French Vanilla & Felonies Read online

  I used my purse as an umbrella, searched around the stucco archway for a doorbell, and found one hidden behind a plant. It took two rings before Joyce appeared, engulfed in a fluffy pink robe and her hair still in curlers. She hadn't drawn in her brows yet, and her face was crinkly and pale. "Good morning, Joyce," I said sweetly, pretending my heart wasn't hammering in my chest.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Lessor will be hereinafter referred to as "Landlord," and the Lessee will be hereinafter referred to as "Tenant." The parties to this lease agree to the following:

  Tenant agrees to refrain from all felonious activity while on the Premises. This includes all Common Areas.

  "Morning. You're early," Joyce said. I was ten minutes late, but who was I to argue? "Come on in." She opened the door wider, allowing me enough room to scoot past her. "You look nice, but a pair of jeans and a shirt will do if you want. Patrick isn't picky about wardrobe."

  My face went cherry. I pulled at the hem of my skirt. "Sorry."

  "Don't be sorry. Maybe letting the girls out will help you rent apartments." She was serious. I forced a chuckle, pulling at the top of my shirt. Willing it shut to no avail. "Check the machine while I finish getting ready, and then we'll start."

  Joyce shuffled back to her apartment, closing and locking the door behind her.

  Time to get to work.

  I mentally cracked my knuckles and took a seat on my new (to me) chair, behind my new (to me) desk, in my new (to me) office, ready to…sweet mother of all that is rotten.

  "What is that smell!" I said, out loud, to myself.

  Blech.

  Desperate to find the source, I sniffed under the desk. In the filing cabinet. Behind the computer. Inside the trash can. Under my arm…

  Giving up, I cracked a window, went back to the desk, and searched around for a pen and pad of paper. The answering machine was easier to locate, given it was twice the size of my head and at least as old as Joyce.

  You have five new messages.

  Message received 7:45 p.m.

  Joyce, it's Larry. Yeah, hey, my toilet stopped working, and I need Bob to come take a look at it. Soon, please, 'cause I gotta go. Thanks.

  Message received 8:35 p.m.

  Joyce, it's Silvia. I don't normally complain, but the tenant in Apartment 32 is urinating on his highly visible upstairs balcony. It's incredibly rude and disturbing, not to mention unsanitary.

  Message received 2:15 a.m.

  Trent would rather spend his only weekend off with his ex. So, let me know what I need to do to get him off my lease.

  Message received 2:19 a.m.

  I haven't seen my kid in a few months, and Alexis is getting all volatile over nothing again. She threw a pot at my head.

  Message received 5:45 a.m.

  It's Kenneth. Sorry to call early…but I was on my way out when I saw…there's…uh…with a spider web!…

  End of messages.

  I stared at the primordial machine, my lower jaw nearly resting on my cleavage, unsure what to make of Alexis and Trent and Larry and…what happened to Kenneth? The message was hard to hear. He was out of breath, his voice muffled. I leaned over and pushed Play to listen again.

  Messages erased. You have no new messages.

  Oops.

  A chime echoed through the lobby, and a woman appeared behind the counter. It was the tube top brunette from the day I interviewed. This time she wore a red bandana as a shirt.

  She snapped her gum. "I know you, right?"

  I blinked, in an attempt to erase the image of Larry peeing off his patio from my brain, then stood and met her at the counter. "Yes. I'm Cambria. I fell down next door."

  "Ooh, right, right, right. You, like, work here?" The Valleyspeak accent was strong in this one.

  "I do now," I said. "I'm taking over for Joyce."

  She pouted her glossed bottom lip. "So sad. I like her. My Boo will be totally bummed."

  "What apartment does your Boo live in?" I asked.

  "He's in Apartment 39." She plopped a folded-up rental application onto the counter. "I printed this off the website." We have a website? "I'm moving in with him. Yay me." She clapped. "Joyce said if I wanted to live here, I have to, like, have an application in or whatever."

  "That's correct." I had no clue. "I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."

  "Wysteria, with a y. It's totally my work name, so you can call me Alice, 'cause that's, like, my real name. It's on the app." She pointed a freshly painted crimson fingernail at her name. The i dotted with a heart.

