French Vanilla & Felonies Page 10

  Update: I received a check for my vase and a bonus for my troubles. Kevin has entered rehab, and it's been promised to us that he will not be returning until after we have moved.

  It was the last incident report Joyce wrote.

  Joyce's son was dead, as was her vase, Kevin had a mental disorder and had just been released from rehab. And what did he go to rehab for? Alcohol? Narcotics…there was so much backstory to follow. It was like a giant onion—with each layer I peeled back, the more I wanted to cry. What mental disorder was I dealing with? "Mental disorder" had extensive implications.

  What do I do with the information?

  Did it change the situation?

  No.

  Did it change my perspective?

  Yes.

  In all the times we'd talked, in all the stories she'd told, Joyce had never mentioned her son had died. One afternoon she'd told me of a time when her son, Josh, was nine and decided he wanted to learn how to drive. He'd somehow managed to get the car out of the driveway and into the neighbor's living room. She'd told it with such a longing fluidity to her voice, like my own grandmother when she told stories of when she was younger, that I hadn't thought anything of it. I'd asked where he lived, and she had replied, "He's in paradise." For whatever reason, I assumed "paradise" meant he lived in Tahiti, near the crystal blue waters, white sandy beaches, and lush greenery. I'd only seen pictures, but it looked like paradise to me. I then said to her, "I hope you get to visit him very soon." Again, I was thinking Tahiti, not an eternal paradise in the sky. I guess paradise is a relative term, and it was hard to think on all four cylinders while trapped in a nicotine fog.

  The baritone ding-dong summoned me from my thoughts. I slid the incident report back into Kevin's file and closed the cabinet. Tom stood behind the lobby door. He removed his aviators and flashed his signature side-smirk. "Feeling better?" he asked.

  Feeling better?

  No! One resident is dead. I'd inadvertently told Joyce I hope she'd die soon. Kevin has an unknown mental disability. I have a possible criminal living in Apartment 36. I was third choice, and I can't find my drug box.

  "I'm fine," I said instead. "Come on in." I opened the door wider, allowing him entrance, and locked it behind him. "Lilly should be up soon from her nap. Are you on lunch?" I led him to the office and pulled out Joyce's old swivel chair for him.

  "I had a break between clients and figured I'd come by and see how the unpacking was going." He took a seat, threw his arms behind his head, and stretched out his long legs, crossing his brown loafers. "I was going to ask for a tour this morning, except someone slammed the door in my face."

  I rolled my eyes. "I didn't slam the door. It has a door closer preventing it from slamming." I gave him a so-there look and reached down to grab an extra gate opener from a box under the desk. "Here, take this. It'll open the gate, and you can use my apartment front door from now on." I slid it across the sleek wooden surface.

  He managed to snatch the opener with one hand before it fell to the floor and slip it into his inner suit jacket pocket. He delivered a full-fledged smile, impressed with his own catlike reflexes. It was cute.

  "Nice catch," I said. "Oh, and before I forget, can you take Lilly to the doctor Friday morning? They're going to squeeze her in first thing, and you're usually pretty light on Fridays, right?"

  He moaned and went limp, as if suddenly stripped of all cartilage. "Why is she going to the doctor?" he asked, drawing out each word.

  "When we got back from the pool earlier, she kept sneezing, and her snot had a yellowish tint to it. This could be the start of a major microbial infection." Examining Lilly's mucus had become a slight obsession.

  Tom slapped his hands over his eyes with a relenting sigh. As part of our child support agreement, he's responsible for Lilly's insurance and all medical bills. An agreement he wouldn't have initially agreed upon had he known how much time I spend on WebMD.

  "Fine," he surrendered. "I'll take her. She sneezed twice last night, so it's not a bad idea. I guess."

  "Thank you. If it's not an infection, ask about allergies." I grabbed my phone. "I'll forward you this article about allergies in toddlers to show the doctor."

  "Cam?"

