Double Fudge & Danger Read online

  Lucky for me, Daniella's door was closed and the front porch light was off. Which meant she wasn't home.

  I looked up at the roof but didn't see or hear anything.

  "Do you have a physical description of the man?" asked the dispatch operator.

  "No." I moved the phone to my other ear and pushed open the pool gate with Kevin still behind me. It was dark, muggy, and a bit eerie. My body erupted in tiny goose bumps. Mostly because Kevin was breathing down my neck, but also because it felt as if someone was watching us and I thought I heard my name.

  I pressed the phone into my chest. "Did you hear that?" I whispered to Kevin.

  "Wh—"

  I covered his mouth. "Someone is saying my name."

  Kevin licked the inside of my hand.

  "Gross."

  "No one is saying your name, crazy woman. There's no one on the roof either."

  I waited to be sure. Heard nothing. Wiped Kevin's spit off of my palm using the backside of my jeans. Brought the phone back to my ear and said, "I don't see anyone." I walked past the pool, pushed open the gate on the other side, and stepped into the second breezeway. "Unless they're—ouch!" A shoe landed on my head. Not just any shoe either. A heavy, well-worn black work boot.

  I picked the boot up using my forefinger and thumb. It smelled like rum and prunes.

  Kevin tapped my shoulder and pointed up. A stout man in a black T-shirt walked along the breezeway beam, with his hands out to his side, carefully shuffling along like he was walking a tightrope.

  Crap.

  I gave my phone to Kevin, cupped my hands around my mouth, and waited until the man had cleared the beam before I yelled, "Hey! What are you doing up there?"

  The man slipped and face-planted into the shingled roof with a thud.

  That had to hurt.

  "He's still on the roof," Kevin told the operator, then looked at me. "She advised you to keep your distance and wait for the police to arrive."

  "Hold on a second." I squinted up at the man. I had a hard time seeing anything other than his silhouette. Until he rose to his feet and a sliver of moonlight shone across his face. "Larry?"

  The man looked down.

  Yep. Larry.

  Larry lived in Apartment 32. He had long, stringy gray hair, a potbelly, and suffered from chronic constipation. I knew this because he obsessively talked about it. No matter how many times I'd asked him not to.

  Larry peered down at me. "Why do you have my shoe?"

  "It fell on my head! What are you doing on the roof?"

  "I locked myself out," he said as if it were obvious.

  "And you're on the roof because?"

  "'Cause I was on my patio when I got locked out." It was dark and hard to see, but I was fairly sure Larry rolled his eyes at me.

  "The perp is five seven, two hundred and fifty-three pounds, long gray hair…" Kevin said to the operator. "He might be armed!"

  I smacked Kevin on the chest with the backside of my hand. "He's not armed. Don't say that."

  "You never know."

  "Give that back to me." I lunged for my phone, and Kevin turned around, positioning his bare back between my cell and me. Kevin and Larry didn't get along. They'd had a falling out over a box of Girl Scout Cookies last year, and their relationship never recovered.

  "Come quick," Kevin said before he hung up.

  "What is wrong with you?" I yanked my phone from his grasp. "We don't need the police." Larry was many things, but he was not a criminal. Him climbing on the roof and going around to his neighbors' patios to look for help—while not the brightest idea—sounded very Larry-like. His path from problem to solution was a long squiggly line with several loop-the-loops in between.

  "No talking about me behind my back!" yelled Larry.

  "Dude, we're not talking behind your back, because you're facing us." Kevin gave me a this-guy's-nuts look.

  "Larry, go to your patio, and I'll let you in," I said.

  "No, I'll just jump." Larry crouched down like a skier about to go down the side of a mountain.

  Kevin cupped his hands around his mouth. "Go for it!"

  I smacked him on the chest. "Don't say that."

  "Why? He's like thirty feet from the ground. Worst case he'll break a leg. No big deal."

  "No one is breaking anything tonight." I looked up at Larry. "Whatever you do, don't jump. Go to your patio, and I'll let you in."

