Rocky Road & Revenge Read online

  "The deceased," I finished for her. "What time did you end up leaving Monday night?"

  "I left around six."

  "Then why did you have me meet you for a move-out inspection Tuesday morning?"

  "I thought I'd be back, but I got stuck in traffic…" Her voice trailed off. "I'm at work," she said, as if just remembering. "Is there anything else?"

  "I don't think so," I said.

  We hung up, and I rubbed my temples. So we had a killer running around, a tarantula crawling around, and a dead mother on my desk.

  Tom was right.

  This did sound a lot like an episode of Ghost Confidential.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  See also: Urn Sitter

  There were too many freaky things happening over the last forty-eight hours.

  My worst-case scenario mind thought the murders, Amy, the urn, the car accident…were all somehow connected and I might not live to see my next birthday!

  My logical mind thought, Calm the hell down and take another Benadryl.

  So I did.

  Better.

  OK. Let's start with the urn.

  I googled Katherine M. Roberts July 3, 1974–August 4, 2003. An article from the San Fernando Valley Chronicle came up.

  Katherine M. Roberts, 29, was found dead at her apartment on Monday, August 4, of a drug overdose. One child was found in the apartment.

  "We find overdose scenes more and more these days. This one was particularly difficult because of the child who had been inside with her mother for at least a few hours," Lt. Josh Jaspen, Chief of Detectives, said on Tuesday morning during an interview on the local radio station, Valley News 540-AM. "We received the call from Roberts' ex-boyfriend, who found her dead, beyond any life-saving measures, when he'd brought their 14-year-old daughter over for a visit. It's a terrible situation."

  When asked what would happen to the 7-year-old, Lt. Jaspen said, "She is currently with Child Protection Services and doing as well as can be expected."

  Well, crap.

  What am I supposed to do with this information?

  I drummed my fingers along my forehead—to help the thinking process along—when in my periphery I noticed Mickey standing outside the window staring at me. He had on a gray T-shirt pulled tightly over his belly, leaving an imprint where his navel was. For a man who spent most of his day walking around, he was rather plump. Dark stains circled under his armpits, and his pants were faded camo print with dirt on the knees. I liked Mickey. I had no reason not to. He paid his rent on time. Didn't cause problems. Was pleasant. But he was freaking me out. Just standing there. Staring at me.

  Unsure of what else to do, I waved.

  Mickey didn't.

  I squirmed in my seat and mouthed, Hi.

  Nothing, like someone had pressed Pause and he was stuck mid-stare.

  I grabbed a pen and pretended to be busy. Hoping he'd leave. But, nope. There he was, standing there, staring at me.

  "Do you need something?" I asked through the window.

  Mickey didn't reply. Instead, he titled his head to the side and squinted at me until I realized, Where did the screen go?

  I pushed away from the desk, walked through the lobby, and opened the door. The wind was still blasting through the property, and I made a visor with my hand. Mickey had disappeared. I peeked into the carports, into the laundry room, and checked behind the mailboxes by the lobby door.

  No Mickey.

  He was gone.

  Just like the window screen.

  Weird.

  A missing window screen seemed like something I would have noticed, especially with the inspection coming up. And if I didn't catch it, no doubt Mr. Nguyen would have. I turned around, about to go find Mr. Nguyen, when I saw that the screen on my apartment window was barely hanging on. The aluminum frame was so badly bent it could snap in half with minimal pressure, like someone had hastily pulled it from the window and couldn't get it back on.

  Huh?

  On a hunch, I walked back into the lobby, through my office, opened the door to my apartment, and inspected the window from the inside. The locking mechanism was loose, and the window was ajar an inch, not enough for anyone to get in, obviously, but it explained why the wind had whistled so loudly that morning.

  Someone had broken in to my apartment.

  But who? And, why?

  I spun around in a slow circle. There was nothing of value in there. Even my television was an old boxy unit. Nothing appeared to be missing. Unless…it dawned on me that Tom had not set my apartment alarm the night before. The office alarm, however, had been on, and the keypad for both was in my kitchen.

