Rocky Road & Revenge

by Erin Huss

  I sent Mr. Nguyen the work orders, explained to Silvia that I could not ask Larry not to flush his toilet before 6:00 AM, and reminded Larry that I was not qualified to give medical advice. I walked out to the maintenance garage and found Tam from Apartment 7 in his usual spot, hiding from his wife and playing on his phone. Tam was a pudgy guy who was on a rigorous weight-loss plan ordered by his doctor and enforced by his wife. The plan called for a brisk jog four days a week. And four days a week, I found him hiding behind the maintenance garage, decked in shorts and a tank top, with a sweatband around his head, playing video games on his phone.

  "Good morning, Tam."

  "Hi, Cambria," Tam replied without looking up.

  "How many miles are you supposed to be jogging today?"

  "I'm up to three and a half." He stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth, concentrating hard on his game. "You still aren't going to tell the wife, right?"

  "Nope. But it might be a good idea to try running one of these days. Maybe even go for a walk?"

  "I'm going to start on Monday." He laughed. "I see your Night Witch, and I'll raise you an electric Wizard. Take that!"

  I assumed he was no longer talking to me, and I opened the garage. Inside, I grabbed a pint of railing touch-up paint, along with a paintbrush, scrubber, bucket of water, tarp, and a Snickers bar from Mr. Nguyen's not-so-secret stash. I went to the upstairs walkway, laid out the tarp, and removed the lid from the can, careful not to get paint on my blue Converses.

  The railings weren't as bad as I thought. A few rust spots and splatters of bird poop. I dipped the brush in and cleaned off the excess paint along the side of the can.

  Apartment 15's door jerked open behind me, and I turned around. Shanna poked her head out. "Are you here to collect rent?" she asked.

  I looked at the paintbrush in my hand then back at her. "No."

  "OK, cool. That's cool." Shanna's dark hair was pulled into a messy bun. Her eyes were cradled above dark purplish circles, and her face was flushed. "Can you tell me what my rent is?"

  "Your rent? I don't remember the exact amount off the top of my head, but it's…the…same…as last…month." I sneezed. "Wow, excuse me." I rubbed my nose on my shoulder, feeling another sneeze coming on.

  "Don't worry. It's cool. I'll check my lease." She drummed her fingers along the doorframe. "Can I get a copy of my lease?"

  "You can come to the office later today and get a…copy…" I sneezed again.

  "OK. Cool. I'll do that."

  I sniffled. "How did your audition go?"

  She gave me a look. "Audition?"

  "You said last night that you had an audition today and were worried about smoke in your lungs?"

  "Oh yeah, yeah, no. I didn't get it."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Yeah, it's cool…um…I'll drop rent later." She closed the door and locked it.

  I sneezed one more time and cleared my scratchy throat. Allergies, or I was getting sick, which wouldn't be an ideal way to spend my birthday, but I guess painting rust and chiseling off bird poop wasn't exactly living it up either.

  Achoo!

  * * *

  Two hours later, and the railings were done. It was a tedious project that slightly improved the overall esthetic of the place. I was pleased.

  The sound of high heels clicking against the pavement came from below and caught my attention. I peeked through the railings. Right on time, it was the brunette in tight pants who visited Apartment 23 every day at exactly 11:15 AM. She strutted down the sidewalk, swaying her hips as if she were walking a runway in Milan, not the sidewalk of a low-to-middle-class apartment complex in LA. When she reached the stairs, she turned sideways and took each step with her arms out to the side to help her balance. Her tight pants offered limited leg movement. It was comical to watch.

  Ten minutes later the brunette made it to the top of the stairs. She continued her strut to Apartment 23 and knocked on the door to the tune of "Shave and a Haircut (Two Bits)." Trent answered and greeted her with an open-mouth kiss, as he usually did. He pulled her inside the apartment and closed the door behind them. This had been going on for the last three weeks, and I suspected Trent's wife, Alexis, had no idea.

  As a woman, I felt it my duty to tell Alexis.

  As the apartment manager, I felt it my duty to keep my mouth shut. Inserting myself into someone else's marriage was not only unprofessional but also stupid.

  Very, very stupid.

