Mint Chip & Murder

by Erin Huss

  The attic access was really just a square hole in the stucco ceiling. A ladder was set up below, presumably from the cable guy, because it didn't look like Mr. Nguyen's. Also, it said property of the cable company on the side.

  As previously mentioned, I was basically a detective.

  A part of me wanted to walk away, put as much distance between me and whatever heinous crime had happened there. But the more logical part of my brain (or maybe it was the more illogical part—it had become harder and harder to distinguish between the two) told me to stay. I climbed up the ladder and peeked into the attic. I'd never been up there before, mostly because there wasn't a reason to. As far as I knew, it was nothing but beams, insulation, and wires.

  And guess what?

  It was nothing but beams, insulation, and wires. No barrel. At least, not one that I could see.

  I crawled up and in, minding the space so I wouldn't hit my head. The ceiling was low, and the flooring was mostly exposed insulation. I walked along a beam, keeping one hand on the wall for support. Around the corner was more attic, more beams, and more insulation. I kept going, maintaining my balance, which did not come naturally to me. I was quite proud of myself…umpph.

  Never mind.

  My foot landed in the pink fluffy stuffing, and it felt like I'd just shoved my leg into a bath of needles. Holy crap!

  Note to self: Have Mr. Nguyen cover floors with wood.

  Ouch!

  This was precisely why I typically wore jeans to work. Between the goat and the insulation, my poor legs would never be the same.

  I scratched my calf and continued walking. The building was in a U-shape, and I turned the last corner and found a finished floor and the barrel. Metal, dusty, and so innocuous it practically blended in with the wall. Which is probably why it stood there untouched for as long as it did. The lid was off, and the smell permeating the air was quite pungent. I did not want to subject my eyeballs to what was inside. Fox's blurry picture was enough. All I knew for sure was there was no way someone was able to carry a barrel filled with a human up a ladder and across the unfinished attic floor. The murder either happened up here, or perhaps in one of the units on this side of the building, and the killer stashed the body right above their apartment. Kind of creepy. But I'd learned during my short stint in property management that people are, in general, kind of creepy.

  I did a quick search to make sure there were no other barrels, bins, or boxes large enough to store a human. All I found was a step stool, two large pieces of plywood that looked to have worked as a makeshift wall around the barrel, and a timeworn pillow with frayed seams. No bodies. Thank goodness.

  I walked across the beam, back to Apartment 14B, and climbed down. Mr. Nguyen hadn't moved. His phone was in his hands, fingers flying across the screen. "The police should be here any minute," he said without looking up. "And I called Chase."

  "Chase!" I slipped down the last two steps of the ladder. "Why did you call Chase?"

  "Isn't that what we do when you find a dead body?"

  I stood up straight and swiped a strand of Einstein from my forehead. "To be fair, I didn't find the dead body. Fox did."

  "Did you want me to call Chase back and tell him not to come?"

  "No, I guess not." Detective Chase Cruller (like the donut) was a little older than me. Early thirties. Dark blond hair. Five o'clock shadow no matter the time of day. Green eyes. Superhuman good looks. And he was pretty much my boyfriend. At least he was.

  Our relationship title was currently under advisement.

  "Why do you look so fancy?" Mr. Nguyen gave me the once-over with a confused tilt of his head.

  "I had a…a…a…an interview. " I couldn't lie to him. I loved Mr. Nguyen. He was family. You don't lie to family. Unless that family are your parents. Then you tell little white lies to keep them from having massive anxiety attacks and/or collapsing in a puddle of disappointment over the fact their only child is a complete and total mess.

  Mr. Nguyen didn't hide the shock from his face. "Did you interview at Cedar Creek?"

  "Yes," I said, not wanting to look him in the eye. I'd been the one who got him the job with Elder Property Management. We worked great together. Leaving him would be hard.

  "I thought you were not going to interview there."

  "I had a change of heart and decided to go for it." I massaged my temples, feeling a tension headache coming on. "I doubt I'll get the job now. Not after this debacle."