  "Okeydokey."

  Larry turned around and lost his footing. I let out a yelp as I watched Larry slide down the side of the roof. I stuttered around, trying to position myself to catch him. Momentarily forgetting that I lacked the upper body strength required to catch anyone. Let alone a fifty-something-year-old man. But you heard about people developing superhuman abilities in high-adrenaline situations all the time.

  Larry grabbed hold of the beam and dangled above us. I heard sirens fast approaching. "Hold on, Larry. Help is on the way."

  "I…can't…hold on." His fingers slipped from the beam, and he fell in what felt like slow motion. I held out my arms, ready to catch him, and watched as he landed directly beside me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  —A drop from thirty feet can do more than break a leg.

  The police arrived with guns drawn. After they made sure no one was armed (that was a fun pat down), an ambulance was called. Poor Larry looked like a pretzel, but I could see his chest move up and down and heard the profanity fly from his mouth, so I had a hunch he'd live.

  The paramedic placed an oxygen mask over Larry's mouth (to get him to shut up), strapped him to a gurney, and wheeled him away. I overheard the paramedic say it appeared Larry had two broken femurs and they were taking him to County Hospital. With the siren on, the ambulance bounced down the bumpy terrain of the driveway and out of sight.

  A group of residents gathered to see what all the commotion was. Per the usual, Silvia Kravitz—the community gossip and Larry's neighbor—stood in the middle of the crowd with her parrot, Harold, perched on her shoulder. Silvia was a retired actress, only wore lingerie, and looked like the seventy-year-old love child of Gollum and Joan Rivers thanks to the ten-too-many facelifts she'd had. If she could move her face, I think she'd appear worried. As it was, she appeared to be in a constant state of shock, like her eyeballs were moments from popping out of her head. Silvia didn't like Larry. But she didn't like anyone. I think she disliked Larry the least and me the most.

  Once all emergency personnel were gone, I went to assure Julia it was only Larry on her patio, not a crazy man trying to break in.

  Kevin walked at my side, picking at the skin around his nail beds. "You mad at me?"

  "I'm irritated," I said, because I was. "Why'd you say Larry was armed? That wasn't necessary."

  "You can never be too careful. People can stash weapons anywhere, and I mean anywhere."

  "Gross."

  "You hear things in prison. This one guy—"

  "I don't need to hear the rest of that story." I walked up the stairs taking two steps at a time.

  "Larry's patio faces the courtyard. He could have yelled for help. He didn't need to climb on the roof. His story doesn't make sense."

  "This is Larry we're talking about." I stopped at Apartment 15 and knocked. "He got his ponytail stuck in his garbage disposal once."

  "How is that possible?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine."

  The porch light turned on. Julia answered wearing a purple terrycloth bathrobe pulled tight around her twig frame, her magenta hair wet and slicked back. There was a beer in her hand and black goo smeared on her face. She nodded for us to come in.

  Julia and her brother Kane had moved into Apartment 15 a few weeks earlier—and you could tell. No pictures on the wall. Sparsely furnished. The place still smelled of fresh paint, and the new carpet was still shedding.

  "We figured out who was on your patio," I said. "You'll be happy to know it wasn't a burglar. It was a resident who had locked himself out and was looking for
help."

  Julia took a seat at the kitchen table, dropping onto the chair with a sigh. "It totally, like, scared the crap out of me." She paused to take a swig of beer. "I was about to take a shower, when I heard the knocking. This moron was too busy playing his stupid game and didn't even hear."

  The "moron" being her brother who was on the couch with headphones on, eyes glued to the television with thumbs working the controller in his hands. Kane had yet to acknowledge our presence. Even after we walked past the television on our way to the kitchen.

  "I came running out to the living room and saw some guy trying to open the door. So I told him to get off my patio or I would kill him. Then I called you."

  "Just in case something like this happens again, which it shouldn't, please call 9-1-1 first," I said.

  She squished her brows together as if the thought of calling 9-1-1 hadn't dawned on her.

