French Vanilla & Felonies

by Erin Huss

  "It's positive," I affirmed.

  "That's good. I guess. Now you know, so you can get out of there. Tenants kept calling to say a prostitute was going through our trash. Now I get to tell everyone they don't have anything to worry about. It was just their new apartment manager." She laughed herself into a coughing fit.

  I waited for her to start breathing again before saying, "Joyce, this is serious. We could be looking at some incriminating evidence here."

  She actually rolled her eyes at me. "If you want to survive as an apartment manager, you're gonna have to start loosening up. Or take a Xanax. Benadryl helps too. It's just a pregnancy test, not worth jumping into trash cans or screaming over. Bob found one floating in the pool not that long ago."

  "I didn't scream. I yelped. And that's disgusting. But it's not the pregnancy test, Joyce. It's everything else. The zip ties, the stolen wallets, the gun—"

  "Gun?" I had her attention now.

  "Yeah, gun." I used the pregnancy test as a pointer. "See? Gun."

  Her jaw dropped half an inch. "In all my years…"

  My legs were going numb. "Can you call the police while I put everything back… Ouch!" A bag of trash landed on my head and spewed its contents down my back. I almost threw up. Why wouldn't you look inside the dumpster before tossing your trash in?

  Some people can be so inconsiderate.

  "Hi, Ty!" Joyce hollered to the owner of (what I hoped was) the chocolate milk running down my shirt. "Ty and his wife just had a baby girl last week," she told me.

  "Yeah, I guessed that." I plucked the dirty diaper off my head. "Can you go call the…" I noticed a shoe sticking out from under a pile of trash bags. A Nike sneaker. A very nice, very new, very expensive-looking Nike sneaker. The bottom white, the swoosh a vibrant blue.

  Great.

  "Looks like our thief also fancies expensive footwear." I grabbed the shoe with my popsicle stick fingers to show Joyce, except it was caught on something.

  One more yank and I realized the shoe wasn't caught on anything.

  It was attached—to a person.

  Now seemed like a really good time to scream.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tenant understands that Landlord does not provide security patrol, security system, or surveillance video on the Premises or Common Areas.

  Within minutes of my uttering the words "I…f-f-f-f-ound a d-d-ead p-p-p-person and a-a- pregnancy test!" to the police dispatch operator, there were sirens, marked and unmarked police cars, caution tape, a full team of detectives, and a handful of paramedics—even though I was quite insistent on the phone that the body I found in the dumpster was in fact dead.

  Like dead, dead.

  No pulse.

  No breath.

  Cold to the touch.

  Dead.

  And, trust me. I may have been hyperventilating, but I thoroughly checked for signs of life. Which was difficult. The body—a short, stout male with white hair, crinkly skin, Nike jumpsuit on—was facedown, buried in trash, and quite heavy. Impossible for me to flip over. Especially while wearing my hooker clothes.

  Note to self: Jeans and a T-shirt are definitely the right attire for the job.

  After the crime scene had been secured, I was pulled aside by a detective named Angela Spray. I stood there with my skirt on crooked, my shirt barely hanging on, my red stiletto straps draped over my fingers, and my nerves shattered as I recounted how I happened to fall into a crime scene.

  Detective Spray nodded along. She was a no-nonsense type of gal wearing a three-sizes-too-big gray suit, like she'd recently lost a great deal of weight but couldn't be bothered to buy new clothes. Behind her, I watched another detective drop the wallets into a bag with a latex-clad hand before he walked back to the cluster of police cars and dark SUVs. The flashing lights brightly alternated against the building. Red then blue then red then blue then red then blue. It was a scene right out of CSI: NY, minus the hot actors.

  A group of concerned-looking residents were gathered far enough to not be in the way yet close enough to hear what was going on. "Who was it that died?…Someone who lives here?…Is that the new manager?…What is she wearing?…Is she the one who found the body?"

  Detective Spray cleared her throat, reclaiming my attention. "So I have this right, you were already in the dumpster when you found the deceased?" she asked.

  The group of residents gasped.

  "…She was in the dumpster first…Why was she in there?…Isn't it obvious. She was going through our trash, looking for valuables…Like a dumpster diver?"

