French Vanilla & Felonies

by Erin Huss

  With his focus still on his phone, he stopped in front of Alice's door, cutting me off. "Excuse me," I said curtly because I was livid—mostly because he kissed me and then ran away, and partly because I had texted him several times since. Once asking what happened. Another text with a maintenance request for Nearly Naked Grandma Clare's garbage disposal. Another asking if he received my text about Nearly Naked Grandma Clare. And the last text was an accident. I meant to send myself a grocery list, but it went to Chase instead. No replies to any. I had hoped it was because he didn't have his phone on him.

  Chase looked up, startled, then shoved his phone and hands in the front pockets of his jeans—his signature stance. "Oh, hi." He glanced over his shoulder at the door then at me and moved out of the way.

  Oh, hi?

  I scooted past him, careful not to inhale his scent or touch him in any way. "Did you get my text messages?" I muttered, mostly to the door because somehow talking to wood had become my norm.

  "I did. I'll take care of it," he said, lingering. Rocking back and forth from his heels to his toes.

  I raised my hand to knock, waiting for him to leave. Is he waiting for a formal order? "Can you go do that now?" I asked.

  "Yes, I can." Still lingering. Still rocking.

  I dropped my hand. "Is there something you'd like to say, or are you hanging around here for a particular reason?"

  He thought for a moment. "Nope, nothing to say. I'll go take care of that now." He turned and reunited his face with his phone.

  Yeah, why don't you go do that.

  I knocked again and waited.

  The click of the deadbolt sliding free preceded the clink of a chain being unhooked. A man about my age popped his head out. He had thick features, a shaved head, and long, crooked, yellow teeth.

  "What?" the head asked in lieu of a salutation.

  This must be Boo aka Vincent. I'd never met him before, never seen him walking around the property. I recognized him from the picture in his file. According to the lease, no one else lived here. "Can I speak with Alice, please?"

  "Who?"

  I shook my head, remembering. "Sorry, Wysteria. Can I speak with Wysteria, please?" It's hard enough to keep all of the residents' names and apartment numbers straight, let alone their stripper names too. "Is she home?"

  "What's wrong?" came a soft voice from behind.

  I turned around as Alice emerged from the carports. She had on tight jeans and a black hooded sweater, her hair stringy and greasy and haphazardly wrapped in a knot on the top of her head. Her hazel eyes were hammocked in a bed of dark bags, and her face looked sunken and pale with blotchy spots on her cheeks and forehead. This wasn't the bubbly Alice sucking on a Tootsie Pop I'd a month ago.

  Alice's eyes darted from me to Vincent, whose head was still sandwiched between the door and frame. "What do you need?" she asked, tugging the sleeves of her sweater over her hands, which pulled it down around her neck and revealed three large finger-like bruises.

  "Alice," I whispered, covering my mouth with my hand. "Your neck."

  She sunk her neck into the sweater like a turtle. "I'm fine," she muttered.

  I turned to Vincent. His thick features remained unchanged. I looked back to Alice, who slipped her hands into the front pocket of her sweater and eyed the ground. "Do you need help?" I asked under my breath.

  "She's fine," Vincent moaned from the doorway, sounding bored with the conversation.

  "I'll help you get out of here, Alice." I was furious I'd somehow missed this. Too busy focusing on everything else. This was my job as an apartment manager. I think. My job description needed some fine-tuning. I wasn't exactly sure what it was. It was my job as a human being to not ignore abuse. "Let's go, right now," I pressed.

  Alice's eyes turned angry. "I'm not going anywhere. Mind your own business." She pushed past me, ignoring the ample unrestricted space around me and knocked my shoulder with hers.

  I reached for her arm. She withdrew it quickly. "Don't touch me," she warned with a glare that could kill. She turned sideways and squeezed into the narrow gap Vincent allotted her.

  "But, I need your driver's license," I said as the door closed. Far too many doors had been closed in my face. It was growing old. I knocked again, and again, and again. "Alice? Wysteria? Vincent?" I tried all the names I could remember. "My Boo? Hello? I need your…driver's…license," I begged through the faded lumber. "Please open. I can help." I pressed my forehead to the door and whispered, "Please?"

  Nothing.

  I spun around and pressed my fingers to my temples. This could be a classic case of my jump-to-worst-case-scenario mind at play. Those could have been hickeys on her neck. If there was one thing I'd learned in the past twenty-four hours, it was that my gut could not be trusted. Hello Spencer and his fishy brothel.

