Double Fudge & Danger

by Erin Huss

  Considering Amy was a semifinalist on Celebrity Tango and I was an apartment manager—which is pretty much an adult nanny—I'd say we'd achieved our goals.

  Mostly.

  "New York, baby!" Amy sang. "And you'll get two tickets if you want to bring someone. I just need their info for the audience coordinator. They make all the arrangements ahead of time."

  "When would we leave?"

  "You'd leave Sunday and come back Tuesday."

  That wasn't a lot of days in New York, but who was I to complain? A free vacation was exactly what I needed, and I couldn't wait to see Amy. Assuming she made the finale. However, with Raven out of the picture, I couldn't imagine her not making it. "I want to bring Chase. I'll send you his information. What all do you need?"

  "Name, birthday, and email address. Text it to me when you get a chance. I gotta go. Kiss Lilly for me."

  I said goodbye, put my phone on the counter, and did a happy dance around the kitchen.

  "What's wrong with you?" Tom asked.

  "If Amy makes it to the finales, I'm going to New York!" I opened the cabinet and grabbed the box of Pop-Tarts from the top shelf. "Can you watch Lilly if I get to go?"

  "I guess." He removed the peas from his nose and placed the bag on the table. Hues of purple and yellow began to show beneath the skin under his eyes. Yikes. "And you're bringing Chase?"

  "Why wouldn't I?"

  Tom stood and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and the paper towels still stuck up each nostril. "That's still going on?"

  "Of course. Pop-Tart?"

  "Sure."

  I handed him one, folded the other in a napkin, and put it in my bag for later. "I have to get going. We can worry about the New York specifics later." I gathered my keys, files, and coloring books for Lilly, the new laptop Patrick had bought me for the Burbank office, and a bucket of cleaning supplies.

  "Does Chase like Celebrity Tango?" Tom followed me into the office.

  I checked to be sure the answering machine was on. "He likes me, and I like Celebrity Tango. That's what happens when you're in a relationship."

  "Wouldn't you have more fun with someone else?" He followed me back into the kitchen.

  I locked the office door and set the alarm. "No. I'll have more fun with my boyfriend."

  "He's not really your boyfriend."

  I closed the blinds. "What are you getting at? Do you want to go to New York and watch the finale of Celebrity Tango?"

  "Yes. Take me instead."

  "Why would I take you?"

  "Because I've known Amy longer, and you and I would have more fun. If you know what I mean." He unleashed his flirty side smirk. The same one he used on me the night he knocked me up.

  Oh geez.

  "No," I said with conviction. "No, no, no, no, no. I am not doing this with you."

  "Doing what?" He feigned obliviousness.

  "I'm not doing this with you. This back-and-forth flirty thing you do with me. I'm not. So take your Pop-Tart, and your puppy dog eyes, and your actual dog, and go to work." I turned off the TV and sneezed into the crook of my elbow.

  Tom grabbed Munch and tucked him under his arm. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Yes, you do. I have a boyfriend. I'm very happy with him. Don't cause problems." I grabbed Lilly by the hand, walked out the front door, and waited for Tom to exit before I locked it.

  Tom stopped at my side and leaned in close enough for me to smell his aftershave. "I seem to remember a pretty hot kiss in your bathroom not long ago. Does your boyfriend know about that?" he whispered into my ear.

  Yes, I did remember.

  No, my boyfriend didn't know.

  You're infuriating, I mouthed to Tom so Lilly wouldn't hear.

  "And you like it." He winked.

  A little.

  Tom grabbed the bucket of cleaning supplies for me. "All I'm saying is that I would happily go to New York. We'd have fun."

  Lilly raised her hand. "Can me go too?"

  I gave Tom a stop-talking-about-this-in-front-of-our-child look.

  Tom heaved a sigh. "How about a piggyback ride to the car, Lil?" Tom put the bucket on the ground, swung Lilly on his back, set Munch under his arm, and Pop-Tart in hand, galloped to the parking lot.

  Ugh.

  My life would be a whole lot easier if he weren't so damn charming.

