyfriend, Spencer. The two had been cohabitating since the New Year. The second rule in property management is: be friendly with everyone and make friends with no one. (The first rule is: don't rent to drug dealers. I learned that lesson the hard way.) But Spencer was a resident before he was my best friend's boyfriend, and Amy had been my best friend since the third grade. I'd told myself that the rule was null and void for this situation and hoped it wouldn't come back to bite me in the rear.
I knocked on the door.
Lilly knocked.
I knocked.
Lilly pounded her little fists.
No answer.
I knew Amy was home. Her car was in the carport. I peeked in through the window. The television was on, muted, and turned to Good Morning America. A picture of Jessica Wilders' face filled the screen, with Inside Job? printed on the bottom. The microwave was lit up with two minutes left, and a tub of sugar-free, carb-free, gluten-free, dairy-free, taste-free ice cream was open on the counter—Amy's stress food of choice.
I understood her not talking to the press, but Amy and I talked about everything. She'd call me in a panic if there was a zit on her nose. So why not call when her costar turned up dead? It didn't make sense.
In my worst-case-scenario mind: the person who killed Jessica came for Amy, and she was inside her apartment—dead.
But I was trying this new thing where I didn't allow the worst-case-scenario part of my brain to take over.
In my logical mind: Amy couldn't be dead, because then who was using the microwave? Not Spencer. He'd left for work early that morning. The reason I'd yet to hear from Amy was because she'd been advised by her agent to keep a low profile and not speak to anyone. Her phone was off, and she was probably running a bath. Amy obsessively groomed when she was stressed.
I wedged a note into her doorframe, asking her to call me when she could talk about it.
* * *
Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen (pronounced "when") lived in an upstairs apartment in the third courtyard, next door to "Grandma" Clare and Bob in Apartment 22. The two elderly residents Silvia had accused me of trio-ing with last year. They sounded as if they were enjoying their afternoon. Despite my requests, they still hadn't moved their headboard from against the wall.
I knocked on Mrs. Nguyen's door and placed my hands over Lilly's ears while Grandma Clare and Bob…errr…ahhh…finished.
Mrs. Nguyen answered. She wiped her hands on the apron tied around her tiny waist. She was making pho. I could smell the beefy broth and spices simmering.
"Come inside. We start making lunch."
"Tôi đói," Lilly replied and skipped across the threshold.
Mrs. Nguyen looked me over and frowned. "You look bad!"
She wasn't a beat-around-the-bush kind of woman. I appreciated this about her, usually.
I glanced down at my flannel shirt and jeans. "They're my cleaning clothes."
"No. It your face. It's too pale!" Both Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen were hard of hearing. Which made them the perfect neighbors for Grandma Clare and Bob, who were…errr…ahhh…loud. "You need to eat more meat!"
This was Mrs. Nguyen's answer to everything.
"I will," I said. "And thanks again for watching Lilly this morning. I really appreciate it."
Mrs. Nguyen brushed off my gratitude. She loved Lilly like she was her own. She and Mr. Nguyen had been my next-door neighbors way back when, before I was an apartment manager. They'd known Lilly since the day I brought her home from the hospital. We called them Lilly's SoCal grandparents since my parents lived four hours away in Fresno and Tom's lived in Tahoe. Again, not supposed to rent to friends, but Mr. Nguyen was the maintenance man. Living here was part of the job.
"You hear about that actress who died?" Mrs. Nguyen leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms. "Wasn't she on that show with Amy?"
I nodded. "Jessica Wilders. She played Lola Darling."
"Such a shame. She was too skinny but too young to die. How Amy doing?"
"Not sure." I glanced over my shoulder down to Amy's apartment. The blinds were now drawn, and my note was still stuck in the door. "Truth is, I haven't spoken to her yet."
Mrs. Nguyen's eyes widened. "You not talked to her? OK, I don't feel so bad then. I try to bring her food last night, but she didn't answer."
"What time?"
"It was after you burned down the lobby. Around seven thirty, and then again at eight, and eight fifteen. I stopped trying around ten."
"For the record, I didn't burn down the lobby. And are you sure she was home?"
"I'm sure. I see her come home. She was on the phone and ran across the grass and slammed the door."
Huh.
"She's probably not allowed to talk to anyone about it right now." At least that was my best guess. "I'll let her know you have food when I talk to her."
"Good. And…wait. Hold on. I have something for you," Mrs. Nguyen said, suddenly remembering. "Stay there. I'll be back."
Oh, right, birthday.
Lilly was already at the table with a coloring book and a box of crayons. I leaned against the doorframe and waited. I hoped Mrs. Nguyen wasn't about to give me a gift because one: I didn't want her spending money on me. Two: my brain shut down at the sight of wrapping paper. I get embarrassed and squeaky. Amy, on the other hand, was a gracious gift receiver. Her eyes lit up, her face got big, and she made you feel as if you were the most amazing person in the world who had bestowed upon her the very thing she'd ever wanted. Then returned it the following day. Must be all the acting classes she'd taken when we first moved to LA.
Note to self: google awkward-people classes.
Mrs. Nguyen returned with Lilly's pink sequined sweater and no present. "I fixed the hole in arm. It's good now."
She handed it to me. I ran my finger over the nearly invisible stitching. Lilly had ripped it on a bush in the breezeway. She'd cried and mumbled—what I'd hoped wasn't profanity—in Vietnamese. Santa Claus had brought it for her, and it was her "most favorite thing ever."
"My sweater is fixed!" Lilly cheered from her spot at the table. She had a se
rious love of clothes, shoes, and all accessories. Not a trait she'd inherited from me. "I can't believe you fixed it."
Lilly ran from the kitchen and wrapped her arms around Mrs. Nguyen's waist. Mrs. Nguyen pushed a curl behind Lilly's ear, and the two conversed in Vietnamese. I rocked from heel to toe and waited for a break in the conversation to say, "OK, I'll leave you two alone." I thanked Mrs. Nguyen again and gave her a hug. Her head barely cleared my chest.
"You welcome. Now go, go, and get to work. Get ready for tomorrow's big meeting." She took Lilly's hand and closed the door without another word.
Not one…or two.
It was OK. I didn't need a "happy birthday" from Mrs. Nguyen or—I checked my phone—anyone.
Whatever. I had railings to clean.
I strolled through the third courtyard. It was a beautiful day—seventy-five degrees and not a cloud in the sky. The brownish-greenish grass glistened with morning dew. The pool sparkled blue. The birds chirped. After a semi-cold winter, the Boston ivy lacing the breezeways was no longer sparsely leafed twisted branches, but rather green-leafed twisted branches. In a month or two, the breezeways would bloom into a lush hallway covered in leaves and tiny flowers. It was the only greenery on the property, due to Los Angeles's stringent water restrictions.
California was in a perpetual drought.
I passed my upstairs neighbor Mickey, who was stuttering to himself—something about government conspiracies and corrupt cops—the usual. He spent most of the day wandering around the property. Per his file, he was a retired mailman, but in my romanticized mind, he was an ex-member of the CIA and the mailman was nothing but a cover. He was a nice guy. A little odd. OK, a lot odd. He'd lived there over twenty years. We'd had a few conversations. He hadn't offered too much personal information, mostly asked me about myself. Total ex-CIA move.
In the breezeway, Silvia stopped me to complain about her neighbor Larry. Then Larry stopped me to complain about his latest colonoscopy and persistent gas pains. Apartment 5's garbage disposal "is making a gggggggg noise when I flip it on." Apartment 20's doorknob "won't turn to the left."