French Vanilla & Felonies Read online

  * * * * *

  FREE EBOOK OFFER

  Sign up for our newsletter to be the first to know about our new releases, special bargains, and giveaways, and as a bonus receive a FREE ebook!

  Sign up for the Gemma Halliday newsletter!

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  FRENCH VANILLA & FELONIES

  Cambria Clyne Mysteries book #1

  by

  ERIN HUSS

  * * * * *

  Copyright © 2018 by Erin Huss

  Cover design by Anna Snow

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  To the great and marvelous people of The Apartment Management & Maintenance Support Group.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I first want to thank Gemma Halliday for bringing this book back to life. Working with you and your team has been a dream. Wendi Baker, thank you for your superb editing skills and knowledge. And to everyone else at Gemma Halliday Press for bringing this book back to the shelves, thank you!

  To my husband, Jed. Your unwavering support and love mean everything. To my children, Natalie, Noah, Ryder, Emma, and Fisher, you are my motivation in all things. Thank you for letting me be your mom.

  Thank you to my mother, Barbara Stotko, for continually telling me I could do anything; my dad, Tim Hogan, for your endless support; Tyler Hogan for being the best brother an annoying big sister could ask for; my stepdad, Mark Stotko, who met me as a teenager and still wanted to marry my mother; my best pal, Katie Ledesma, for losing sleep while going over plot twists with me; Cody Christiansen for being my go-to lawyer; Christina Christiansen for being the sister I always wanted/needed; my in-laws, Janean Huss, Rod Huss and Julie Huss, for taking me in and allowing me to use the Huss name. I wear it proudly.

  I want to thank my beta readers, all those who read the first few (terrible) drafts and the final one—Jordan Elliot, Brittney Zeedik, Katie Ledesma, Barbara Stotko, Tia Howard, Julie C. Gardner and Lucy Woodhull. Thank you to Sam Young for taking a young, relatively inexperienced apartment manager and allowing her to manage your flagship property. Thank you to Ashley Stock for the author picture and early-on beta reading. Iris Handy Peugh, thank you for Crap-o-la. I want to thank all the readers of The Apartment Manager's Blog, some who have been with me since 2009. To Michelle Crump, Kris Salvesen, Beth Chamberlain, Lisa Griffin, and all those who helped launch the first edition, thank you for your support. I feel like I wouldn't have the confidence to write if it weren't for my grandma, Melba Raynaud. She told me from a very early age I should be a writer. Look Abuela, I finally listened!

  * * * * *

  PROLOGUE

  Here's the thing, we are all varying degrees of crazy. You know it. I know it. If aliens are in fact spying on us like every bum on Sunset Boulevard says they are, then they know it too. When in public, you hide the crazy in order to conform to what society deems "appropriate" behavior. Some are better at this than others. When you get home, within the confines of walls and away from watchful eyes, you can let your crazy run free without worry of judgment, public persecution, or jail time. Home is where you can dance naked. Safely satisfy your strange fetishes. Where you can role-play or engage in conversation with yourself, out loud, about Star Wars or Harry Potter or The Real Housewives of Orange County and no one will judge you for it.

  It doesn't matter if your home is rented or owned. If your home is an apartment in Compton, a mansion in Beverly Hills, or a cardboard box under a freeway overpass—home is where your secrets are held. It's where you can let your freak flag fly high and proud!

  This is what keeps my job interesting.

  As an apartment manager, I'm privy to all of it—the freak flags and the secrets. Whether I want to be or not.

  Trust me. It's not a job for the thin-skinned, weak-stomached, or easily offended.

  It's a job for me…or at least I thought it was. Until I stared down the barrel of a gun and was arrested for a murder I didn't commit.

  Now, I'm not so sure.

  I hear accounting is nice.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Seeking an on-site Apartment Property Manager for a charming 40-unit community. Applicant must have excellent organizational skills and a calming demeanor.

  "Calm down!"

  Honk.

  "You're not the only one in a hurry."

  Hooonk.

  "Go around!"

  The silver BMW roared past me. I turned to deliver a mad glare, but Captain Douche was too busy looking at his phone to notice.

  "Pay attention to the road!" I yelled to his rear bumper. "Honestly, no one can drive in this city." I flipped down my visor. The zit in the middle of my freckled forehead pulsed in the tiny mirror. "You really couldn't have waited until tomorrow?" I asked the zit.

  I reached over and grabbed my makeup bag, smothered the monstrosity in concealer, added a touch of gloss to my lips, and mascaraed my lashes into tiny tarantula legs. I had to look my best today. One more week of unemployment and I'd be left with no other option than to become a phone sex operator by night who flips burgers by day. I had applications for both jobs in case this interview led to yet another dead end.

  Hooonk!

  "Take it easy." I flipped the visor back and continued maneuvering my dented Civic through the crowded streets of Los Angeles. I grabbed the past-due phone bill out of my bag and double-checked the directions scribbled on the back.

  Right on City Court.

  I looked up as the street sign for City Court drifted by my window.