  And I was trying this new thing where I didn't do stupid things. So I minded my own business.

  My phone buzzed from my back pocket, and I stumbled around, unsure what to do with the wet paintbrush and paint can in my hands. I'd ditched the tarp an hour before. It had been slowing me down. I balanced the paintbrush on the can and grabbed my phone. The screen said it was Tom.

  "Happy birthday, Cam." I could hear the courthouse chatter in the background.

  "Thanks. You're the first person besides my parents to wish me a happy birthday today."

  "It's past eleven."

  "What can I say? I'm popular." I sat back against the wall and crossed my legs. "What are you working on today?"

  "A man wrongfully accused of hiring a hit man to kill his boss."

  "Yikes. What's the sentence for something like that?"

  "It doesn't matter. We're not losing…and it's twenty-five to life. But that's not why I called. What are you doing today?"

  "The usual. Filing insurance claims, collecting rent, cleaning, watching television…are you laughing at me?"

  "That's no way to spend a birthday. I'm taking you out."

  Out? I glanced down at the phone to be sure I was, in fact, talking to Tom. We didn't go out. We exchanged playful banter and co-parented, but that was it. The last time we'd gone out, I got knocked up. "Do you mean you, me, and Lilly?"

  "Just you and me," he said.

  "Oh, I don't know…" I started to say, when the squeaky pool gate opened and slammed shut. I peeked through the railing. Chase and his partner, Hampton, walked through the breezeway side by side. Hampton was about two inches shorter and twelve inches wider than Chase, with no hair and wire-rimmed glasses. The office was closed, which meant the two had snuck in behind a car.

  Oh geez.

  Tom in my ear. Chase here. Suddenly, I couldn't have one without the other showing up.

  Tom was still talking. Something about dinner, but I wasn't paying attention because Chase and Hampton stopped at Amy's apartment and knocked on the door.

  "Sound like a plan?" Tom asked.

  Chase kicked at the welcome mat while they waited. Hampton grabbed the note I'd left for Amy and read it. He handed it to Chase, he read it, they nodded to each other, and Chase shoved it back into the door.

  "Cam!" Tom yelled to get my attention.

  "Yeah, sorry." I switched the phone to my other ear. "Um…what?"

  "I'll pick you up at 6:30 sharp."

  Hampton cupped his eyes and peeked through Amy's window, but the blinds were still drawn.

  "Cam? You there?"

  "Yes…sorry. Sure, 6:30." I slid against the wall to become invisible.

  Are they here to question Amy about Jessica Wilders?

  Dumb question. Of course they were here to talk about Jessica Wilders. Amy didn't know anything, and she wasn't involved. Of this, I was sure. Yes, she didn't like Jessica. But she was far too passive-aggressive to do something so obvious as shoot her. If it were poison over a long period of time, I may have taken pause.

  Amy was in the process of negotiating a two-season contract. This was huge. A permanent role on a hit show was her version of a golf cart. It was why we moved to LA. Well, why she moved to LA. I tagged along because that was what I did. I was a tagalong-er. If the network thought she was a person of interest, she'd be done. Fired. Back to a life of crappy hemorrhoid commercials—pun intended.

  "Cam!"

  "Sorry, Tom…" I bit at my lip. "Two detectives are here knocking on Amy's door. Do you think she
's in trouble?"

  "By 'detective,' do you mean Chase?"

  "Does it matter?" I asked.

  "Guess not. And no, it's standard for the police to interview anyone who spent time with the victim. I wouldn't read too much into it."

  I heaved a sigh of relief. "You're probably right."

  "Can you say that again?"

  "No."

  "I'm not hanging up until you say it."

  "Fine. You're probably right."

  "Thank you." I could hear the smile in his voice. "I'll be there to pick you up at 6:30."

  I promised him I'd be ready on time and hung up the phone. Chase strolled toward the back walkway and stopped just below me. But before I could say anything, he pulled his phone from his pocket and slapped it to his ear.

  "What'd you find out?" Chase said in lieu of a hello.