  Someone first tried to break into the office, saw that the alarm was on, and thought they'd go through my apartment instead. Made sense. It was rent day. I had thousands of dollars sitting in the safe. Of course, all were personal checks and money orders made out to Elder Property Management, except for the illegible money order. Which was made out to scribbles. And I never kept cash.

  Unless whoever attempted to break in wasn't going for the money?

  I walked into the office and took a seat. There was not much of worth in there either. The computer was old. The answering machine originated in the '90s. There was the fax machine. Not sure anyone but Patrick used the fax system anymore. The shredder? Mom? Keys to an apartment?

  My eyes cut back to Mom.

  The urn had to belong to someone there. Otherwise, why would it be in the carport? Would that someone break in to get it?

  It was an absurd notion. It wasn't as if I were holding the urn hostage. A simple hey, can I have my mom back? would suffice.

  But if there was one thing I'd learned during my short stint as an apartment manager, it was never to discount the most ridiculous option. People rarely used common sense.

  My head was too foggy to figure this mess out on its own. I grabbed a pen and a pad of paper. I'll try this whole "think on paper" thing, I thought.

  I have the urn of Katherine Roberts. Katherine Roberts had two daughters. Someone attempted to break in to my apartment. Could it be one of the daughters? Katherine Roberts. Roberts…Roberts. We have two tenants with the last name Roberts who live here. Tam Roberts in Apartment 7 and Shanna Roberts in Apartment 15…no relation to each other…Roberts is a popular last name…but Shanna Roberts did skip. Her carport is next to carport 17…

  Could I have Shanna's mom on my desk? And did she attempt to break in to get the urn before she bailed?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  See also: Just a girl standing in front of her boss asking him not to fire her

  The lobby door chimed. I nearly jumped out of my seat—so on edge. It was Patrick. Right on time.

  Patrick Elder was a middle-aged, no-nonsense type of guy, with a cul-de-sac of hair and a love of checkered shirts and the phrase "don't hold your breath." He removed the sunglasses from his face, hooked them on the collar of his shirt, and had a look around.

  I sprang upright. My chair crashed into the filing cabinet behind me.

  "Don't say it." Patrick raised his arms as if about to fend me off. "Don't say we have a problem. I was with Trevor McMill at our Burbank property yesterday, and it didn't go well. Too many vacants. The grounds were a mess. The energy was off. We found a resident had snuck in a dog. Trevor fired the manager on the spot." Patrick flung his briefcase on the counter. "I don't get paid enough to work with the McMills."

  I wasn't sure how to respond, so I didn't. The Burbank problems sounded an awful lot like my problems. And no matter how crazy my job was—and it was crazy—I wanted to keep it. Why? I didn't know. Maybe I was crazy too.

  "Sorry." Patrick pinched the bridge his nose. "It's been a rough week of visits. Traffic is a nightmare. This wind is bizarre. Go ahead and tell me—Yikes. What happened to your face?"

  "I, eerrr…" I just realized there was Kleenex shoved up each nostril. I plucked the tissues out and tossed them into the trash.

  Judging from the deep paralle
l lines across Patrick's forehead, it was not a good time to bring up the dog hiding in my apartment, the skipped rent, how I believed Shanna broke into my apartment to get her dead mother who was on my desk, and, oh yeah, there was a giant tarantula around here somewhere.

  "It's allergies," I said instead.

  "The wind?"

  "Sure."

  "Everything else OK?"

  "I've got it all under control." Kind of…not really.

  Actually, not at all.

  Patrick unloaded his briefcase, slamming folders onto the counter, one at a time—muttering something about the rock salts of life? I'd never seen him so flustered.

  I pulled my phone from my back pocket and held down the Power button.

  Please turn on. Please turn on. Please turn on. Please turn…yes!

  I composed a quick text to Chase: I think a resident tried to break in to my apartment last night. Call me.

  But before I could press Send, the screen went black.

  No!

  The front door flung open, and in came a lumberjack-looking man. He stepped inside and struck a Superman pose with his hands on hips, feet parted, chin pointed to the ceiling. He had on denim overalls, cuffed at the bottom to better show off his moccasins, and a red flannel shirt, cuffed at the sleeves to better show off the rope bracelets tied around his hairy wrists. His thick black-rimmed glasses were two sizes too big for his face, and his beard was big and poufy and looked as if it were constructed of pubic hairs. It matched the man bun on the top of his head.