  "Huh?" I looked up from my phone to find Tom staring at me intensely—not a seductive "look how hot my baby momma is" type of intensity, more of a "have you contracted a terminal illness?" intensity.

  I tugged on my shirt, feeling self-conscious. "What?"

  "You OK?" he finally asked. "You looked stressed out."

  Well that's an understatement.

  I contemplated telling him about Kenneth and Kevin but decided against it—not exactly sure why. Instead, I told him about Spencer, the visitors, brown bags, and my narcotics theory (with no mention of murder).

  When I finished, Tom leaned forward and placed his arms on my desk. "I highly doubt it's drugs, Cam. No dentist is going to risk their license by selling illegal scripts out of their apartment in the middle of a Monday. And even if he were, there's not a chance he'd bag them up."

  Good point.

  "I do agree that the situation sounds suspicious," he continued. "You should call the police and make a report. After that, stay out of it."

  "What?" I scoffed. "How can I stay out of it if it's one of my residents?"

  "Easy. Stay out of it. Let the police do their job and you do yours—which does not include staking out apartments with our kid."

  Another good point.

  "Cam, you do not want to get yourself mixed up with a potential drug dealer or with anyone doing anything illegal. OK?"

  "Fine," I said without conviction.

  "Good." He cleared his throat and shot up straight, nose high in the air like a beagle on a hunt. "Hold on. Cam, are you smoking?"

  "What? No! Ugh." I grabbed two cans of industrial air freshener. "Chase promised these would work. Maybe I didn't use enough."

  "Who's Chase?"

  "Maintenance guy." I aimed the cans high in the air and pressed the trigger, releasing a rainfall of manufactured fragrance. The bottle promised "tropical rainforest" but smelled more like cough syrup. To be fair, I'd never been in a real rainforest.

  "Take it easy, Cam." Tom coughed and waved his hand in front of his face. "It's not that bad."

  "I've become desensitized." I walked backwards out to the lobby, the cans high above my head, spraying every square inch until nothing more spurted out of the nozzle.

  Wow, head rush.

  Stars danced in my peripheral vision.

  Need. Fresh. Air!

  I crisscrossed over to the door and flung it open, hesitating while my eyes adjusted.

  "That's it! I want a day do-over," I whined.

  "What's wrong?" Tom came and stood beside me, looking out at the two police cars double parked in front of the office with their red and blue lights flashing all around screaming Look at me! Look at me! I'm here again!

  I placed my hand on Tom's shoulder for support, my head still fuzzy from the tropical rainforest. "Stay here. I'm going to find out what's going on."

  "Remember what I said," he hollered after me. "Stay out of it."

  I pretended not to hear.

  Two police officers were standing near the gate, while two others took reports from a group of angry-looking residents in the carports. Of course, Silvia and Harold were standing close by observing the situation, Silvia with a disapproving shake of her head, Harold with his judgy little eyes. A group of residents began to gather around her.

  Seriously, doesn't anyone work during the day?

  "And then she said she was going to talk to them…" I heard Silvia telling a pudgy fellow with a bushy gray beard and a Lakers jersey on. He looked like an off-duty Santa. "She walked into their apartment, and not five minutes later, I heard the headboard banging against the wall again, while she was in there."

  A woman decked in expensive yoga gear gasped, bringing her hand up to her mouth, while the pudgy Lakers fan winked at m
e.

  But…what…no…um…ugh.

  Not right now.

  One disaster at a time.

  I approached the officers at the gate. One was a muscular, older man with a bulldog face, and his partner was a tall younger guy, with a long neck and a large Adam's apple. Really large. As if an actual apple was stuck in there.

  "Hello," I greeted. "I'm the apartment manager. Can you tell me what's going on?"

  Bulldog spoke first. "A car was reported stolen."

  "Stolen?" I wheezed, as if the air had been pulled out of my lungs. So much for Joyce's food-poisoning-police-radar theory!