  Great.

  "Yes, like I said, I fell in," I replied, in an exaggerated hushed voice, hoping the detective would mimic my tone.

  No such luck. "And you found the wallets and pregnancy test first, correct?" she bellowed.

  "Did she just say the new manager is pregnant?…Yes…Oh my gosh, you can totally tell…"

  Why are so many people home?

  Doesn't anyone have a job around here?

  Geesh.

  I scanned the crowd for Joyce and spotted her speaking to a detective. Her face was drawn, eyes tired, and she was still slouched on her step stool—just as I'd left her. After I found the body, she had turned a grim shade of gray. Worried I'd have two deaths on my hands, I got her situated on the stool before I scuttled off to call the police.

  "You don't think the body is someone who lives here, right?" I asked Detective Spray. Please say no. Please say no. Please say no.

  "I'm sorry. They haven't released the victim's name yet," she said. "You didn't get a look at his face?"

  I gave a feeble shake of my head. A soy sauce packet fell out of Einstein. We both watched it sail to the ground with a splat.

  Er, I wonder what else is in there?

  Done with her interview, Joyce shuffled over and placed a hand on my shoulder for support, waiting for her breath to return before speaking. "Twenty-five years," she said between breaths. "And this is the first time I've had a resident die on me"

  "How do you know it was a resident?" I asked.

  "I got a look before they took him away," she said. "It was definitely Kenneth Fisk from Apartment 21. There's no mistaking that face, looks like the rear end of a rhino."

  What a lovely visual.

  "God bless his soul." Joyce crossed herself.

  Even though I'm not Catholic, I made the sign of the cross for poor—

  "Wait! Kenneth?" I said, mid cross. "How many people named Kenneth live here?"

  Joyce stared up at me. "Well none now!"

  Helpful.

  I turned to the detective. "Kenneth left a message this morning on the answering machine. Something about how he was on his way out and there was a spider web. He sounded out of breath." Was the phone call a cry for help? Could the last words out of Kenneth's mouth have been 'spider web'?"

  "What time was the message?" Detective Spray asked, her voice perked.

  "It was early, just before six I think."

  "Is it still on the machine?" she asked.

  "It is…crap. I erased it." I mentally slapped my forehead.

  Then I physically slapped my forehead because, ugh, why did I have to touch the machine!

  To be fair, I had no idea Kenneth would turn up dead an hour later.

  But still, erasing the messages was well worth a forehead slap (or two).

  While I smacked my head, Detective Spray turned her attention to Joyce. Not that I blamed her. Between the dumpster diving, head slapping, message erasing, and hooker clothes, it's not as if I came off as credible.

  Spray further questioned Joyce about Kenneth. His character. Temperament. Did he get along with the neighbors? When was the last time she saw him alive? Did he have visitors often, if at all? I stood beside Joyce, with a supportive hand on her back, and listened as she described in her raspy voice who the man in the dumpster was.

  Turned out Kenneth Fisk was your average Joe Schmoe. A retired train insurance salesman. He was quiet. Paid rent on ti
me. Single. In the ten years he lived there, Joyce could not recall a time when Kenneth requested a guest parking pass. He drove a Honda. Got along with his neighbors. Ordered pizza on Friday nights. Chinese on Thursdays and subscribed to the LA Times Sunday paper. The last time Joyce saw Kenneth alive was Saturday morning, when he came to the office to pick up a package—a pair of new Nikes along with exercise clothes. He told Joyce he had begun training for a turkey trot he and his sister planned to run next month.

  Not that anyone deserves to be killed and dumped. However, it would make me feel a teensy bit better if there was an obvious reason. Like if Kenneth was an antagonistic puppy kicker. Or one of those people who don't put shopping carts away.

  But no, he was a pizza-eating turkey trotter.

  "Could it have been an armed robbery gone wrong?" I asked Detective Spray. Given the wallets, gun, and mask, it seemed a reasonable explanation.

  "If it was then why would there be a pregnancy test?" Joyce said. "Who in the middle of an armed robbery situation thinks, 'I haven't had my period in a while. I should probably check on that.'"