  This can't possibly be…

  "Trevor!" Patrick took on an uncharacteristically jovial tone. "Welcome." He extended a hand, and Trevor stared at it but didn't move. Awkward. Patrick cleared his throat. "Glad you made it. This is Cambria Clyne, the on-site manager here." He made a sweeping motion, as if presenting royalty.

  You can do this, I told myself. I had to appear normal and friendly. "Hi. I'm Cambria—"

  In came Mickey, mumbling to himself, something about corrupt cops and cats. He walked between Man Bun McMill and me. We waited for him to pass. I took another breath and started over. "Hi. Nice to meet you." I kept my hands to myself.

  Trevor stared at me with a businesslike frown. "Cambria Clyne," he said slowly.

  My eyes went from Patrick back to Trevor. "Yes?"

  "Cambria!" He kissed me on each cheek and gave me a hug.

  OK?

  Trevor held me for much longer than California Labor Code permits. My arms were plastered to my side, and my cheek was pressed up against his. He smelled like granola and garlic, and his pubey beard scratched my cheek. Once released, he kept his hands on my shoulders and his face close. Really close. Too close. I counted six blackheads on his forehead.

  "Cambria, you have a beautiful aura," Trevor said.

  "Thanks?"

  Trevor McMill's gray eyes bored deep into mine. I was half weirded out and half intrigued. "Don't doubt yourself," he said in a yoga instructor voice. "You are a natural leader with good instincts. Trust them."

  So Trevor McMill was a walking fortune cookie. Didn't see that one coming. "A lesser soul would have abandoned this place months ago. You persevered. Brava." He clapped his big, hairy hands together in slow motion. Patrick half-heartedly clapped along.

  A standing ovation?

  This was going suspiciously well.

  "You do yoga, right?" Trevor asked.

  "Once." When I first moved to LA. Pretty sure that was a requirement before you were allowed to have a 310 area code.

  "I can tell. Now." Trevor clicked his tongue. "I want to hear all about the plans for the lobby." He rubbed his hands together as if he were at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

  Patrick and I shared a look. We'd yet to discuss the design plan. The insurance adjuster hadn't even been out yet. Heck, the air scrubbers and hydroxyl machines were still purring.

  Trevor tossed an arm over my shoulders like we were two longtime chums. "I see orange. Orange says 'Live here. Rent here. Be here. Exist here.'"

  "Yes," I almost sang. "An orange accent wall behind the couch, then a soft gray for the other walls."

  "Add in a pop of blue," said Trevor.

  "What about small palms on either side of the couch to go with the LA vibe?"

  Trevor nodded along, seeing my vision. "We need a fountain. The living waters of life adds to the peacefulness of feng shui."

  "Sure."

  "A mirror above the couch to disperse the light."

  "And steel accents."

  Patrick's eyes bounced between Trevor and me like he was a tennis official. Patrick's favorite color was neutral. All this talk of pigment must have given him anxiety. The reason the lobby had remained untouched for so many years was because, as much as Patrick Elder hated color, he hated spending money more.

  "We'll need to cleanse the space before we add life." Trevor shook his finger playfully at Patrick. "Have you read the article I sent you on the living salt waters?"

  Patrick blinked.

  "Hold one moment." Trevor placed his fingers to his temples as if he were receiving a telepathic message. "There is something off in here."

  I looked around. Aside from the fact the walls were missing, everything appeared in order, except for Gary, who was crawling across the counter. That freaking spider was on my last nerve.

  "I can sense it," Trevor said.

  I ran my finger around my collar.

  Trevor backed up and was about to lean against the counter… "No! Not there!" I grabbed his arm and yanked him away.

  Patrick looked like he was going to barf.

  "You should, um, stand over there." I steered him to the corner. "You can feel the essential wellness of the salts better from here."

  Trevor regarded me through a cautionary glare before he said, "You're right." He pointed to the spot beside him. "Stand, Elder."

  Patrick did as told.

  "Close your eyes and feel with me."

