by Erin Huss
She went to her knees and removed her glasses. "You see him?"
I scratched my back and legs and neck and…ahhhhh! "I think so. He was in…my…bed." I shivered.
"You slept with Gary!"
"No! He crawled into my bed this morning."
"He crawled into her bed?"
I heard whispers from above. Gloria and Tam from Apartment 7 were on the upstairs walkway in their bathrobes.
"You saw Gary!" Daniella was now in front of me. "Did you kill him?"
"She killed Gary," Gloria echoed in a stage whisper.
"I didn't kill anyone…ouch!"
Daniella jabbed me in the arm with her finger—a bad habit of hers.
"You kill my Grammostola pulchra?" she said.
I rubbed my bicep. "Why don't you say tarantula instead of gramma-blah-blah? And stop poking me."
She jabbed me again. "You kill him?"
"No, I didn't kill him. He escaped, and we looked everywhere but never found him." I held my hands up to fend off another finger attack.
"What?" She wrestled with her hair whirling around her face. "Gary cost 150 dollars, and I have that bill for you."
"Gary must be a prostitute?" Gloria now had a bag of low-fat white cheddar popcorn.
"Makes sense," Tam added.
"No, he's not. For the last time, we're talking about a spider!" I yelled up to the cheesy-fingered duo.
"He's my emotional pet," Daniella said to them.
Gloria propped an elbow on the railing. "How do you get an emotional pet?"
"It's easy. You get the certificate online, and then she pays for it." Daniella cocked her thumb in my direction.
"No, I don't pay for anything. Why would I pay for your emotional pet?" I pulled a pine needle out of my mouth.
"I need an emotional pet," Gloria said.
"No, you don't," Tam quickly amended.
"I've always wanted a Great Dane." Gloria waved a chip around. "You could take the dog on your runs," she said to Tam.
Tam cut his eyes to me, but I didn't say a thing. Again, it wasn't my place to insert myself into residents' personal relationships.
It was, however, my job to insert myself into a conversation that involved the purchase of a 100-plus-pound dog.
"You can't get an emotional pet without a note from your doctor," I said.
"That shouldn't be a problem." Gloria dusted off her fingers. "My dentist lives here. He's cool. Will that work?"
"No." I don't think?
Daniella dug her finger into my arm again.
"Ouch! Stop doing that!"
"I need to get into your apartment and look for Gary." A CVS ad slapped her in the face. Half-off Easter candy.
I peeled it off her and shoved it into my trash bag. "I'll come get you after my meeting, and we can look for Gary. Trust me. I don't want him hanging out in my apartment any more than you do."
"OK, and you can give me my reimbursement when you're done too."
"I'm not paying for your spider."
"It's the law."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is."
"No, it's not."
"My cousin is a lawyer, and he said so."
"Lilly's father is an attorney, and he said I am not monetarily responsible for your pet." Note to self: double-check this over with Tom. "He also said stabbing me with your finger is considered assault with a blunt weapon. Would your cousin like to speak to my lawyer about these charges?" So there.
Daniella puffed her chest.
I puffed mine.
She glowered.
I glowered.
She opened and closed her mouth, then pounded off.
Aha!
I'd successfully rendered Daniella speechless. Me! I almost couldn't believe it. A huge victory. Residents came to me all the time with My lawyer this…My lawyer that…My lawyer says laws don't apply to me…My lawyer says I don't have to pay late fees… If Tom was going to sleep in my bed and eat my Girl Scout Cookies and tell our daughter he had a sparkle present for me and kiss me and run away and…I forgot where I was going with this?
Spider…dog…finger jab…video games… Right, lawyer.
If he was going to string me along, then I was going to use his law degree.
Now, on to my golf cart.
To get there, all I had left was:
—Deliver Three-Day Notices
—Pick up a landfill's worth of trash.
—Find the dog poop.
Err…never mind.
—Change shoes.
* * *
For every piece of trash I picked up, another two took its place. You'd think the trustee wouldn't hold Mother Nature against me. But Trevor was also a McMill, so it was a crapshoot.
