French Vanilla & Felonies Page 12

  I gnashed my teeth and took a deep breath in through my nose. He made sense, and it ticked me off. I hated it. I hated every word of it. "Chase, as crazy as it may sound, I'm trying to help Kenneth and save my job because no one else is taking anything I say seriously. This place, apparently, was the safest compound in all the land until I showed up. I have six move-out notifications on my desk. Six!" I held up six fingers to drive the point home. "I'm doing my best to provide for my family and keep a roof over our heads, which isn't easy when you're dealing with murders and parrots and washers and nudity and guys with teardrop tattoos. I'm so close to not only losing my job but my home. So forgive me for doing everything I can. I'm sorry that upsets you. Why don't you go somewhere and fix something?" My bottom lip began to quiver. My waterworks grenade was about to detonate. You will not cry, Cambria. You will not cry. I was already coated in the snot and tears of others and was not about to add in my own, not in front of Chase.

  A feeling of vulnerability crashed down on me. It was neither a familiar nor pleasant sensation.

  With nothing left to say, I turned my snot-covered body around and walked away, leaving Chase speechless. I didn't expect, nor did I want, him to follow me. All I wanted was a tub of French Vanilla and a clean shirt.

  My apartment door was wide open. Amy was propped up against the doorjamb, all showered and preened and smiling. Her pink and blue tendrils lay perfectly blown out below her shoulders. My red shirt, which she apparently decided to borrow, was tucked into her own boyfriend jeans. Her face was freshly painted with eye shadow, mascara, bronzer, and pink gloss. She seemed to have hurdled the last stages of the breakup grief cycle while I was out apartment managing. "You were gone forever," she said, exasperated. "I was really worried."

  "So you got dressed?" I cleared the threshold, ramming my shin into the corner of the box working as a side table. "Ouch!" I kicked the stupid box, crushing its contents, which sounded a lot like glass. "My life!" I groaned, kicking the box again.

  "Well, hello there. Did you lock yourself out?" Amy purred.

  I turned to find Chase sheepishly waiting at the door, his hands shoved into his front pockets.

  Good grief. "Amy, this is Chase, the maintenance man," I said, rubbing my shin.

  Amy's eyes reached an abnormally wide circumference. "Chase?" she squeaked. "I didn't…I didn't even know you had a maintenance guy." She shrugged indifferently then turned toward me and mouthed so hot. "Well then, it looks like I have to be leaving. If you would be so kind as to give me back my phone, I'll be out of your hair."

  Her bony behind had become one with my couch, and now, when I'd rather not be alone, she decided to detach herself from my furniture and make a miraculous recovery. It was far too fishy and very un-Amy-like. I couldn't press her too hard with Chase looking on. "What are you doing?" I asked under my breath.

  "What we talked about," she said with a wink, and unleashed a mischievous smile. "Gimme. Gimme." She wiggled her fingers.

  With a sigh of surrender, I dislodged her phone from behind the cable box. "Thank you," she sang, plucking the phone out of my grip. "So nice meeting you. Chase, was it?" She flashed her three-grand veneers and sashayed past him.

  I leaned out the door. "I don't have bail money," I hissed through clenched teeth.

  "Text ya later," she called out and rounded the corner out of sight.

  I stifled a groan and tossed my attention over to the boy hovering in my doorway. "What's wrong now?" I asked all snappily, folding my arms over my chest.

  "I didn't mean to upset you," he said.

  Really?

  It was like saying "I'm sorry your feelings are hurt" or "I'm sorry you're upset." It's an apology without admission of wrongdoing—thus not an apology at all. Under normal circumstances, I'd reject the lame attempt. However, his puppy-dog-eye accompaniment won me over.

  "Chase, the situation upsets me," I said, dropping my arms. "I think the teardrop guy knows Spencer, and if I could have only kept him quarantined until I called the police, then he and Spencer could have been questioned. Now I can't call the police and say, 'Hey, I found a guy with sketchy tattoos, and even though I haven't seen him do anything illegal, I suspect him of murder.' They'll think I'm crazy."

  Chase bit his bottom lip, holding in a smile, as if I unintentionally told a dirty joke he shouldn't laugh at.

  "What?" I asked.

  "Cambria, you were going to keep him quarantined?"