  Seemed Julia's road from problem to solution had a few loop-the-loops as well.

  Kevin took a seat beside Kane, propped his feet on the coffee table, and stretched his arm along the back of the couch. Kane jumped and pushed his headphones off. "Dude! What are you doing here?" Kane turned around. "Uh…what's happening?"

  "Some guy tried to break into our apartment while you were playing your stupid game," Julia said.

  "He didn't try to break in. He was locked out and needed help," I said. "Do you know Larry from Apartment 32?"

  Kane scratched the back of his head. "The dude with the hemorrhoids?"

  Julia made a face. "Do I even want to know how you know that?"

  "I talk to him in the laundry room," Kane said defensively. "We're friends. I guess."

  "Which is probably why he came to your apartment for help." I gave Kevin a so-there bob of my head just as my phone buzzed from my back pocket. It was the emergency line.

  What more could possibly go wrong tonight?

  Once connected I placed the phone to my ear and said, "This is Cambria," and stepped out onto the walkway.

  "I've knocked on the maintenance man's door multiple times. I've run all around looking for him. His car is here, but he isn't. The assistant manager doesn't live on-site. Violet still isn't answering her door or the phone. It's like the entire staff decided to take a vacation. It's ridiculous! I pay almost four thousand dollars a month, and I was just given a rental increase yesterday. A rental increase! Now all my personal belongings are damaged!"

  Yikes.

  Tenants didn't typically handle rental increases well. Not that I blamed them. Who wanted to pay more money for their apartment? A flood shortly after a rental increase was unfortunate timing for Violet.

  Very unfortunate, actually.

  "Do you have renters' insurance?" I asked.

  "Of course not! Renters insurance is a total scam."

  "It's really not, and anything damaged by the leak won't be covered under the—" I snapped my mouth shut.

  Not your circus. Don't give legal advice to other people's monkeys.

  I had no idea what their leasing agreements entailed.

  But still.

  When you pay a small fortune in rent, it's a good idea to insure your personal belongings.

  "Isn't there an emergency line?" I asked, still fighting the urge to run over and help.

  "No! All I have is Violet's cell phone. She's not answering, and I swear the ceiling is about to come down! My son and I are using buckets to collect the water, but there's too much!"

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. "What's your name?"

  "Dolores Rocklynn in Apartment 105."

  "OK, Dolores. This is important. If you think the ceiling is about to come down don't stand—" I heard a crash. "Dolores? Are you still there?"

  "A piece of the ceiling just landed on my head! Now more water is coming down!"

  "Did you go to the apartment above you and talk to them? Maybe they left the water on?"

  "Violet lives right above us!"

  Well, there's a tidbit of information that would have been good to know the first time around.

  I leaned into Julia's apartment. Kevin now had a controller in his hand, and he and Kane were both playing the game. I asked Kevin to man the place while I went next door. I couldn't help myself. If Violet's boss found out a leak went unattended to and drywall fell on a tenant's head, then she could lose her job. Especially if the leak came from her apartment.

  I asked Dolores for the entry code and told her I'd be right there. To do what? I had no idea. I wasn't a plumber. My dad was. Maybe plumbing was in my DNA and I'd know what to do when I saw the problem.

  On the way over, I called Mr. Nguyen. In the past, I'd text him. Now that he had hearing aids, I could call, and he'd answer on the first ring.

  I asked him how Lilly was doing and gave them the go-ahead to finish Celebrity Tango without me.

  "When are you coming back?" he asked.

  "Hopefully soon. Do you have the number for the maintenance man next door?"

  "Why do you need his number?"

  "The resident over there still has a leak, and no one is getting back to her."

  "Not your circus. Not your monkeys."

  "Yeah, I know."

  Does the circus even have monkeys?

  I hung up, and Mr. Nguyen sent me the contact information for Antonio MM. Antonio didn't answer, and I left a voicemail asking him to meet me in Apartment 105.