  "Nice to meet you, Alice. I just need a copy of your driver's license," I said, reading the directions on the top of the application. I went ahead and skimmed through the rest of the paperwork. All the information appeared to be in place. Previous rental history, contact information, employer…The Palace. Occupation: striptease artist.

  Surprisingly, I knew of The Palace. I'd interviewed there, thinking it was a restaurant. And it is: a topless one.

  Alice handed me a folded copy of a student identification card from a college I'd never heard of. Which meant nothing. There were over fifteen junior colleges and trade schools in the area. At least that's what my mother said at the end of every conversation. "I totally left my license at a club and haven't gone to the DMV yet. Please don't tell my Boo. He gets really mad when I lose stuff, and he's totally sick with a gnarly cold right now." She held up a Vons bag filled with remedies and smiled until her bra started singing. "Oops. Hold on a sec." She pulled her phone out of her cleavage and answered. "Hi Boo…no, I'm on my way right now." She pointed to my shirt and mouthed Super cute. I totally want.

  I gave a thumbs-up.

  She opened the door. "I told you I was going to go get some stuff… I'm walking back now… Don't worry…" I could hear Alice arguing with Boo until the door shut behind her.

  I glanced down at my shirt—it was threatening to pop open with my next breath.

  Thanks, Amy!

  The door creaked open behind me, and Joyce shuffled in. Her eyebrows were back on, her pale cheeks rouged, and her red hair was looking extra voluminous and highly flammable. Not a good combination for a woman who smokes as much as she does.

  "Any messages?" Joyce said as she took a seat on the other side of the L-shaped desk.

  "A few." I returned to my new (to me) chair.

  "That's the first thing you'll do every morning. Never bring the phone into the apartment with you at night. Trust me. You get people calling at two in the morning wanting to look at vacant apartments. If someone needs to get ahold of you, they'll call the emergency line, and that is directed to your cell phone… Why aren't you writing this down?"

  "Oh, sorry." I sat up straight and poised my pen. "I'm ready."

  "Good," she continued. "Speaking of emergencies, don't ever call Patrick unless it's a big one. He likes his managers to handle everything. The less work he has to do here, the happier he'll be, and in your case, you want to make him really happy."

  I dropped my pen. "Why is that?"

  "Because the only reason you got the job is because the two other applicants Patrick offered it to both turned it down. So here you are."

  Well, that's a comforting tidbit of information.

  "Do you know why he didn't want to hire me?" Not that I had to ask. Bada-bing-bada-boom!

  "Could be because the maintenance boy put up such a stink about you not working here. Or was I not supposed to tell you that?" Joyce brought her hand up to her chin. The track lighting turned her skin translucent and her bulging veins a purplish blue. She thought for a moment before reaching her conclusion. "Nope, I was not supposed to say anything. Chase specifically told me not to. Forget it."

  It felt like a bus had just rolled onto my chest, parked, and unrolled a convoy. "Joyce, I can't forget about it. Why would Chase say anything? I spent ten minutes with the guy. He doesn't even know me." Surely she had to be talking about someone else. Chase wouldn't do that. He was kind, loving, compassionate, hot, an
d an amazing, toe-curling kisser…or at least he was all those things in my imagination. I'd only met him once, and he'd already been tattooed on my brain. It said I Lust Chase in Lucida Handwriting twelve-point font right across my striatum, and tattoos are a pain to remove. I would know. I had one laser treatment to try to remove the dolphin permanently stuck to my lower back, but the pain rivaled childbirth, and the cost nearly killed me, so I opted to live with Flipper forever.

  "It's my fault, really. I thought if you met him you'd be more inclined to take the job. Now forget about it. That ship has sunk." She swiveled her chair around and yanked open the filing cabinet, removing a manila folder.

  That ship has sailed? Or sunk? Either way, I guess the ship was gone. What a disappointment. I wanted to sail on that ship.

  I slumped into the chair. "Why did the two other applicants turn down the job?" I asked.

  She swiveled back to the desk. "Kevin stories I suppose."