  "Hell yeah I was. Never underestimate a woman on the verge of ruin."

  He gave me a touché look. "I get your intentions are good, but you need to let the police do their job. You have no idea what they've done, who they're looking at, what leads they've followed up on. They're not going to let a murder slide under the radar. And they're definitely not going to share sensitive information with you. Shouldn't you think things through more fully?"

  I nodded reluctantly. Guess I can give him that.

  He looped his thumbs into his pockets and leaned against the doorway, looking past me. "I see you've settled in."

  I tucked Einstein behind my ear. "I'm taking more of an unpack-as-necessary approach. I did hang one picture in the hallway though." I exhaled and waited. If we were engaging in small talk, it would be his turn; if we were done, I was in need of a pint of ice cream to help with my stress and a Diet Coke to help with my headache. That drug box was still hiding. Granted, I hadn't put much effort into locating it.

  "Sounds efficient," he said with a smile. I appreciated the fact that he didn't try to sugarcoat the truth with some weak I'm-sure-it-will-all-work-out crap like Tom would have. I needed a little more pessimism in my life. I wanted to sulk and eat ice cream and cry, not be optimistic. "For reals though," he continued, dropping the smile. "You sure you're OK?"

  "I'm fine," I lied.

  He regarded me through squinted eyes, as if reading my thoughts. My stomach got all fluttery and my legs all liquidy. There was no time for gushiness, butterflies, and sexual fantasies. I was nearly homeless.

  "OK, guess I'll talk to you later. Night," I said, swinging the door shut. There was no time to deal with feelings either.

  I weaved through the cardboard maze in my living room to the kitchen, picking up toys along the way like a human Pac-Man, with a Diet Coke and a pint of Chocolate Malt ice cream as my prize. Both were consumed immediately upon completion. The rich chocolate combined with the sweet carbonation made my tongue happy…my stomach, not so much. Ouch.

  I leaned against the counter, rubbing my ailing abdomen. My mind churned through the events of the day. In hindsight I should not have confronted Teardrops of Death. I should have stalked him instead. Follow him around to be sure he came from Spencer's apartment. Telling him I was the apartment manager wasn't the best idea either. Let's just say, for example, he decided to brutally murder me in my sleep. He'd know exactly where to find me. Crap.

  I pushed a pile of heavy boxes in front of the door and sank to the floor behind them, folding in half and pulling my knees close to my chest while my mind took a terrifying trip down Worst-case Scenario Lane.

  At eleven thirty Amy answered my thirty-two text messages, confirming what I suspected. She had gone to a bar that, according to Facebook, her ex had checked into. She planned to "casually" bump into him while flirting with everything on two legs to make him jealous. (This was her idea of revenge. My toilet plan was better.) The ex wasn't there, and she, according to the text messages that were getting drunker as the night went on, met a guy named "Rock." He had "broom" eyes, olive skin, and was around five foot ten, two hundred "plounders" with a "rescuing" dark "herring" (whatever that meant). She followed him to a party and sent me the description so I'd be able to identify her abductor if she went missing. Because I wasn't stressed enough already.

  My head began drooping around midnight, feeling especially heavy. It was a fight to keep conscious. Then came a tap on the door. I clambered up to the peephole.

  Chase? Again?

  I tur
ned off the alarm. Removed the boxes. Unlocked the bottom lock. Flipped the deadbolt and opened the door. "Chase, what are you doing here?" I asked. His hoodie and hat were gone, replaced by a black collared shirt and a more styled mess of hair.

  "When you said you were fine, did you really mean you were fine and not doing that thing girls do when they say fine but mean the exact opposite?" He looked down at the butcher knife clutched in my hand. I mean, I had to have protection just in case.

  "Oh, um, I was just cutting…avocados," I said, hiding the knife behind my back. "Like I said, I'm fine. Just wanted some guacamole."

  "Do you want some company?"

  "Yes."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Landlord reserves the right to initiate eviction process or give notice to vacate if Tenant turns out to be a Grade-A Douchebag.

  Sunlight shot onto my eyelids like a laser, forcing me from a deep, dreamless slumber. I threw my arm over my face and rolled to the other side of the bed, except it wasn't there. It was in the bedroom, and I was on the couch. I landed on the floor.