  I grabbed my bucket, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man pacing in the first breezeway, and I walked over to see if he was lost.

  "Can I help you?" I asked.

  He pulled the knot of his tie up to look presentable, even though his suit looked as if he'd been wearing it since Christmas. Up close, his face was wrinkled and his hair wispy. "I'm looking for Daniella Lopez's apartment. Does she live here?"

  "I can't say." Giving out personal information about residents is against the law.

  He slipped on a pair of readers and consulted his phone. "I know she lives at this address…"

  All he'd have to do was walk around the corner to see Apartment 13. Daniella had a planter box just inside her window, with Daniella's Herbs painted on the side. Kinda hard to miss. But I'd never seen this guy before, and if I he really did know Daniella, he'd have her apartment number.

  "Are you here making a delivery or…" I left the question open-ended.

  "I'd rather not say."

  "You should call and let her know you're looking for her apartment."

  "Or you could point me in the right direction."

  "Or you could call and let her know you're looking for her."

  "Tell me where she lives," he demanded.

  "Sorry. I can't tell you who does and who doesn't live here. Looks like you're out of luck. The office is closed, so you'll want to exit through the pedestrian gate."

  The man faltered. "I'll try later."

  I followed him out to the carports. Lilly, Tom, and Munch were all waiting at my car. The man marched past them and shoved open the pedestrian gate with more force than it required.

  "Who is that?" Tom asked.

  "Beats me." I had my phone out, calling Daniella. It went straight to voicemail. "It's Cambria. A man I've never seen before is questioning if you live here. I can't give out personal information. Can you call me back? Thanks."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  —You have to climb your way to the top, one sperm-infested property at a time.

  When you live in Los Angeles, ninety percent of your decision-making revolves around traffic. The other ten percent is dedicated to parking. The Burbank building was situated on a narrow street lined with apartment buildings, only two blocks from Warner Bros. Which meant there weren't only residents parking on the street but also those who didn't want to pay to park at the studio structure. In short, there were cars as far as my eyes could see. There were also FOR RENT signs as far as my eye could see. All posted on the lawns with balloons, and promises of move-in specials.

  After cruising around the neighborhood, I gave up and found a spot three blocks away. It took me five minutes to figure out if I could actually park there, because of the street signs:

  NO PARKING between the hours of 6 AM and 9 AM.

  Except on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

  NO PARKING on Wednesdays between the hours of 10 AM and 5 PM.

  TWO HOUR PARKING ONLY Saturday and Sunday.

  NO PARKING on Fridays between the hours of 7 PM and 10 PM.

  It was 9:01 AM on a Tuesday. I deemed it safe and parallel parked my dented Civic between a gray Prius and a black Prius. I crawled out through the passenger door (driver's side was stuck shut and had been since it collided with a runaway dumpster). It was well over ninety degrees outside. The summer heat bounced off the street, giving a wavering illusion. I had on jeans, Converse sneakers, and a gray T-shirt I'd found in the clearance section at Target. Not exactly summer attire. I'd yet to shave my legs, so pants it was.

  Fifteen minutes later, I stood in front of my newest apartment building with Lilly on my b
ack, sweat stains under my pits, a sore knee, my bucket of cleaning supplies, and no air left in my lungs.

  The extra money I got for taking the job no longer felt like enough.

  This is merely a stepping stone, I reminded myself. Manage two small apartment buildings and pretty soon I'd have enough experience to apply for a large community with a full staff, thousands of units, and a golf cart to get from one end of the community to the next.

  I thought about Violet. She managed a large luxurious community with a small staff. No golf cart needed, but she did drive a Mini Cooper—which is kinda the same thing. I wondered if she'd ever worked at a thirty-unit complex with peeling fascia and a seventy percent occupancy rate. I wondered if she ever had to hike three blocks with a kid on her back to get to work. I mostly wondered where she was and if she was alive. I checked my watch. It had been twelve hours since she'd disappeared, and I had serious concern about Hampton's ability to find her. At least I'd caught a glimpse of a possible suspect. That was a start. But what if Stairwell Man had nothing to do with Violet? What if Dick Dashwood, who had recently attempted to fire her, had hired someone to "take care" of her? Or Dolores, who was upset over a recent rental increase? Or what if it was none of the above? What if a random lunatic had abducted Violet? Now she's hidden somewhere. Chained up. Scared. Hurt. Or…gasp. Hungry?