  "Why? You didn't kill the person."

  "No, but after what happened with their last manager, they're wanting to bring on someone new who doesn't have baggage. I'd say finding a dead body in the attic is baggage."

  "How will they know?"

  True. "How would they know?" I tapped my chin. "It's not like this will make the news. I mean, this is Los Angeles. There are dead bodies all over the place, right?"

  "Not all over the place. Just wherever you are."

  He was right. The Dashwoods didn't need to know about any of the other murders I'd happened upon, including the body in the attic. Pfft. There was nothing to worry about.

  Correction: there was everything to worry about, but sometimes (like two or three times a year) I tried to be optimistic.

  * * *

  The police arrived, followed by a CSI van and several unmarked police cars. A crime scene investigator pulled yellow tape in front of Apartment 14B's door, while a detective interviewed Fox and the cable guy, who was standing outside by the curb, smoking, because I wouldn't allow him to light up in the courtyard.

  House rules are house rules, whether there was a decomposing body on the premise or not.

  Turned out the old cable wiring ran under a wall in the attic, and when the cable guy had yanked hard on the cable, the wall had fallen down. That's when he'd discovered the wall was nothing but two pieces of plywood held together with a few nails, glue, and duct tape. The barrel was inside, and per company rules, the cable guy could not move it. So Fox did, thus the discovery of the dead body.

  Now the place was buzzing with police officers coming to and from the attic. I stood in the doorway of my office, watching, fretting, and biting at my bottom lip until I saw him. Chase. He walked past the mailboxes and into the courtyard. His hips deliciously swayed as if someone had pushed slow-mo, and he took off his sunglasses, revealing the bandage keeping his right eyebrow together.

  I stood up straighter and smoothed out the front of my dress, picking off a few bits of lint clinging to the linen.

  Chase bypassed the officers gathered in the courtyard and came straight to me. "How are you doing?"

  "Wonderful!" I said. Stupid choice of wording, considering the situation.

  "I'm glad to hear it." Chase cupped my cheek in his hand, and I resisted the urge to throw my arms around his neck, drag him inside, and swing the door closed.

  Instead, I sneezed.

  Chase dropped his hand. "Why are you so dressed up?"

  "I made a last minute decision to interview at Cedar Creek."

  "Good for you." His eyes slid down. "Why do you have a goat?"

  "Because if I put her down, she bites the back of my leg."

  Chase shook his head. "I swear if I had your job, I'd be a raging alcoholic."

  "It's a good thing I cope with ice cream."

  "Yes, it is." He winked his uninjured eye. "When are we going to finish talking about the trip?"

  "Soon," I promised. But I was carrying a goat, and there was a dead person in the attic, and I was really good at avoiding subjects I didn't want to talk about. "But first, do we know anything about this person who was in the barrel?"

  "I do." Hampton sauntered over, hiking up his pants. Hampton was Chase's partner. He wore a horrible toupee that looked like a squirrel had crawled on top of his head and died. Also, he wore his pants really high. Like really, really, wedgie-in-the-front-and-back high. "Initial inspections tell us the victim was female, dark hair, with a petite frame. We're taking the barrel down to th
e medical examiner to see if we can identify her with dental records."

  "How long has she been there?"

  "My guess would be somewhere between twenty and thirty years."

  A hollow space formed in the pit of my stomach. This poor woman had been shoved in a barrel for three decades. Now that's horrid.

  "If we can't find the identity, we'll give word to local news stations that a body has been discovered, give a description and time frame, and see what leads that brings," Hampton said. "Be prepared. There will be media around here."

  "No! That's a terrible idea," I blurted out. "You can't let the public know. It's…it's…inhumane."

  "How is that inhumane?" Chase asked.

  "I don't know! But please, please, don't tell the press."

  "Why don't you want this made public?' Hampton asked.

  So my potential new boss doesn't find out.

  Not that I could admit this out loud. I felt selfish enough for even thinking it. Truth was, how could I deny the victim her chance for justice?