  Next door was an imposing ten-story building with a gated wraparound parking lot and an underground parking structure. Unlike my nameless complex, this place had a name: Cedar Creek Luxury Living. A cobblestoned walkway led up to a pair of whimsical wrought-iron doors. Brilliant red and yellow flowers were dispersed throughout the lavish landscaping. A koi pond glistened near the entrance, with gold and yellow fish swimming beneath the water. Large trees towered like a fortress around the perimeter, prohibiting residents and guests from seeing my apartment building.

  Which was fine.

  We offered affordability, and they offered a state-of-the-art gym, an Olympic-sized pool, washer and dryer hookups in the apartment, fully renovated kitchens, a theater room, a game room, a conference room, and a sauna.

  It was nice, sure. But who needs a state-of-the-art gym anyway?

  Answer: me.

  I hurried down the sidewalk and—oomph. There was a step. A big step. A step painted red with a large hard-to-miss sign warning pedestrians of the impending step. A step I forgot was there until I was on my hands and knees and staring at it.

  Honestly.

  How I managed to make it twenty-nine years without accidentally killing myself had to be some kind of world record.

  I stood, dusted myself off, made it to the whimsical doors without further incident, and entered the code Dolores had given me. I'd never been inside Cedar Creek before. Violet and I mainly spoke on the phone, or she'd come over. The place smelled of honey and corporate air conditioning. The leasing office was to my right behind a glass wall. A fancy espresso machine sat atop a long cabinet, and two mahogany desks adorned each side of the room. To my left was a lobby that resembled an art gallery. A vase of cherry blossoms graced the glass coffee table positioned between two low-back couches. The walls were beveled and painted a cream color, with large abstract art hung around the room. The apartment manager in me was in awe. The mom in me thought about having to clean fingerprints off those glass walls.

  Apartment 105 was on the first floor. No elevator required. Phew. I rang the doorbell. A masculine woman wearing pink leggings with flamingo heads printed on them answered. Mascara lines stained her cheeks, her black hair was drenched into ringlets, and her face was plagued with confusion. "Who the hell are you?"

  Well hello to you too.

  "I'm Cambria. We talked on the phone."

  She cocked her head to the side. "I heard the manager next door was old?"

  "You must be thinking of the previous manager, Joyce. She retired last year, and I took over. Can I come in and take a look at the problem?" I felt a
bit intrusive asking, until I remembered she was the one who called me—not once, but twice!

  "I got it under control now," she said.

  Under control?

  Over her shoulder I could see the water slithering down the hallway and into the living room. And what a beautiful living room it was. Plush couches. Persian rugs. Expensive-looking trinkets. A darn shame none of it was insured.

  Typically, tenants would exaggerate the damage to rush management over. Dolores had not been exaggerating.

  Not exaggerating one bit.

  "So you talked to Violet?" I asked, trying to understand. "She's taking care of it?"

  "No! That woman is a horrible manager. The worst I've ever had."

  Geez. "Then you got a hold of Antonio?"

  "No. That man is a horrible maintenance supervisor. The worst I've ever had."

  OK. "A plumber?"

  She blinked a few times. "Yes. A plumber will be here soon. It's best to leave it to the professionals, sweetie," she said, her tone mocking. "Good night." She closed the door and flipped the lock.

  Well, OK then.

  Clearly she was expecting Joyce. Which, sure, Joyce was nice and all, but she was also like a hundred years old, smoked a pack a day, and couldn't walk five feet without folding over into a coughing fit. Why not give the new manager a try? I was young, and spry (kind of), and, dammit, I have plumbers' DNA!

  Whatever.

  It didn't matter.

  What did matter was the concerning amount of water coming from Violet's apartment, and the fact that Dolores had not been able to get a hold of her. Violet could be hurt or…worse.

  Yikes.

  I ran down the hall and followed the Exit signs until I found the stairwell. This was an emergency. No time for the elevator. I took the steps two at a time with my phone at my ear, trying Antonio's number again. It went straight to voicemail. "This is Cambria Clyne. There's a leak in Apartment 105, and it's coming from Violet's apartment. Can you please meet me there and let me in, ASAP?"