  I rose to my feet. My toe tipped the can of paint, and a dribble fell and landed on the top of Chase's head. Ahhhh! I dropped into a push-up position. I imagined Chase touching the top of his head and looking up, but I didn't hear him say anything, so I stayed put. My muscles hurt, but it provided the anonymity to better eavesdrop. I caught every few words. "You ran a check on Michael Smith…right…I'm here now…let me handle it…no, I've got it…wait, I'll be right there…"

  Chase bolted out to the carports, passed Amy's car without a second glance, and disappeared. Hampton trailed behind.

  Michael Smith.

  Why does the name sound familiar?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  See also: Graphologist

  As soon as I returned to the office, I did a search in our rental program for Michael Smith in both our current and past occupants. There were plenty of Michaels, plenty of Smiths, but no Michael Smith. I did a Google search and determined Michael Smith was a professional clogger in Maryland, and an artist in Canada, and a futbol player in Argentina, and a hiker gone missing six years ago, and a ten-year-old who'd won a spelling bee in Arkansas.

  In short, my investigation was inconclusive, and I determined it time to put mission Who is Michael Smith? on the back burner and get to work.

  Kevin was there. He'd come over to… I wasn't sure why he came over, but he was there, sitting in a swivel chair on the other side of my desk. For my birthday, Chase had had lunch delivered from my favorite sushi restaurant along with a warm butter cake from Mastro's Steakhouse. The man knew me well.

  Kevin and I ate sushi while he read a magazine and I entered rent. It was normal. Pleasant, even. Not an adjective I'd associate with Kevin's name prior to his arrest. How far we'd come.

  "Look at this for me." I showed Kevin a money order written in what looked like a heartbeat with no apartment number on it. This happened all the time. I'd get money orders with no name. No apartment number. Scribbled writing. The receipt still attached. Residents had way too much confidence in my psychic abilities. It would be flattering if it weren't so annoying. Especially the day before the trustee's visit. It would be nice to have all rent accounted for. "What do you think this says?" I asked.

  Kevin lowered the magazine. "Looks like drunk writing."

  "Or someone was in a hurry." But probably drunk.

  Based on the amount, it belonged to a one-bedroom. I set it aside for now and stabbed a California Roll with my chopstick.

  Kevin helped himself to a rainbow roll. "How long are you gonna keep that urn on your desk?" He pointed his sticks to Mom.

  "I'll give the resident until Friday to call me back." I decided on the spot. "It's only been about twenty-four hours."

  "Then what?"

  I shrugged. "To be honest, I don't know."

  Note to self: check if local mortuary has a lost and found.

  "If I were you, I'd ditch it ASAP. Keeping it will cause bad luck," said Kevin.

  "I don't believe in that stuff."

  Kevin scooped up a spicy tuna roll. "That's what Lola said last week, and now this week she's dead."

  "Lola isn't dead. Jessica Wilders is dead."

  "Same difference. Jessica Wilders played Lola. She can't play Lola anymore. So both Jessica and Lola are dead. Double homicide."

  "I don't think that's how it works."

  "It should. Now I'll never know what happened between Frank and Lola. Can there even be a Frank with no Lola? The show is nothing without Frank." Kevin let out a harsh breath. "I don't know if I can keep watching."

  "I'm sorry for your loss. How do you know so much about the show anyway? Did you have cable in prison?" My knowledge of the penitentiary system was limited. I watched a lot of crime shows, but I'd yet to get into prison dramas. There are only so many hours in the day.

  "You get basic cable when you're good," he said.

  "Huh. I didn't know that."

  Learn something new every day.

  I pushed against the desk and rolled to my apartment door. Lilly was asleep on the couch with her pink sweater on and Mickey Mouse tucked under her arm. She'd been fighting slumber since I'd picked her up from Mrs. Nguyen's, and finally she'd succumbed.

  "Doesn't the chick in Apartment 36 work on Ghost Confidential?" Kevin asked from behind his magazine. A tabloid I'd never heard of—Daily C-Leb Mag.

  I rolled back to my desk. "She plays a medium. Why?"

  "Aren't you good friends with her?"

  "I am, why?"

  "Are the rumors true that she and Jessica were mortal enemies?"

  "I wouldn't say mortal. They didn't get along, why?"