  Patrick first rolled his eyes then closed them.

  I agreed. He didn't get paid enough.

  Gary was headed for Patrick's briefcase. I could not believe I was about to do what I was about to do. It took every ounce of willpower I had to guide the hairy tarantula onto my shaking palm. His little legs were spikey against my skin and tickled up my forearm.

  Certain situations were beyond profanity.

  This was one of them.

  "I'm sensing an unbalance," Trevor hummed.

  Me too.

  I escorted Gary to the office. It was one of my worst nightmares realized. Soon my teeth would fall out, and my pants would disappear, and I'd be back in high school, sitting next to a seven-foot clown.

  "It's a disturbance," Trevor said with his eyes still closed.

  I ushered Gary into an empty copy paper box and quietly stabbed the lid with a pen to make breathing holes.

  "There's a hurt soul trapped in here. You feel it, Elder?"

  I glanced at Mom. Holy hell.

  "No," said Patrick.

  OK. I might be a believer now.

  I plopped Gary next to Mom and rushed over to Trevor. "What do we do about the unsettled spirit?" I asked him.

  "Salt."

  "Salt?" I repeated in wonder. "What do I do with salt?"

  Patrick grumbled.

  "Salt," Trevor continued, still studying the inside of his lids. "It must be placed in all four corners of the room to rid the disturbance. I sense it's a woman…she's crying for her…children."

  Note to self: Go to Costco. Get a flatbed cart. Buy all the salt.

  "Why is she crying?" I asked.

  Trevor drew in a breath. "She's upset about…there's been a disturbance…"

  "Is it because I moved her? Would she rather me put her back in the carport?"

  Patrick sighed. I imagined him thinking something along the lines of I work with morons.

  Just then, Munch barked. He had great vocals for a little dog.

  Trevor's eyes shot open.

  Much barke
d again.

  Oh geez.

  Trevor's eyes narrowed. "Was that a…dog?"

  "I have reports!" I said. "Reports! Reports! Reports!" I dashed to my desk and grabbed the reports. I heard Mrs. Nguyen muttering in Vietnamese behind the door.

  I let out a nervous chuckle. "Here…here you go." I handed Trevor the folder and noticed for the first time the stick figure drawing on the back. Lilly and me under a rainbow, holding hands, both with squiggly hair and triangle dresses on.

  Munch howled.

  "There it is again. What is that?" Trevor asked.

  "Um…my upstairs neighbor, Mickey, he's…singing."

  "Didn't he just walk through here?" asked Patrick.

  Thump! Crash! Bark!

  "How about a tour of the property?" I ran to the lobby, yanked the back door open, and let in a gust of leaves. Some landed on the floor—most went on Trevor.

  He pulled a pine needle out of his beard and dropped it on the ground. "It's a co-mmu-nity," he said, accentuating each syllable. "We don't have properties. We have co-mmu-ni-ties."

  Bark!

  "Ahhhhhh!" I didn't know what else to do. So I yelled.

  Patrick's mouth dropped open.

  "Ahhhh'mmmm so happy you're here," I sang, mortified. "Let's go, shall we?"

  The three of us stepped outside. The courtyard was sprinkled with leaves and pine needles, but no trash. Mr. Nguyen was a miracle worker.

  My phone buzzed from my back pocket, and I stole a glance. It was Chase. "I need to take this," I said, excusing myself.

  Patrick shot me a look of disbelief. "Now?"

  "Go ahead. We'll wait," said Trevor.

  Errr…OK. I took a step closer to the mailboxes and plugged one ear to hear over the wind. "This is Cambria. How may I help you?"

  "It's Chase."

  "Oh hello, sir."

  Patrick and Trevor stared at me. I covered the receiver and said "prospective resident" to the two men. They both nodded approval.

  "Cambria, are you in trouble?"

  "I'm in a meeting right now. But the…um…" Mind blank. Mind blank. "I have that information for you in my office. Can you hold on one moment, sir?" I buried the phone in my uniboob and gave the men a manufactured smile. "I'm sorry, but I have a prospect who is eager to rent here. I'll be right back." Before they could protest, I ducked inside and closed the door behind me. "Chase, are you OK?"