  The thought gave my stomach a roller coaster lurch.

  There's no way Hampton can do this.

  Not with what was happening with his wife, and dog, and best friend, and hair.

  It's impossible to keep personal life and professional life completely separate. Emotions spill over, and before you know it, you're sitting at the curb outside your new place of business, talking to your boyfriend on the phone when you should be working.

  Which is exactly what I was doing.

  "The second story window was open. Yes, there is a fire escape, but it seems unlikely someone could go out the window with a body. Hampton needs to have the stairwell and elevator searched more closely."

  "Give him a little bit more credit, Cambria. He's good at his job," Chase said at a whisper. He'd stepped out of a meeting to take my call because he's a good boyfriend like that. Also, I called multiple times until he picked up. "Last night, he told us CSI were already in the stairwell."

  "No, he said CSI was processing the scene. He never mentioned the stairwell specifically. The crime happened less than twenty-four hours ago, and there are no police, CSI vans, detectives, crime scene tape, or search dogs to be found around the property right now! It's a ten-story building. The perp could have gone up, he could have gone down, he could have gone out the window I guess, but we just don't know. There could have been more than one person involved—"

  "How do you know there's no one there now?"

  "I have my resources." And my resource's name was Mrs. Nguyen. I'd called her before I called Chase and asked her to go over to Cedar Creek to see if there was any police activity. Per her report, it appeared business as usual. "Patrick said that the owners had attempted to fire Violet earlier this year. Also, Dolores is a bit suspicious. We need to investigate her more."

  "We?"

  "I mean you…with my help." Obviously.

  "Have you expressed your concerns with Hampton?" Chase asked.

  "I called him three times, and he didn't answer."

  "Because he's working. Just because he's not at the scene doesn't mean he's not actively investigating. Please, let him do his job, and don't insert yourself into the middle of the…wait. Don't you start at Burbank this morning?"

  Oh. Right. That.

  "Um…yes."

  "You're not going to let this go, are you?" Chase asked, still in a whisper.

  Not a chance. But for now, "I do need to get back to work. Call me tonight?"

  "Be careful."

  "I always am."

  Mostly.

  I hung up the phone and stretched my lower back, twisting from side to side, and rolled my neck. It was hard to go about business as usual when there was a giant question mark over Violet's whereabouts. But the building wasn't going to manage itself, and I still had bills to pay, owners to please, and a job to keep.

  Lilly skipped ahead, and I grabbed my bucket, gave myself a five-second pep talk, and it was go-time.

  The Burbank building was a two-story Spanish style with clean landscaping and a towering palm tree in the front. There was no security gate. Lilly and I walked under an archway, past the mailboxes, into the courtyard, and found my office door. It was labeled Storage Closet because that was exactly what it was: a storage closet. The previous manager didn't spend more than a few hours a week there. No need for an office. If I wanted to rent apartments, then I had to be available to show vacant units. If I had to be there, then I had to have a clean place for my kid to play, because no matter how much of an increase in pay I got, it still wasn't enough to cover full-time childcare.

  The storage closet door was warped, splintery, and swollen shut. I used my shoulder and hip to push it open and…aaaahhhhhhhh!

  Two teenagers were behind a power washer, having sex.

  Sex!

  I jumped back and bumped into a shelving rack. A box of outlet covers fell on my head.

  "Hey! A little privacy," the boy said. He had a squeaky voice, barely there facial hair, and a tattoo on his leg—of what? I didn't care to examine. All I knew for sure was, he used his free hand to shoo me away.

  He shooed me away.

  "Don't you shoo me away, young man." I felt very much like a crotchety old grandma, wagging my finger at the two. "I'm the manager, so you shoo before I call the police."