  I was overdramatizing the situation. Alice was fine.

  I, however, was not.

  I tucked escaped strands of Einstein behind my ears and numbly padded back toward my apartment. Kenneth's door was open. The Donation Truck company arrived sometime after three and got to work. Two men dragged Kenneth's mattress out of the apartment. Another man came behind with the books and kitchenware boxes in tow. Poor Kenneth. I may not have been able to figure out who killed him. Now, I could only hope the police were better at their job than I was at mine.

  Back in my apartment, I stood in my square kitchen and gazed at the chrome sink with the plastic still wrapped around the spray nozzle and the brand-new paper towel holder that didn't hold any towels.

  I yanked open the silverware drawer, releasing a fresh-paint aroma, bringing me back to one week earlier when I had walked through the apartment for the first time since it had been renovated—the feeling of excitement, the freedom, the endless possibilities, the relief. Oh, the relief. The relief was palpable, as if I could reach out and grab it, cradle it in my arms and kiss it.

  Now it was gone.

  I pulled out the silverware tray and deposited it into an open box on the floor. Then came the spatulas and whisks. Next the apron Grandma Ruthie had made me the Christmas before she died. The dusty cookbooks my mother insisted I take with me when I moved. The basket of Taco Bell sauce packets and the chopsticks still in their plastic casings. I tucked in the cardboard flaps, grabbed a brown crayon, and labeled the box Taco Bell Sauce because if I'd learned anything from this last move, it was the importance of labeling the essential items.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the top of Lilly's head bouncing across the bottom of the windows overlooking the courtyard. Tom followed behind, carrying a Happy Meal bag from McDonald's. I grabbed the remote control, found an episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse on the DVR, and pressed Play.

  Oh how I'll miss you, cable.

  I met the duo at the door and bent down to give Lilly a kiss. "Did you have fun?" I asked.

  She nodded, running her tongue over her ketchup mustache, and held out her prize from her Happy Meal, a Spiderman frozen midjump with his wrist poised and ready to web. It brought me back to the day I'd interviewed with Joyce. I'd glossed over everyone's warnings, so desperate for employment and so enamored by the cute co-worker that I'd failed myself. I'd failed my little family. I'd failed my daughter.

  "I love it," I said, tapping her nose with the tip of my finger and eliciting a carefree giggle. "Hey, I turned on a show for you. Can you go watch it while I talk to Daddy?"

  "Chắc chắn." She giggled and bounced into the apartment, oblivious to the fact her life was about to be turned upside down. She settled on the couch, ironically hanging upside down, and sang along with the opening song. I shut the door, leaving a small gap to still keep an eye on her.

  Tom hooked his aviators over the top of his shirt. He'd gone casual—khaki shorts, yellow shirt with the purple Lakers' logo painted across the front, and sandals.

  "What's going on?" he asked casually.

  I blinked. "What's going on?" How he managed to so easily forget about the world's troubles
was incomprehensible. My mind was like an iCloud, storing every detail of every good, insignificant, and bad thing that had ever happened in the history of my existence. It was all shoved in some mysterious file, hovering above my head, ready to be brought back up on a whim. "What's going on is this morning. What was that?"

  He nodded, as if remembering. "Oh that. Yeah, I might have overreacted a little. I swear I know that guy, and I don't like him. I don't trust him. I don't want him around my kid." He shrugged an unapologetic shrug.

  He was being completely unreasonable. This must be what it's like having a conversation with me when I'm upset. "Tom, you don't know him. Therefore you have no reason to not trust him or not like him. You don't have any right to storm in here and act like a jealous ex-boyfriend, because you're not." I winced, pressing my hand over my abdomen. The numbness had worn off. I felt everything—specifically the burning campfire of stress in my stomach.

  "Cambria, I wasn't acting like a jealous ex. I was acting like you do."

  Ugh. I dropped my face into my hands. I didn't have the energy to argue. "Tom, I just can't right now," I mumbled into my palms, and before I knew it, I was crying. The dam broke, and tears burst out. Snot seeped out of my nostrils. Spit pooled in my mouth. Every hole in my face leaked fluid.

  "Um, uh," Tom stammered. I could see between my fingers his feet dancing around on the cement. "Is this a trick or for reals?" I didn't answer. "Cam?" I hated when he called me Cam. Then he cupped his arm around my trembling shoulder, and that, I didn't hate so much.