  "Crap." I made a hasty U-turn, which inspired another cacophony of horns. A man wearing a dirty Spiderman costume weighed in on my poor driving habits by flipping me a double-fisted bird. Even if I didn't come that close to him or his overflowing grocery cart.

  My hand automatically went up as a feeble apology before I made the sharp turn.

  And there I saw it. An imposing ten-story building. A cobblestoned walkway led up to a pair of whimsical wrought-iron doors. Brilliant red and yellow flowers were strategically dispersed throughout the lavish landscaping. A sign, welcoming those who were clearly richer than me, hung above a glistening koi pond near the entrance. It was beautiful.

  I parked under the sign pointing to the leasing office, shoved the phone bill into my bag, and polished off the pint of French Vanilla wedged between my thighs. Ice cream was my go-to coping mechanism—and I'd been doing a whole lot of coping lately. I crawled over the center console and passenger seat to exit the car. The driver's side door had been stuck shut since an expensive meeting with a runaway dumpster a few months ago. It was annoying and awkward, especially on the days when I managed to squeeze my butt into a pair of skinny jeans. My little Civic still managed to get me from point A to point B (usually), and that was all I could afford to care about.

  As I stepped onto the sidewalk, I flattened the front of my dress with my hands and brushed off the lint clinging to my th
ighs. I had on an Anthropologie dress worth more than my car—the one designated for interviews and first dates only because it minimized my butt, elongated my waist, was dry clean only, and the navy color matched my eyes. Sadly, it hadn't been getting much action in the last—oh let me see—four years.

  Rolling my shoulders back, I took a deep, calming breath. The irony that I was about to interview for a job as an apartment manager when I was nearing eviction from my own apartment was not lost on me. It had been six months since I was laid off. Finding a job when the qualifications portion of your résumé ran three deep wasn't easy. Neither was being a single mother. The phone call for this interview couldn't have come at a better time. Decent salary, apartment, utilities, medical benefits, and bonuses—it was the perfect opportunity to get Lilly and me back on our feet. I only hoped my lack of apartment management experience would be overshadowed by my obvious desperation.

  Setting my focus on the whimsical doors, I charged toward—oomph!

  There was a step.

  A big step.

  A step I didn't see until my hands and knees were plastered atop the scorching cement and I was staring at it.

  "Are you OK?" A pencil thin, tube top–donning brunette stood over me, sucking on a Tootsie Pop.

  "I think so." I peeled myself off the ground and brushed away the chalky debris coating my knees. "That step came out of nowhere."

  The brunette flipped her long ponytail over her shoulder. "Yeah, it happens a lot. Like, that's why they put up the sign." She pointed her sucker to the caution sign with a person about to plunge to the ground like I had just done. "But it doesn't seem to help. I totally see people trip here, like, all the time."

  "Do you live here?"

  "Nope, my Boo lives next door."

  "Next door? There's another apartment complex on this street?" Panicked, I checked my watch. The interview was scheduled to start in five minutes. Story of my life—I was never late. I was always almost late, enough to be a frazzled, sweaty mess when I did arrive.

  She pointed her sucker toward a row of tall shrubs. "Yeah, it's over there."

  "Dang it… Thank you!" I yelled over my shoulder as I ran to the foliage fence blocking the neighboring apartment building. This one was smaller. Two-story with gated parking to the left. Pots filled with succulents lined the chipped brick walkway that led to a pair of sad-looking brown doors. No welcome sign. No koi pond, but a mud puddle near the entrance had a cloud of tiny insects hovering above it.

  I dug out the instructions from my bag: 10, 405, Exit SM, Sepulveda, right on City Court. Apartment building on the right. Ask for Joyce. That was it. That was all I wrote. No apartment name. No address. That would make too much sense.

  I ran back to the first apartment complex. Standing between the two buildings, I shaded my eyes with my hand, trying to decide which one might house Joyce. The first building was much nicer. So I turned and ran toward the second one, because running toward mediocrity felt more natural.

  When I reached the doors, I rested my hand on the rusty knob. You've got this, I told myself. You are a strong, confident woman with better-than-average abilities and a kid to feed. I took another deep breath, pushed open the door, and entered…1988?

  I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the pink and blue striped wallpaper. A glass coffee table was surrounded by an overstuffed peach leather couch and two floral-printed armchairs. Below my Payless pumps was teal carpet, followed by yellow linoleum with a repeating brown octagon pattern across it. The track lighting gave the room a yellowish, hazy tint, and a ceiling fan clinked with each turn of its golden blades, pushing the stale, nicotine-laced air around the ugly room.

  To my right was an enclosed office with a waist-high counter (also teal) overlooking the lobby. A frail old woman with scarlet hair sat behind a desk, her hands clasped and brown eyes on me.

  "Hi. Are you Joyce?" I asked, hoping she'd say no and direct me to the spa-like resort next door.