Mr. Nguyen came from the second courtyard with a plastic trash can and a rake slung over his shoulder. He strolled along the pathway as if he were on a jolly holiday.
"Good morning," he said cheerfully. "When the trash truck came this morning, they knocked over the bin. I got the third courtyard. Now I take care of this. You go do what you need to."
"Thank you!" I said into Mr. Nguyen's ear and handed him the trash bags. "I have to deliver these notices. If you need me, my phone isn't working, so call me at the office."
Mr. Nguyen shooed me off. "Go, go. And don't worry."
Having a responsible, hardworking, all-around remarkable maintenance man was the best gift any manager could have.
I ran to the second courtyard, squinting to keep debris from entering my corneas. This wasn't the warm windstorm typical for this time of year. This was a cold blast of air hitting exposed skin like 35-mph daggers. Of all days for California to deviate from its typical weather patterns.
Four residents had failed to pay their rent. I ran around and shoved notices in Apartment 3's, 12's, and 31's doors. The apartments weren't in numerical order. Why? I had no idea. The original architect was probably high or had a wicked sense of humor, because it was annoying. The last stop on my Pay Rent or Leave tour was Apartment 15. Even after our conversation, Shanna never did come in for a copy of her lease, nor did she drop off a check or money order. It wasn't a good sign when a resident defaulted on their second month of tenancy.
The door to her apartment was wide open. I knocked and poked my head in. The living room was bare of any furnishings. No couch, no television, no pictures on the wall. Nothing. This was also not a good sign.
I thought back to my interaction with Shanna the day before. She'd appeared on edge, asked for a copy of her lease, said she didn't get the job she'd auditioned for. Crap! She'd skipped. Of all days to bail on your lease, she had to choose today.
Frustrated, I shoved the Three-Day Notice into my pocket and inspected the damage. The bottom halves of the walls were a little dirty. The carpet was dotted with stains. The kitchen cabinets looked untouched, but it smelled like pickles. She'd left behind a sink full of dirty dishes, food in her fridge, and one dining chair.
The apartment wasn't too bad. But it would cost more than the 500-dollar deposit to return it to a re-rentable state. Not to mention lost rent.
Patrick was going to flip.
I scratched my neck and moved to the bathroom, taking note of the broken toilet seat and cracked mirror. "Honestly. You couldn't have waited until tomorrow?" I scratched my nose.
When I could no longer open my right eye, I realized—cat.
Shanna had a cat.
I knelt down and ran my hand along the carpet. There was enough fur to make a sweater, matching hat, and scarf. It felt like I had two habaneros shoved up my nasal septum, and all I wanted to do was rub my face against a cactus.
But before I could, a scratching and whimpering sound came from the master bedroom. I froze mid-sneeze.
Did she forget a cat?
Do cats whimper?
I hadn't spent much time around a cat since my mom bought me a kitten when I was eight. You know, guilt present. Sorry. Your dad and I couldn't make it work. Here's a cute little
kitten so you don't feel so bad. Oh wait, you can't breathe? I'm going to take it back now.
It was no wonder I had issues.
Frantic, I followed the whimpering through the apartment. My vision blurred with each step. Inside the closet was something fuzzy. I picked it up and retreated, fast, before I keeled over.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
See also: Pet Sitter
I was wrong.
Shanna did not have a cat.
I had in my arms some kind of Chihuahua/bat/rabbit half-breed I was pretty sure was a dog. It was as round as it was long, with little legs, wiry hair, and a stub for a tale. He (or she) wiggled around, kicking his legs like he was swimming, which made the trek back to my apartment difficult. It was like holding an energetic watermelon.
Once safely inside, I fell against the front door and slid down to my butt. The dog licked my face. "Poor little…" I lifted it up to take a peek. "Guy." I sneezed, wheezed, coughed, and sniffled.
The dog stared at me with bulging brown eyes. Hurt my heart. He was so ugly he was almost cute, but what was I supposed to do with a dog? I already had an urn and a tarantula to deal with.