  It took a second for the news to sink into their minds. Once grasped, they scrambled to their feet, zipping, buttoning, and refastening all articles of clothing.

  I stepped out of their way as they rushed out the door, and my foot knocked over an unopened box of condoms.

  You've got to be kidding me!

  I leaned out the doorway with the box of condoms high above my head, like I was the Statue of Lifestyles Ultra Thin Liberty, about to go all After School Special on them, but a gorgeous specimen of a man stood in front of me, and I forgot what was happening.

  Errr…

  "I'm looking for the manager," the guy said with a smolder. He was probably early twenties with high cheekbones, pouty lips, dark skin, and blue eyes.

  "Her's the manager." Lilly cocked her thumb in my direction.

  "Yes…yes her is." I ventured a smile and tossed the condoms through the open door. The box hit the frame, fell to the ground, and rolled between us.

  "Are those balloons?" Lilly asked.

  "Um…" I kicked the box inside the storage closet and closed the door. "I'm…hi. How can I help you?"

  "The name is Fox. I saw the For Rent sign on the lawn. Do you have any studios?"

  "Why yes. Yes! We do have a studio apartment. Yes." I pulled at the collar of my shirt, suddenly remembering the sweat stains circling under my pits and, I assumed, on my back from where I'd carried Lilly. Not that super-hot Fox would be interested in me. Not that I was in a position to be interested in him.

  "When were you looking to move in?" I asked him, playing it cool. If sounding like you just took your mouth out of a helium spout was considered cool.

  "Immediately. I can't commit to anything long term though." He ran his hand along the ridges of his abdomen, which were visible through his sheer white shirt. "I need a month-to-month. In case the ladies figure out where I live."

  "Come again?"

  "You know how chicks are." He pulled up the bottom of his shirt to reveal his washboard.

  Hot and arrogant.

  Like ketchup on a banana. Cheese Whiz on Frosted Flakes. Pineapple on pizza…all gross combinations.

  Sexual fantasy officially over.

  Arrogant or not, he was still a prospective resident, and I had vacancies to fill. I took him to the second floor to the only rent-ready studio available.

  I
peeked my head in first to be sure no one was naked in there too, saw the coast was clear, and let Fox in. The studio was much like the studio apartments at my LA building. It was a room with a kitchen, and it cost 1,700 dollars a month.

  Fox ran his finger along the windowsill and inspected the two kitchen cabinets. "Come with parking?" he asked.

  "No."

  "Laundry?"

  "No."

  "Air conditioning?"

  "No."

  "Is the place gluten-free?"

  "Come again?"

  "Is this apartment gluten-free?" he repeated, slower this time.

  "I don't know," I said.

  "I'm off all dairy, soy, gluten, meat, rice, and casein."

  "Then what do you eat?"

  "Eggs."

  "Eggs. Right." I blew out a breath. "I'm assuming the place is gluten-free, but I can double-check with my maintenance supervisor."

  "If it is, then I'll take it. When should I move in?"

  "You'll first need to fill out an application. Once you're approved and put down a deposit, you can move in immediately."

  Fox chuckled. The smolder returned. "Do you honestly need me to fill out an application?"

  "It's company policy."

  "Come on. You know who I am."

  "You're Fox," Lilly said.

  "Don't pretend you don't recognize me. I just did a spread in the Los Angeles Real Estate Magazine. Watch." Fox put one hand on his hip and held out his other arm, making a cup with his hand. "Look familiar?"

  "You're a little teapot!" Lilly clapped her hands. "I can do it, too." She struck a teapot pose.

  Fox dropped his arms. "No. Imagine I'm holding a drill." He resumed his pose.

  Lilly and I exchanged a look. You know you're weird when a three-year-old thinks so. "I'll be on the lookout," I said. "Let's get you that application."

  The three of us went back to my office, and I grabbed the paperwork from my bag. I went over the instructions, and Fox promised to return shortly with the application and the fee.

  Then it was time to de-germ my "office." I gave Lilly my phone and a coloring book to keep her occupied, snapped on a pair of gloves, grabbed my bottle of bleach, and got to work.