  "It happened sometime during the day," said Adam's Apple, his apple bobbing up and down, up and down, up and down in a distractive rhythm. "You see anything?"

  See anything?

  So happy he asked, I proceeded to tell them about Kenneth, what I'd witnessed with Spencer, my theory, and I may have mentioned I was third choice—call me selfish, but I was having a hard time letting that one go. Bulldog scrawled in his notebook until I finished. He nodded to Adam's Apple, who nodded back then turned around to speak into the radio on his shoulder.

  "I can take you back to Spencer if you like," I offered. Might as well question him now. Make an arrest. Put this murder to bed and concentrate solely on keeping Kevin clothed.

  Bulldog finished speaking to his shoulder and nodded to Adam's Apple, who nodded back once again. My eyes bounced between the two men, trying to decipher their nods. "We'll turn over this information," Bulldog said, flipping his notebook shut.

  "What about—hey!" A finger jabbed my arm. A short woman with more lipstick on her teeth than her lips inserted herself into my personal space, her finger pointed and ready to poke again. I took a step back. She took a step closer. "Can I help you?"

  "You the new manager?" she asked with a thick accent. Her dark hair was pulled into a sleek bun, and she wore a red flamenco-inspired dress.

  I rubbed my shoulder. "I am."

  "We've got everything we need," Adam's Apple said as he, Bulldog, and the two other officers strolled back to their cruisers. "We have your contact information if we have any questions."

  "Wait one second, offi—ouch! I am not going to talk to you if you keep poking me," I warned the woman.

  "Manager," she snapped, her finger ready to dig into my bicep again.

  "What can I help you with?" I asked as sweetly as I could, rubbing my sure-to-be-bruised arm.

  "My car is gone, and I have my salsa class!"

  My stomach dropped. "I am very sorry about that." I held my hand up, ready to strike if she came at me with her finger again. "You can submit the police report to your insurance company, and I'll see what I can do about upping security in the carports."

  She took a step closer. I took a step back. She took another step closer and lashed me in her native tongue, her hands flailing above her head. Even if I wasn't fluent in Spanish, I caught the gist.

  "Please, calm down," I said, knowing full well it was a pointless suggestion. If someone stole my car, I'd be… Who was I kidding? No one would steal my car.

  "I can't calm down," she continued in English. "I have no car! I have salsa class tonight, and I pay good money for my salsa, and we have a competition this week, and now I can't go. So I lose my money for the class, and I lose my car. We don't need more security. We need Yoyce. This never happened when she was here, and suddenly you show up, and Kenneth is dead, and my car is gone. I think it's no coincidence."

  "I can assure you I had nothing to do with any of it." I rubbed my arm and looked over at the group of angry residents huddled around Silvia and Harold. The sideways glances my way were a not-so-subtle hint I was still the topic of conversation. Great. "I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name?"

  "Daniella." She crossed her arms and looked at me expectantly.

  "Daniella, what time is your salsa class?"

  "Seven."

  "OK." I sighed. "I'll give you a ride."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Landlord shall not be liable for physical assaults or property damage caused by other Tenants or Tenants' guests.

  Thursday, October 6th

  Dear New Apartment Manager,

  Accept this letter as my official thirty-day notification. We will be moving to a safer apartment complex with a more competent manager. You can return my full deposit within twenty-four hours of our departure.

  Sincerely,

  Rachael M. Manfeld

  I'd been the sole apartment manager for seven days. Seven days. And the place had gone to hell. Hell (or so I'd been told by many). It had to be some kind of world record.

  To my knowledge, there hadn't been any new developments in Kenneth's case. I'd witnessed seven more individuals leave Spencer's apartment, all with the same brown bag, all looking over their shoulder, all leaving out the back walkway. I'd called the police to report my finding so many times I was on a first-name basis with the dispatch operator. Penny had a three-month-old baby girl and a fiancé named Pedro. I was one call away from being a bridesmaid.