  I forced my lids open. Chase was asleep on the other side of the couch with his feet crossed and resting on my cardboard coffee table. His head hung to one side while his nose whistled with each heavy breath he took. The old me, the PMS (Pre-apartment Management Situations) Cambria would have been aching to nestle under his free arm. He looked so cozy. Despite his lack of handy skills and the fact he scared Teardrops of Death away, he was a fine specimen of a man. He'd be almost pretty if he shaved and combed his hair, maybe too pretty. I enjoyed the scruffiness. It made him even sexier in an I-woke-up-like-this kind of way that PMS Cambria would have been drooling over. Unfortunately, I wasn't PMS Cambria anymore; I was ATBOW (About To Be On Welfare) Cambria, and I had bigger issues to deal with.

  I scooted off to the bathroom to perform my usual pee, weigh myself, and declare the diet-starts-tomorrow routine. My mouth tasted like morning, and goop had embedded itself into the corners of my eyes. In the mirror, under the still-crooked vanity light, my face looked sunken and my waist smaller, even if the evil scale refused to show any changes. Dark, puffy bags girdled my eyes, and I was so pale the auburn freckles scattered across my face looked like blackheads.

  What the?

  I leaned in closer.

  Is that…yes it is.

  Chocolate. There was chocolate crusted to the corners of my mouth. I'd spent hours talking with Chase until we fell asleep. Hours. We had polished off a gallon of Chocolate Mocha Swirl ice cream as we chatted, touching on my year at Fresno State. Lilly's cuteness. I learned he grew up in Long Beach, didn't have too much family, and went to a junior college for a couple of years only to drop out to be a maintenance man. He was not terribly forthcoming with information. He mostly asked me a lot of questions. We had glossed over many subjects, and never, not once, did he mention I had chocolate on my mouth. Not once.

  Well that's embarrassing.

  I splashed warm water on my face, except more water went on the mirror than on my tired mug. Time to get dressed. Lilly would wake soon, so I only had time to change. Jeans off. Semi-clean jeans on. Snot-crusted shirt off. Semi-clean blue Mossimo shirt… Oh no… Voices came from the other side of the wall. It was a familiar grumble… Crap!

  I bolted out to the living room where Chase, Lilly, and Tom were all gathered. Lilly perched on top of a box with Minnie Mouse in her hands. Chase stood with his hands in his front pockets and face pointed to the floor. And Tom in his usual business attire—gray suit, white shirt, black skinny tie—looked quite debonair and extremely mad.

  "Mommy," Lilly giggled. "Where's your shirt?"

  I looked down at the shirt in my hand and said a quick prayer of thanks my bra was still on. "What are you doing here, Tom?" I asked while pulling the shirt over my head.

  "Picking up my daughter for her doctor's appointment. They squeezed her in. Don't you recall this conversation?" he answered all lawyer-y.

  "Of course I remember." Totally forgot. "Er, Chase, this is Tom, and Tom, this is Chase." I might as well make introductions in case that hadn't already happened.

  Chase nodded without taking his focus off the carpet.

  "Chase?" Tom said slowly. I could see the wheels in his mind turning. "Chase. OK, that's right." He looked at me with a scathing grin spread across his face. "The 'maintenance man.'" He made air quotes around maintenance man, which would be correct since Chase didn't do a whole lot of maintenance. But I doubt that's why he air-quoted it.

  We all stood there. "Awk-a-ward." Lilly broke the silence from her perch.

  "Go put on the pink dress that's on your dresser." I manually turned her by the shoulders and pointed her toward the hallway. "Stay in there until we call you out." That should keep her busy for a while.

  "I'm gonna go do some maintenance," Chase said, his hands still shoved deep into his pockets, eyes trained on the floor. He walked around Tom, who refused to move and gave Chase the evil stare-down his entire journey to the door.

  We watched the door close behind Chase. We watched Chase hurry past the windows. We watched Chase walk toward the carports, and as soon as he disappeared…

  "What is wrong with you?" Tom and I said in unison.

  "You're a hypocrite!" we yelled.

  I gasped.

  He gasped.

  I stared.

  He stared.