  Right, Kevin. I thought back to the black door. Seemed like as good a time as any to broach the subject. "Can you tell me more about Kevin?" I asked.

  "Kevin is…interesting."

  "What do you mean 'interesting'?" I pressed.

  "I mean, you'll have to hike that bridge when you get to it."

  Joyce clearly struggled with idioms.

  "Should I hike back to his apartment and introduce myself today?" I asked.

  "Nah. He's gone and won't be back until Friday. I'm sure you'll get a chance to meet him." She smirked, as if remembering a joke. "Now, what did the messages say?"

  Messages? Oh, the messages. I cleared my throat, attempting to remove the basketball-sized lump now wedged in there. "Trent wants to spend the weekend with his kid, so Alexis threw a pot at his head and would like him to move out. Larry is peeing on his patio because his toilet is broken. Kenneth called. He sounded out of breath. Something about a spider web then he hung up. And Alice, who goes by Wysteria, dropped off an application so she can move in with her boyfriend in Apartment 39."

  Joyce nodded along, as if this were an everyday occurrence. "I've been asking Wysteria to bring in an application for a while. Be sure you have a copy of her ID then send it all over to Patrick. He doesn't rush roommate applications, so it may be awhile. Alexis and Trent have been having problems since she started snooping on his Facebook thing. Don't worry. They'll be fine. I'll call Kenneth back while you write out a maintenance report for Larry's toilet."

  "That's it?" Even at Crap-o-la Apartments no one had been caught peeing on their patio. Having sex, sure. Peeing, nope. "Should we write Larry up? I mean, what are we going to do about him using his patio as a urinal?"

  "Fix his toilet." She handed me the maintenance notebook. "Fill out an order, and give it to Bob."

  "Bob? Why Bob? What about Chase?" Did he hate me so much he'd rather quit than work with me? What could I have said to him? Such a waste of Spanx.

  "Normally, Sundays and Mondays are our days off. He won't be around much until Friday anyway. He starts full…" Joyce's voice trailed off. "You smell that?"

  "Yes!" I said, thankful. Phew. I was worried the odor was permanent. "I can't figure out where it's coming from though."

  Joyce yanked open the bottom drawer of the desk and dug around until she produced a sandwich bag of gray and green fuzzy mush. Gross.

  I pinched my nose. "What is that? Or, what was it?"

  "Tuna. Was Saturday's lunch. I forgot about it." She dropped the stale fish into the trash can, tied the trash bag, pulled it out, and dropped it onto my lap. "Dumpster's in the carports. Hurry back. We have a lot to cover in a short period of time."

  * * *

  The carports horseshoed the building with a single, narrow space marked for each apartment. A rickety gate guarded the entrance, squawking the arrival of each car as it passed through. The rain had stopped, turning the ground into a slimy terrain of oil and debris. The driveway looked to have been paved sometime during the Vietnam War and not touched since. My heels slid into the cracks veining through the asphalt, and I hurried across, trying not to get hit by one of the many cars speeding over the bumpy terrain. It was a real-life game of Frogger. I managed to make it to the other side with only a scuffed toe.

  Fifty points for me!

  The dumpster was large, at least six yards wide and one person deep. Much bigger than the one at Crap-O-La. They must take their trash dumping around here seriously, I thought.

  The mammoth of a trash can was pushed up against the maintenance garage. Just seeing the word maintenance brought my blood to a boil. What could I have said to make Chase not want to work with me? If the other two applicants hadn't turned down the job, I would have been screwed. It didn't make any sense. Maybe I was drooling? Maybe he didn't like that I had asked him for advice? Maybe he was just a butthole? I had no idea but had every intention of finding out, soon. In the meantime I pointed my nose to the sky and strutted past the garage, even if it was closed and even if Chase was nowhere near it. It was good practice.

  I threw open the lid to the dumpster and swung the trash over the side, with a quick glance down before I released…is that?

  I gasped.

  A button flew off my shirt and hit the side of the dumpster with a ping.

  An assortment of wallets were scattered along the bottom corner of the bin. They appeared to have spilled out of the black backpack lying beside them. I counted twelve wallets in total. All looked new and quite expensive. I wouldn't have given one or two wallets any thought, but twelve? It wasn't right. Why would someone throw away so many good wallets?