  Rarely did anyone call me back. One officer arrived, humored me, and knocked on Spencer's door. Spencer wasn't home, and that was the end of that.

  As if a murder, grand theft auto, and drug dealings weren't enough, two washing machines broke, which "never happened when Joyce was here," and just about everyone lost their minds. Then Kevin dumped a bag of kitty litter down his toilet. To fix his toilet, we had to shut off the water to the back half of the building. No water for twenty minutes. This was the icing on the "I hate my new manager" cake.

  Our Rent or Run rating had risen to a 50% run rate—the highest in the neighborhood. The management had dropped to 2.5 stars, and safety to 3.5—the lowest in the neighborhood.

  I hate that app.

  Patrick had received several complaints about my "terrible management style." The biggest complaints (aside from the crime I seemingly brought with me) were that I "hated the elderly" and I "threw away other people's hard-earned property" and was "antireligious." There was also a rumor that I had a threesome with Clare and Bob, which, when you think about it, contradicts the first complaint.

  Life would be easier if I carried on Joyce's tradition of never leaving the apartment (but then I couldn't continue being Daniella's personal taxi. The woman had salsa every night). Joyce, I'd learned from Daniella, didn't even leave to show vacant units. She would hand prospective tenants the key and let them wander around. I couldn't manage like that. I walked the property. I showed apartments. I enforced the rules. If you leave a dead plant on your front porch, I will throw it away. If you hang a giant crucifix in the laundry room, I will remove it. If you tell me the reason you haven't paid your rent is because your arthritis is acting up and you are too old and the office is too far, I will show up at your door.

  I didn't make the rules. I was simply paid to enforce them.

  Patrick couldn't overlook the fact that I hadn't collected all the rents. Despite being served three-day notices, rents were still being withheld as reparation for an "unsafe complex and incompetent manager." It was my job to explain to the residents that that's not how life works. This would make residents mad, and they would call and complain to Patrick, and thus the cycle continued. Evictions were expensive, according to Patrick, and collecting rents was a basic job responsibility, according to Patrick. He was nearing the end of his rope. I could hear it in his voice.

  According to my employee contract: If Employee is terminated within the first thirty days of employment, Employee agrees to vacate the Premises within twenty-four hours of the time of termination.

  I was no longer swimming.

  I wasn't treading either.

  I was drowning.

  It felt as if a pair of imaginary hands were squeezing my lungs and using my head as a punching bag. If I lost my job, my options were limited. Where would we go? Amy rented a room from an older woman in Burbank, a retired set designer with velvety couches, expensive glass décor, white car
pet, and at least twenty rescue cats. Even if I could bunk with Amy temporarily, a white-carpeted house was no place for a child, especially mine, and I was allergic to cats in a can't breathe, puffy face, pass-the-Benadryl kind of way.

  Neither of my parents was in a financial position to help. My dad was a struggling plumber by day and an under-paid high school basketball coach by night. My mom was a secretary at a meat packing facility. Neither would turn me away if I showed up on their doorstep. Of course, then I'd be forced to come clean about Tom. Tell them that on top of being unemployed, flat broke, and a complete failure in life, I was also a liar. My pride was still too intact for that option.

  Worst-case scenario: Lilly could live with Tom while I scraped enough money together for a motel. When I was nearing eviction from Crap-o-la Apartments, Tom hadn't offered to let me stay with him should we officially get the boot. He of course said Lilly could, but not one mention of me. I got it. He was a womanizer and made no secret of it. He was an attractive young lawyer (although a broke one, which I doubt he mentioned), and as if that wasn't enough, he was a doting daddy. Women swooned. He'd met half a dozen short-lived flings while playing with Lilly at the McDonald's play yard. My presence would prove a challenge because although a doting dad was an attractive quality, the doting dad's baby momma living with him was a glaring red flag. Even if the baby momma was on Alcatraz.