  He who spoke last wins. We remained at a standstill, glaring at each other, blue on hazel, until Tom caved. "OK, I'll say it. Last month, when you came and got Lilly, and I had whatever-her-name-is at my house, you lost your mind, even when I explained that Lilly was still asleep and never saw whatever-her-name-was. You went nuts!"

  "I can't believe you're bringing that up," I snapped. "That's so different. You bringing some random woman home to have a sleepover in the room next to my child is totally reckless. I stand by my decision to go nuts. Chase and I fell asleep while talking because…" I took a gulp of air, knowing if I said Chase was there because I was scared, he wouldn't believe me. If he did, he'd want to know why. Then I'd say on top of the potential drug dealers there was also a murder and a car theft. Then he'd want to know why I was putting our child in harm's way. Then I would say I wasn't. Then he would argue that hanging around an apartment where a resident was murdered was more dangerous than having a woman over while Lilly was asleep. Then I would call him immature because he was right, and I hate when he's right and I'm wrong. Then he would tell me I was overreacting. Profanity would be involved. Then he would storm out after I said something totally irrational. I finished the entire argument in my head. It was not how I wanted to spend my morning. I didn't know what else to say, so I pretended to cry.

  Tom was unmoved. "That's not going to work this time. I had to jump through hoops to get you to forgive me and allow Lilly back over at my place."

  "Oh, come on." I laughed a mocking laugh while wiping an imaginary tear away. "Hoops? Really? I asked you to please not have any more sleepovers while Lilly was there."

  "But you can have sleepovers with your 'maintenance man.'" He air-quoted again.

  "Would you stop that? He really is the maintenance man, and we fell asleep. That's it."

  "Look, Cam. You can get whatever you want maintenanced on your own time. That's fine with me. Double standards are only your thing."

  My mouth fell open. This reaction was not in his character. Mine, yes, but not his. "How have I ever, aside from this one time, had double standards? And I don't even have double standards now. We fell a-sleep talk-ing." This was getting ridiculous.

  He pressed his mouth to a straight line and stared at me until his face began to relax. "Fine. I don't know how. I don't store everything that has ever happened in the history of us in my brain like you do. Lilly, let's go!" he hollered down the hall.

  Lilly skipped out in her pink sundress, plastic Cinderella dress-up shoes, a leopard-print clutch, and a purple beanie. "I'm ready," she said. "It twirls, Daddy. See?" She spun around, giggling, unf
azed by our fighting.

  "Looks beautiful, Lil. We have to go." He swung her up onto his hip. "I'll bring her back later," he said brusquely.

  He was crossing the line. "Like when later?"

  "Like when I'm not so i-r-i-t-a-t-e-d…or around four thirty." He left, slamming the door behind him.

  Oh no you didn't. I swung the door open. "There are two Rs in irritated!" I yelled. Tom and Lilly were nowhere in sight, but I have last-word issues.

  That's it!

  I called Patrick on the number reserved for emergencies. My life was falling apart; that was emergency enough for me. It rang twice before a sleepy moan answered. A quick glance at the clock told me this emergency could have perhaps waited until after seven. It was too late though. I was committed, as I suspected he had caller ID.

  I gave Patrick the CliffsNotes version. Starting with Spencer. (I had hoped to gather more evidence and another witness before explaining my Spencer theory, but time had run out.) I told him everything, even about the move-out notifications, which, as I suspected, were what really got his attention.

  He loudly cleared the morning rattle from his throat. "This guy you saw last night, you're sure he didn't come from Kevin's apartment?"

  "I don't believe so. I think that, when you look at everything as a whole, there's a strong possibility the guy came from Spencer's apartment." I began fidgeting with a paperclip, unwinding it and rewinding it, unwinding and rewinding, determined to stay strong and not get all wimpy and unnecessarily chatty.

  He exhaled. I imagined him rubbing his temples like he did the one—and only—time we met in person. "Spencer's on a month-to-month and has been there less than a year, so we can serve him a thirty-day notice and be done with it."

  "Kick him out? But I don't know for certain. It's a theory."

  "Then what do you suggest we do?"

  "Ummm…" Good point. "What about an eviction instead?" Thirty days seemed like plenty of time to, oh, I don't know, plot revenge on the apartment manager. I began unwinding and rewinding the paperclip faster. Unwinding and rewinding.