  "You never know. People are idiots," Detective Spray chimed in.

  "Great. I'm glad these idiots are breeding." I sighed, looked over at the group of residents still watching, and did a quick abdominal check to see if any were pregnant. Didn't appear so. Still, "It should be fairly easy to determine who did this, right?" I said to the detective. "You have a urine sample of the killer."

  "DNA is not that simple," Spray said matter-of-factly. "There are many factors."

  Ugh. Factors.

  Stupid factors.

  I hate factors.

  Almost as much as I hated that answer.

  The answer I wanted was, "Absolutely, we should have an arrest made by morning. Don't you worry about a thing." Because how could I bring my daughter to live there if random Joe Schmoes were being knocked off?

  The detective eventually left to go converse with her colleagues, leaving Joyce and me alone. Wrapping my hand around my neck, I rolled my head from side to side. My shoulders ached, and the bus was still parked on my chest, and I smelled like, well, I smelled like a smoky dumpster. This is not how I anticipated my first day going.

  And it wasn't even over yet.

  Joyce was deep in thought, staring at the bag of trash on the ground. The one I never did throw away. "You'd have to be an idiot to live here and toss a dead body into the community bin," Joyce said to me.

  "You heard the police officer. People are idiots."

  She nodded in agreement. "That is true. That is so true…" Her words trailed off and hung in the air like a raincloud above us.

  "Have you ever had a robbery around here before?" I finally asked.

  Joyce shrugged her bony little shoulders. "Not on my watch."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tenant agrees not to engage in disturbingly loud activities that may nauseate other tenants on the Premises.

  In an attempt to calm our frazzled nerves, Joyce and I spent the remainder of the day sitting at her kitchen table. Me, eating an entire gallon of French Vanilla ice cream (or two). Her, smoking an entire package of Marlboro Lights (or two). Part of me wanted to go home early. The other part of me knew I was being paid hourly during my training period and, despite all that had happened, I was still broke with a toddler at home. So I stayed and listened to Joyce tell stories about when she first met Bob (who was still asleep on the recliner), growing up in Chicago, and how she became an apartment manager to pay for her son's college tuition.

  The distraction was nice.

  We took a short break to go over unclogging a garbage disposal with the end of a broom when Apartment 8 tossed a used condom into theirs (I didn't ask questions). Then Joyce and I assumed our positions at her table while I listened and she talked about anything and everything except Kenneth Fisk and the police still crawling around the property.

  When the clock struck five, I gathered my belongings with a tired head, a heavy heart, and a mild case of emphysema. I was ready to go home, get my baby, and take a long shower (or three).

  "Before you leave," Joyce said just as I opened the door. "Patrick wants you to fill out a detailed time card during your training."

  My shoulders fell. "What do I write? Unclogged garbage disposal, processed an application, found a dead body, ate ice cream."

  "Something like that. And, here." Joyce dropped a key ring into my palm. "Lock up the office when you're done," she rasped.

  There were at least forty keys of all shapes, colors, and sizes shoved on the small ring. None were labeled. "How do I know what key goes to what?"

  She touched a gold one with her bent forefinger. "This opens everything. I have no idea what the rest do."

  "Thanks. That's helpful?" I'd already forgotten which one she pointed to.

  "See you tomorrow." She started for the door.

  "Wait, Joyce."

  She grunted. "What is it, kid? It's been a terrible day and People's Court is about to start."

  "Right. Real quick. You never told me what Patrick said when you told him about Kenneth Fisk?" He had called when I was outside taking an oxygen break.

  With a relenting sigh, Joyce lowered herself into the chair, her movements slow and painful-looking. "He said we'll have to wait for his next of kin to pack up his apartment and release it to us before we can re-rent it."

  "I meant, what did he say about Kenneth Fisk being murdered?" Who cared about his apartment!

  Or…er…I guess I should. Being an apartment manager and all.

  Joyce propped an elbow on the desk. "He said, 'That's sad.'"

  That's sad? I was hoping for more of a let's-invest-in-high-powered-security-cameras-and-twenty-four-hour-patrol kind of reaction. Crap. I dropped my bags and took a seat with my time card still in hand. "Do you think it's safe to bring Lilly here after what happened?"