  "It's fine," I finally said. "You do whatever it is that you need to do."

  "Good. And why do you have a goat?" Hampton asked.

  "Long story." I paused to sneeze and scratch the backside of my calf. "I'd really like to keep this apartment building out of the press, though. Do you have any idea when you're going to release the information?"

  "We'll wait to see what the medical examiner is able to uncover," Hampton said. "I doubt this will stay quiet for long, though." He pointed up, and I followed his gaze. Fox was taking a selfie in front of the crime scene tape.

  Oh, great.

  I marched up the stairs, still holding the goat. She was much more compliant when she wasn't roaming free. "You can't post anything about this online," I said to Fox.

  "Why not? I'm the one who found the dead body." He held up his phone and flashed a peace sign. "Say cheese."

  "Wait, wait, wait. I don't want to be in any pictures."

  "Why not? You're dressed nice today. Might as well."

  "Here's the deal…um… This is official police business. Posting anything on social media could…hurt the case. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

  "What am I supposed to do, then?" he asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Do I just not, like, post anything about this?"

  "Yes."

  Fox appeared confused. "So just not post anything."

  "Yes."

  "Nothing?"

  "Nothing."

  Silence fell while Fox's eyes went from his phone, then to me, then to the goat, then back to his phone. He did this several times. "For how long?"

  "Ever."

  "Wow. That's a long time."

  "It is," I agreed, trying to sound supportive.

  "I think I could do that," he said with slow determination. "Like a social media cleanse."

  "Even better. Now, let's get out of the way." I escorted him down the stairs and thrust the goat into his arms. "And please return the goats. This is a no pet property. It will cause a lot of problems with your neighbors." Two days ago, Apartment 3A had asked if they could have a teacup Pomeranian, and I'd said no. I could only imagine how upset they'd be if they thought I said no to a two-pound dog and yes to two thirty-pound goats.

  I went back to my office—and by office, I mean a storage closet with a desk. Chase was sitting in a metal folding chair waiting for me.

  "Are you not working this case?" I asked him.

  "Hampton and I are on it."

  "Any word from the FBI while I was gone?" Chase had applied, been approved, and was now awaiting orders. I knew he was anxious to find out when he'd be sent off for training, and even more anxious about what would happen between us while he was gone.

  "No news yet," he said.

  I yanked open the old filing cabinet and started searching through the files.

  "Cambria, what are you doing?"

  "There are only four apartments with attic access. Chances are whoever killed this poor woman lived in one of those. The barrel was all the way to the right side of the building and hidden behind two pieces of plywood in a corner. So I'm thinking it was Apartment 2B or 4B."

  "I doubt it was anyone who has lived here within the last twenty years. Do you have files that go back that far?"

  "No, I only have the current and previous occupants of each unit. But it's a start. There are a few longtime residents." I pulled out the folders for Apartments 14B, 12B, 4B, and 2B. "I'll ask Patrick for the archived files. Are you going to tell him about this, or should I?" I dreaded having to tell my boss we had another murder.

  "Hampton is going to talk to him."

  "What about the McMillses?"

  "I'm going to talk to them." The McMillses owned both the Burbank and Los Angeles buildings along with several other properties up and down the California coast. They were old and rich and not involved. Their nephew, Trevor, managed the McMills Trust, while Patrick's management company oversaw the residential properties. In short, I was pretty far down the totem pole.

  "How long before we get information from the medical examiner?" I asked.

  "Anywhere from twenty-four hours to six weeks, depending on the preliminary findings."

  "That's a massive time frame."

  "You don't need to worry. We're good at our job. We'll find out what happened."

  "I'm not doubting your detectiveness. But it can't hurt to have someone like me digging around."

  "Actually, it could." He pried a file from my grasp and set it on the desk. "I want you to leave it to us, but I understand that's an impossible request for you. All I'm going to say is be careful."

  "Aren't I always?"