I'm telling you, this property management gig is no sissy man's job. That's for sure.
Also, how do you forget a dog?
Urn, fine. You were in a rush. It was in a box. It didn't currently have a pulse, you forget. But a dog?
Unsure of what else to do, I made a bed out of princess towels and left a bowl of water in Lilly's bathroom. "It's too windy on the patio. You'll blow away," I explained to him, in case he took issue with his accommodations. "And there's too much stuff in my bathroom."
He sat on his right hip and panted.
"I have an important meeting, so I'll need you to hang out here quietly, and do…whatever it is dogs do…" I unfolded the copy of Daily C-Leb Mag on the floor, the one with Jessica Wilders on the cover. "When you have to use the restroom, please do so here."
The dog sniffed at the paper.
"We'll figure out what to do with you after the meeting. But I can't keep you, so don't try any cute dog stuff."
He batted his bulging eyes at me.
"I said don't do anything cute. This is a no-dog-or-cat property, and I can't breathe around you."
He whimpered.
"Fine. I'll pet you, but that's it."
I took a knee and scratched him under the chin. He kicked his back leg. If only every guy in my life were this easy to please. "OK, enough of this. I have to go." I stood and looked around. "I suppose you'll need food. What do you eat?"
He scratched at my shoe with both paws.
"I mean, yes, you eat dog food. But I don't have any." Achoo! "Do you like quesadillas?"
* * *
It turns out dogs don't like lactose-free whole-wheat quesadillas. Or turkey sandwiches on rye. Or Cheerios. Or Top Romaine. But they do enjoy frozen Marie Callender's Pot Pies. This whole dog thing was a foreign undertaking. I'd never owned a pet in my life. It brought back the same I-don't-know-what-I'm-doing-and-I'm-about-to-freak-out feelings from when I first had Lilly.
I went ahead and handled it the same way I did then. I called Mrs. Nguyen, crying.
"You sure that's a dog?"
We stood at the bathroom door, leaning against either side of the doorjamb, watching the little pooch. He was taking a siesta on Jessica Wilders' face. This was after he peed on his bed.
"I think he might be a Chihuahua mix?" I said.
"What's with the music?" She pointed to the radio on the counter. An old boom box I'd dug out of the storage closet.
"I thought music would help pass the time for Munch." I'd chosen the country station. Munch struck me as a country music type of a dog. Not sure why. Could be the hair.
"Munch?" Mrs. Nguyen said. "What is a munch?"
"He's Munch."
"Munch what?"
"His name is Munch. The least I could do was give the poor dog a name instead of calling him dog. Detective Munch is my favorite character on Law & Order SVU."
"You watch too much television."
"So I've been told."
Mrs. Nguyen grabbed my cheeks and squished them together. "You look bad. Why you so red?"
"I'm allergic to animals," I said through fish lips. "Typically, I only have this bad of a reaction to cats."
She released my cheeks. "So why you keeping it?"
"I'm not keeping him. But I don't know what else to do until the meeting is over. Look." I closed the door, and Munch went ballistic. Barking at an ear-deafening octave. "His deadbeat owner left him in a closet, and I think being in here brings back painful memories."
"You can call animal control," she said.
"Shhhh. Don't say that in front of him. I need to look into it. To be sure he goes to one that won't—" I leaned in. "K-i-l-l him. Can you watch Munch until the meeting is over? Just be sure he doesn't bark. Please?"
Mrs. Nguyen rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'll stay here with that thing. But go put makeup on. You look terrible."
* * *
After I reapplied my makeup, I sat at the desk and fretted, angling my stapler just so, arranging my pens in the cup, restocking my business cards and brochures. I had half an hour until Patrick and Trustee Trevor were set to arrive, and I was a snotty, red-eyed, blotched-face, wheezing mess with a tarantula on the loose and a dog hiding in my apartment. Which could prove problematic should Patrick or Trevor have to pee. The pool bathroom had been converted into a storage unit sometime before my reign. It was a good thing I never did get around to buying water bottles.