  With a quick glance around to be sure no one was watching, I dropped the trash bag and hoisted myself up, resting my stomach on the side of the bin, teetering like a human seesaw, and…oomph! I would have face-planted at the bottom of the bin if the backpack hadn't broken my fall. It smelled like dead rats and gym socks, but still better than the office.

  I awkwardly moved into a catcher stance and began gathering the wallets into a leathery mountain. Each still had identification inside, along with gym passes, Vons Club cards, meal cards from Café Rio, unopened condoms, and business cards. No credit cards, debit cards, or money. I scanned the IDs in search of a familiar face. All belonged to California drivers, and all addresses were located in the Los Angeles area. All were male, and none looked familiar.

  These were stolen, I realized. Someone stole the wallets, took all the cash and credit cards, and then dumped them in here. What other explanation could there be?

  The bin was about half empty (or half full if you're optimistic), so these would have had to be tossed recently. The rickety gate only opened with a transmitter, and the pedestrian gate required a key. It couldn't have been someone passing by, looking for a quick place to dump his or her stolen goods.

  I turned my attention to the backpack. Unlike the wallets, the backpack looked worn, the coloring faded and the stitching frayed. The pain shooting down my face told me it wasn't empty either, and being that it hadn't detonated when I landed on it, chances were it wasn't an explosive.

  Realizing I was now dealing with a potential crime scene, I figured I should probably stop getting my fingerprints all over the evidence. I grabbed a Popsicle wrapper that was stuck to the inside of the bin and used it to unzip the backpack. Irrational decisions traveled through my mind by way of rocket, while logic voyaged by donkey. It wasn't until the backpack was open flat and I was staring down at the contents that logic finally did stroll in.

  A handful of zip ties and a black ski mask—both scandalous items on their own—were minimized by the handgun in the middle of the pile. The dark tarnished barrel sparked a fear deep in my Spanxed gut.

  A small, blue rectangle lid stuck out from behind the mask. I knew what it looked like, although I had to be wrong. That would be absurd. However, the entire morning had been absurd what with urinating residents, malicious maintenance men, quarrelling couples, moldy tuna, five a.m. calls about a spider web, and now a gun in the dumpster. So, really,
anything was possible.

  I covered my pointer finger and thumb with the sticky side of the wrapper and, ever so lightly, grabbed the blue lid and pulled.

  What. The. Hell?

  I was right. It was exactly what it looked like.

  "Hey, you down there! What do you think you're doing?"

  Startled, I let out a high-pitched yelp, which echoed around in the tin bin. I grasped my chest and heaved a sigh of relief when Joyce's little head appeared.

  "You're that pressed for cash that you need to start dumpster diving?" From my squatted position, everything south of Joyce's nose was hidden. The sunbursts of wrinkles around her squinted eyes told me she was smiling. Pleased with her wittiness. "Wait, is that yours?"

  "No! No…no…no…I found it in here. Look." I gestured to the open backpack and wallets.

  Her little eyes went wide. "Stay right there," she instructed, as if moving was an option. My skirt was too tight, and my heels were too high. Leaving the dumpster would require the delayering of clothing. With one missing button, I was halfway there anyhow.

  Metal scratched along the asphalt, followed by a deafening bang against the outside of the bin. Ouch!

  Joyce's head and upper torso appeared, with her curved, arthritic hands holding the side as she bent down to get a better look. "You found all this in here?" Her smoker's breath came right at me and filled the tiny quarters.

  Blech!

  "Well, what's the verdict?" Joyce asked.

  With my nose buried into the crook of my elbow, I said, "Huh?" but it sounded more like, "Honk?"

  "What is it?"

  "Honk?"

  "The test, positive or negative?"

  Oh, that. I held the blue lid of the pregnancy test between my plastic-wrapped fingers and flipped it around. It answered Joyce's question with a tiny YES printed in the middle of the display.

  "Well?" Joyce pressed, her eighty-year-old eyes not able to make out the small print from her step stool.