  "No, you're never careful. You are the least careful person I know. You are the exact opposite of careful. You can be downright reckless."

  "OK. OK." Geez. "Tell me how you really feel."

  "I did tell you, and I ended up with this." He pointed to the butterfly bandage on his eyebrow.

  "We don't need to get into that right now." Or ever. "I promise to be careful and report back any of my findings." I crossed my heart.

  Chase regarded me under an intense gaze, and my knees went a bit wobbly. He had that effect on me. "Is the reason you don't want this out in the public because if the Dashwoods find out, they might not offer you the job?"

  "Maybe."

  "So that's a yes. I can read you pretty well, Cambria."

  "Oh, really?" I grabbed hold of his tie and pulled him closer. "What am I thinking right now?"

  Chase snaked his arm around my waist. His scent was intoxicating, and my legs turned to goo. He brushed his lips along my jawline until his mouth was at my ear. I sucked in a shaky breath, forgetting my troubles for only a moment.

  "Not until we have the conversation," he whispered.

  Ah, crud.

  Chase released me from his arms, and I had to use the edge of the desk to keep upright.

  "Remember what I said. Be careful." He put his sunglasses on, ran a hand through his hair, and left.

  Oh, my.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Proficient in the art of self-defense

  I was back at the Los Angeles property by six o'clock. It felt good to be home. Sure, the place wasn't a sparkling high-rise with glass walls like next door. It was a two-story stucco building with brown fascia, brownish-greenish grass, three courtyards separated by ivy-laced breezeways, and apartments that weren't numbered in order, but I loved living there. Mostly.

  The carports were bustling with residents who had arrived home from a long day at work, and I scratched the back of my calf as I walked into the first courtyard. Larry, from Apartment 32, stopped me to talk about his latest health crises (kidney stones, a mysterious rash on his heinie, upcoming surgery on his legs, hay fever, and hemorrhoids). I waived to Julie from Apartment 5. Then Daniella from Apartment 13 confronted me near the bushes to loudly express her outrage over the fact I wouldn't allow her to keep her hairless cat. I told he
r the answer was still: "This is a no pet property." I should have just tattooed the phrase on my forehead because I said it so much. Daniella expressed her outrage in both English and Spanish and stormed off.

  I went straight to the mailboxes and dug around in my bag, searching for the keys, and located them under a container of fish crackers.

  "Apartment manager!" came a familiar voice, and I willed myself invisible. "Apartment manager!"

  I pulled out my mail, which consisted of bills and credit card offers, and slammed the little metal door. "Hi, Silvia. What can I do for you?"

  Silvia Kravitz looked like the seventy-year-old love child of Gollum and Joan Rivers, thanks to about ten too many facelifts. She only wore lingerie, no matter the time of day (or position of the sun), and her pet parrot, Harold, could be found perched on her shoulder at all times. I'd dubbed her the mayor of Rumorville. She had something to say about everyone at all times. Even though her overbearing demeanor had calmed slightly over the past few weeks (thanks to a new love interest, aka Hampton), she still managed to find something to complain about daily.

  "Do you eat Chinese?" she asked.

  "Huh?"

  "Do. You. Eat. Chinese. Food?"

  "I like Chinese food," I said, scared where this conversation was going. "If that's what you're asking."

  "What about Italian?" she asked.

  Harold turned his backside to me. I wasn't sure what I ever did to that parrot, but I knew he didn't like me. I could feel him judging me with his little black beady eyes. That is, when he would actually look at me.

  "I'm a fan of all food. Why do you ask?"

  "Hampton and I want to double date."

  Ahhhh!

  "I told the boys I'd set it up."

  Ahhhh!

  "What! You talked to Chase about this?" I didn't mean to shout, but there's no way Chase would agree to a double date.

  Unless this was payback for what happened during my trip. Except Chase was a cop. He'd made an oath to "always uphold the Constitution," and a night out with Silvia Kravitz would be considered cruel and unusual punishment.

  "Yes," Silvia said. "We are available on Friday night. See you then."