  "I am," she answered in a barely audible rasp. Despite the hundred-degree outside temperature, she wore a sweater, which hung loosely around her bony frame. Just looking at the cashmere caused my sweat glands to produce in double time.

  "I'm Cambria Clyne. I have an interview with Patrick for the apartment management position. His secretary told me to meet him here at noon."

  "You sure you really want this job?"

  "Yes, I do," I answered slowly, unsure of what that was supposed to mean.

  She regarded me for several awkward seconds before speaking. "OK then. Up to you." She stood on shaky legs and shuffled up to the counter. The two-foot journey looked painful. "Nice to meet you, Cambria. I'm the current manager." I took her proffered hand. Her palm was cold, but her eyes had a hint of warmth to them. "Patrick should be here in a bit. Would you like me to show you around while you wait?"

  "That would be great, thank you." I smiled.

  Joyce motioned for me to walk around the counter to the door that separated the lobby from the enclosed office. I followed her through the cramped space, squeezing past a row of tarnished filing cabinets and an L-shaped oak desk. She opened the door behind the desk, and—bam!

  The nicotine air punched me in the lungs, knocking me back against the doorjamb. It was as if I'd walked directly into a cigarette. I placed my hand over my chest, mentally apologizing to all my vital organs.

  Joyce stood in the middle of a square kitchen. The blue tiled counters were piled high with boxes and rolls of bubble wrap.

  "Once we're gone, this would be your apartment," she said, fanning her arm out like Vanna White. "If you get the job."

  I nodded in appreciation and took a gulp of air through clenched teeth, hoping they'd work as a filter. The lack of oxygen caused my head to beat in time with my heart, but I wasn't about to let a little cancerous air stop me. I desperately needed the income.

  The kitchen looked out to a spacious living room with Smurf blue carpet and two long windows overlooking a courtyard. Asleep in the middle of the room was an old man with a beer in one hand, remote in the other, and The People's Court playing on the television opposite him and his purple recliner. Not just any old purple either—a two-toned mauve and lavender corduroy chair with a coordinating couch and love seat. Clearly, someone was colorblind.

  I followed Joyce down a short hallway and into a bedroom.

  "This is perfect for an office or guest room," she said, sliding the mirrored closet door open to reveal a space larger than my current bathroom.

  "I actually have a daughter, and she'd love this room." Truth is, I would too. I'd been sharing a room with Lilly since the day she was born. The Frozen décor wasn't doing me any favors in the love department.

  "Are you married?" Joyce rasped.

  I shook my head.

  "Interesting…" She rubbed her chin. "How old is your daughter?"

  "She's three going on sixteen," I answered with an exaggerated roll of my eyes.

  Joyce let out a laugh that quickly turned into a procession of dry, hacking coughs. She placed her veiny hand on the wall for support as her coughs morphed into more of a gurgling sound. My joke wasn't that funny. Nor was it original, and certainly not worth dying over.

  I placed my hand on her back, feeling the ridges of her spine under the cashmere. "Can I get you something?"

  She took a slow, gravelly breath then brushed off my concern with a wave of her hand. "I'm fine. Don't fuss. Let's move on." She let out one more cough before pushing past me.

  I trailed behind, worried Joyce may not make it through the tour.

  We next entered a room slightly bigger than the first with an attached walk-in closet and bathroom. Despite the smoke and the blue carpet and the yellow popcorn ceilings, I was in love. To have that amount of space, in a neighborhood I could never afford otherwise was unfathomable. On Rent or Run (a trusty app tenants use to rate their apartment building and let prospective renters know if they should rent there or run away) the place had 5 stars for safety, 5 stars for mana
gement, and a 4% run rate. Since moving to LA, I'd never lived in anything lower than 80%.

  I was moving on up!

  A little paint and oxygen would turn it into the perfect home.

  "Joyce, I love it." Then, because my mother had taught me the way to any person's heart was through compliments, I eyed a massive oak armoire and added, "This is beautiful, by the way."

  "You like it?" she asked, not masking her surprise. "I'll be sure to give it to you when I move."

  I feigned excitement. "Really? Wow. You're so kind." I smiled, eyeing the monstrosity I now apparently owned.

  I followed Joyce down the hall, past another full bathroom and into the living room. The old man was still lifeless in the chair. "How long have you been working here?" I asked, looking around and mentally arranging my own furniture.

  She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket along with a lighter. "Almost…let's see…it's been about twenty-five years. This retirement is well overdue." With a shaky hand she positioned a cigarette between her pale lips and lit it.

  I may vomit.

  "OK…there are forty units," she continued, emitting a fresh batch of smoke. "You can take a look around. Just don't go in the third courtyard—ever. Never, ever go there. Trust me." She handed me three pieces of paper with her cigarette hand. "Then come back and fill these out." Ash broke off the end of her cancer stick and rolled down the front of the application.

  I opened my mouth, about to ask why the third courtyard was off-limits, but she opened the front door before I could get the words out. My need for air overcame my manners, and I dashed outside, seeking refuge for my burning lungs.

  I will never take oxygen for granted again.