  "Of course," Joyce scoffed, as if I were being absurd. "This is a great neighborhood, and now the place is safer than it was before."

  "Come again?"

  "A couple of years ago, there was this restaurant near the Grove that Bob and I used to go to. It was a real fine place with good pastrami sandwiches. Then several customers got salmonella, and I think one person died… I can't remember. But the Health Department came, it was on the news, and a lot of people stopped going. But not Bob and I. You know why?"

  "Ummm…why?"

  "Because it was the safest place to eat in town. Of course they were going to be on their best behavior because they knew the Health Department was watching them. We continued to go and enjoy our pastrami and never once got sick."

  "So you're saying that…" I paused, unsure how this story was relevant. "I'm sorry. I'm not getting the correlation?"

  "It's the same idea. What criminal is going to come near this place now that we're on the police's radar? My theory is Kenneth went out for an early morning run, saw a hooligan-type on the property, called the office to report, was mugged while on the phone, fought back, was killed accidently, and tossed in the trash. What idiot is going to come back to the scene of the crime?"

  She made a good point. Took a while to get there, but she made it. "What does that have to do with a spider web?"

  "He walked into a web."

  "Oh." Made sense. Kind of. My mood lifted—a little. "What ever happened to the restaurant?" I asked.

  "It closed down."

  Oh.

  Joyce tapped my hand. "Focus on the job and keep Patrick happy, and you'll all be just fine."

  Keep Patrick happy…I'd almost forgotten about the whole third-choice, Chase, Kevin situation. "What else did Patrick have to say about what happened?"

  "He asked why you were dumpster diving."

  "I wasn't dumpster diving," I said to her, for at least the fifth time today. "Would you stop saying that. I need to impress Patrick, not give him more reason to think I'm crazy."

  "Potatoes. Tomatoes. Doesn't matter. If you want to impress him, all you've got
to worry about is your bottom line. Keep this place full and your residents happy, and you'll keep Patrick happy. Vacancies cost money, and mad tenants turn into vacancies."

  "Got it."

  Full occupancy + Happy residents = Happy Patrick.

  Happy Patrick = Employed Cambria.

  Too bad I flunked algebra.

  "Anything else?" Joyce asked.

  I had about a hundred more questions, but it was five o'clock, and People's Court was on, and it had been a traumatic day. "That's it for now," I said.

  "I'll see you in the…" Joyce's voice trailed off. Her eyes fixated on something outside the large window next to the desk.

  "What's wrong now?" I turned around. A woman stormed through the breezeway. Her pink robe flapped behind her like a cape as she treaded toward the office. "Who's that?" I asked.

  "It's Silvia Kravitz." Joyce sighed with a shake of head. "Say a prayer she hasn't heard about poor Kenneth. And for goodness' sake, if she doesn't say anything, don't offer up that information."

  A chime echoed through the lobby, announcing a visitor, followed by the sharp tapping of heels across the linoleum floor. A woman with ten-too-many facelifts appeared. It was the love child of Gollum and Joan Rivers. Her silk robe hung off one shoulder, revealing the thin strap of her red nightie. On the other shoulder a parrot sat so still that I questioned if it were alive or a prop.

  "Hello, Silvia, this is Cambria, the new manager," Joyce greeted from her chair.

  Silvia's bulging eyes met mine, and I smiled. "Hello, nice to meet you." I walked up to the counter and held out my hand. Silvia eyed it suspiciously and slowly placed her fingertips into my palm, as if waiting for me to kiss the backside of her hand.

  I shook her fingers instead, eyeing the unmoving parrot. Silvia reached over to the sanitizer propped next to the brochures advertising a spacious studio, gave it two pumps into her palm, and began slathering it on.

  "Is there something I can do for you?" I asked.

  Silvia groaned. The parrot repositioned him or herself on her shoulder. "It's happening again. Look what it's doing to Harold."

  "Who's Harold?" I asked. She gave me a look, trying—and failing—to move her brow. "Oh, is…is he Harold?" I pointed to the parrot.