What I knew about the McMills was pieced together from conversations over the last few months. I knew their history with their son Kevin. I knew they owned half a billion dollars worth of properties around Southern California. I knew they were old. I knew they did not like dogs or cats. On page one of The House Rules it said: No cats or dogs permitted. Caged animals only with Landlord's permission.
For the record, I never gave Daniella permission to buy Gary.
Bah-haha-haha-haha
From what I understood, this was on every lease on every property they owned. Patrick said they were unyielding when it came animals.
So now I had a dog.
Feeling both jittery and pooped (hello, Benadryl), I continued to fuss around my desk, rearranging all non-consequential items like the tape dispenser, paperclip holder, and the razor-sharp letter opener. I'd cut myself on that thing more times than I could count. I re-pounded the reports into a neat stack, placed them in front of Mom, and took a pause.
I wondered if Trustee Trevor would ask why I had an urn on my desk, and once I told him, if he'd be impressed with my care of both current and ex-residents and their deceased loved ones—or find it absurd. I couldn't ignore the fact my life had been a series of unfortunate events since the moment I placed Mom on my desk.
Maybe this was why Steph had yet to claim her? What if her mom was a crazy ax murderer who slew villages, and now I had her?
Except, who used an ax to murder this side of WW II?
Or lived in a village?
Also, I didn't believe in all that paranormal stuff.
I put my chin in my palm and studied the urn—the light reflecting off the glossy surface, the dark swirls along the grain, the curved edges, the tiny scratch from when I knocked it into the telephone. Even with the blemish, it was pretty. As far as urns go, it resembled a miniature coffin. I picked it up and looked underneath to see if there was a sticker for the mortuary. No sticker, but another engraving, this one into the wood itself.
Katherine M. Roberts
July 3, 1974–August 4, 2003.
The name and birth date didn't sound right. I grabbed Steph Woo's file and found the photocopy of her driver license. She was born in 1984. Katherine Roberts would have been ten years old when she had Steph.
Unless I had misread the year of birth?
I blew on the wood and polished it off with a tissue.
Nope, still 1974.
/> I called Steph. "You've reached my voicemail. I'm not available right now." I lip-synced her greeting. "Please leave a message!"
I didn't bother. I'd already left four. I ran my finger down her original application and stopped at the emergency contact.
Name: Jennifer Woo
Relation: Mother
Oh hell.
On an impulse, I flipped to her employment verification. Steph was a teacher at a preschool in the valley. I dialed the number and placed the phone up to my ear.
"Early Start Preschool, this is Leah," answered a springy voice. Children sang and chuckled and cheered in the background.
"Hi. I need to speak with Steph Woo, please," I said.
"She's in class. Can I take a message?"
"No," I said with conviction. No more messages. "I'm her apartment manager, and it's important that I speak with her now."
"Is everything OK?"
"It's about her mother."
A part of me hoped she'd retort with, "But her mother died when she was seven, and Steph changed her birthday so she would appear younger." Otherwise, whose mother did I have on my desk?
"Oh no. Let me go get her."
Crap.
An instrumental version of ABC's came on until Steph picked up. "Hello?" I heard the panic in her voice, and I felt guilty.
"Steph, it's Cambria Clyne, your old apartment manager."
"Hi, what's wrong?"
"Did you listen to any of my voicemails?"
"I haven't yet, why?"
Honestly, what was the point of voicemail? "I called because I have your mother."
Silence…
"What?" she finally said. "Why do you have my mom? Is this because I painted the walls? You better not hurt her!"
"No. I have your mother's urn," I added quickly.
"My mother's urn?" she cried out. "What did you do to my mom?"
Well, this had escalated quickly.
"Nothing. I found an urn in your carport. It says Mom, and I assumed it belonged to you since it was in your cabinet."
"Whaaaaa?"
"Did you have anything in your carport cabinet?"
"Yeah, but I cleared it out on Monday night. I never had an urn. Messing with urns that don't belong to you disturbs—"