  Kevin lifted the magazine. "There's an article in here about Jessica Wilders."

  "Does it mention Amy's name?"

  Kevin flipped another page and squinted at the writing. "No. Why?"

  "Does it mention Michael Smith?"

  Another flip. Another squint. "No. Why?"

  "What about—"

  He tossed the magazine across the desk.

  Guess I'll look for myself.

  On the cover was a candid photo of Jessica Wilders. She had on a red duster cardigan and furry boots. A security guard had her by the elbow, escorting her to a black SUV with black tinted windows. Her sleeves were pulled down over her hands, and her face was bare of makeup. Something about the picture had me unsettled. Specifically, Jessica's makeup-less face. There was something about her brown eyes that felt oddly familiar.

  I opened the magazine and flipped past ten drug advertisements to the press release.

  Jessica Wilders, known for her starring role as Lola Darling on the hit television series Ghost Confidential, was discovered dead early Tuesday afternoon at her Malibu home. She was 28.

  According to TMZ, Wilders' assistant found the actress after she failed to show up to a spa appointment. It's unclear if this was the work of an intruder or an inside job. Early reports suggest Wilders was shot multiple times. We will update as details are released.

  Jessica Wilders is remembered for her television roles and her love of animals. Wilders worked campaigning for animal rights and co-founded the Animal Center for Chance in Los Angeles, a center for pets considered un-adoptable. In an interview on Ellen in 2016, Wilders made a reference to her childhood, saying, "It was taxing, but it was the love of animals that got me through it. Now look at me!"

  At this time, police are following up on leads, but have yet to name a suspect or make an arrest.

  A gnawing feeling formed in the pit of my stomach.

  The lobby door chimed. It was Sophie and her little boy Lumber from Apartment 38. She greeted me with a gummy smile and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her heavily pierced ear. "Hey, Cambria and…Kevin. I didn't know you were back."

  Kevin grabbed his magazine and hid behind it.

  I met them at the counter. Little Lumber had on a ninja costume, complete with eye mask and a utility belt. He had one finger looped in the belt, ready to fire a ninja star, and another finger fooling around with his nose.

  "What can I do for you?" I handed Lumber a tissue. He made confetti with it, slashing sound effects and all.

  "I bro
ught you a birthday present." Sophie placed a gift bag on the counter and slid it towards me.

  "Really?" I squeaked, feeling both touched and embarrassed. "How'd you know it was my birthday?"

  "Silvia Kravitz told me."

  "Oh." Made sense. She was the mayor.

  Inside the bag was a dark purple button-up shirt with an oval cutout in the back. It was cute. I didn't own anything purple—wasn't sure the color looked good on me. "Thank you so much for this, Sophie. It's so…attractive."

  She beamed. "I have to confess. I ordered it for me, but it was too big, and I thought it would look great on you."

  Kevin coughed to cover a laugh.

  Sophie's eyes went wide. "Oh no. I didn't mean it like that… It's just because I lost all this weight…and I'm short, and you're tall-ish."

  She was an awkward gift giver. I was an awkward gift receiver. It worked.

  "There's more in there!" she said in a panic. "On the bottom."

  I pulled out a small bottle with a handwritten label—Unbend. "It's an essential-oil blend. This one helps with stress," she said. "You can rub it on your temples, or the back of your head. I like to use it in a diffuser. It's much safer than a wax melt." She jerked her head toward the lobby. "And foolproof."

  Sigh.

  I flipped open the lid and took a whiff. The scent traveled up my septum and encased me in a soothing floral, woodsy scent. Reminded me of Tom. "This is wonderful." I took another whiff and immediately pictured Tom standing in a field of lavender with nothing but his underpants on.

  Mmmmm.

  Get a grip, woman.

  Sophie looked pleased. Lumber looked bored. He grabbed a brochure advertising our Spacious One-Bedroom Apartments from the counter and took a bite out of it. I was too Unbend to care.

  "If you want more, I make these blends myself. I love them. Helps calm Lumber down."

  The kid threw a crumpled brochure at my head.

  "You'll have to give me more information." Crap. Why did I say that? Doing business with a resident was a terrible idea—awful, horrible, deadly.