  "A tenant was murdered the day I got here, and I have no idea who killed him. A car was stolen. The washing machine broke. Now I'm losing my job," I said in between sobs. "And I might need you to take Lilly while I figure out where we're going to live." My salty tears slithered down my cheeks, landing in my mouth. "I don't have any money or credit, and I can't go back to Fresno because I said the stupid gay thing, and now I can't go without saying I'm a liar, but I am a liar. And I'm probably going to hell now, but I have to say so because I have no idea what I'm doing, and I'm talking to furniture."

  Tom didn't say anything. He just kept rubbing my shoulder. I leaned into his embrace, nestled under his armpit. When my sobs turned to a manageable cry, he asked, "I'm not really sure what any of that means. Who was murdered?"

  "Kenneth Fisk in Apartment 21," I sniffled.

  "And why didn't you tell me about this?"

  "I don't know."

  "And why are you losing your job?"

  I ran my fingertips under my eyes, catching the smudged makeup and tears. "My boss is coming to talk to me tomorrow. Kenneth Fisk was murdered the day I got here. Then a car was stolen. I almost kicked out the wrong guy, I got the owner's son's boyfriend arrested, I don't have all the rents, and everyone here hates me. Need I go on?"

  "OK," he said slowly, as if carefully choosing his next words. "Were you involved with the murder?"

  "What? No! Of course not." Honestly.

  "Then how does this make you a liar who's going to hell?"

  Oh.

  I looked down, chewing on my bottom lip. Was this the right time to reveal my stupid lie? I didn't have the money for a Motel 6, let alone a new apartment. I should receive compensation for the time I'd worked thus far, which wouldn't be much but would hopefully be enough for gas to Fresno and an oil change (my little genie bottle, lamp-looking thing had been lit up on my dashboard for the last six months. My car would probably explode somewhere on the Grapevine). Going home was my only real option, and I was going to have to explain myself then, so I might as well start now. I took a deep, shaky breath. "I sort of told my family you were gay, and if Lilly and I move there, I'll have to tell them I've been lying."

  Tom's arm fell off my shoulder and slapped back to his side. I turned to face him, still chewing on my lip. He put on his angry face. "You're not moving to Fresno with my kid. You're not moving to Fresno period."

  Really?

  Not the part of the story I anticipated him getting upset over. "Tom, it's much cheaper there, and I could stay with my mom while I find another job. It wouldn't be forever, but what am I supposed to do? Live on the streets?"

  Tom brought his hands to his hips, giving me a you're-being-ridiculous look. "You think I'd let you live on the streets? And why am I gay?"

  Here we go. "Well, it's a funny story, really. So you remember when I found out I was pregnant, and I said 'I think we should try to be a family'? And you were all 'I don't want to date you' and I was all 'Ouch, my heart.' Well, when I told my parents, I kinda implied we were dating when I got pregnant and that you sorta came out of the closet, so we broke up. Then it all got so out of hand. I was heartbroken, and it sorta made us look better. I don't know why. I'm beginning to think there's something wrong with my head. You should know my parents are very supportive of you."

  Tom's mouth hung open. His brows pressed down to a V, and his hazel eyes stared straight through me. He then closed his eyes and shook his head as if waking from a dream. "I don't ever remember having that conversation about dating."

  He sure was sticking on the less poignant points of my stories here. "I was paraphrasing," I told him.

  "Cam, we barely knew each other. It took me a while to get my head around being a dad. I thought you were trying to do the right thing. I never knew you were heartbroken over it."

  For a lawyer he was rather unobservant. "Does it matter now?"

  He thought for moment. "Yeah, I think it does," he decided.

  Lilly stuck her face in the gap in the door. "The show's over!" she announced.

  "I'll be right there," I told her.

  "But it's over nooowww," she whined.

  "Lilly, I'll be right there," I repeated. She heaved herself to the floor.

  "Lilly," Tom said sternly. "We're talking. Go sit on the couch and wait for us to finish."

  "OK, Daddy," Lilly quickly obliged.

  I rolled my eyes.

  "Cam, you'll stay with me until we figure everything out. You're not going to Fresno. You're not going to be homeless. You're certainly not staying with the 'maintenance man.' Are you even sure you're losing your job? You have a tendency to jump to conclusions."

  "Really?" I didn't know what else to say. "Thank you," I added, locating the thread of hope I'd lost grasp of. My stress lifted, a little, taming the campfire in my stomach. "My boss is coming tomorrow. I'm pretty sure he'll fire me. Wouldn't you? I was already his third choice. This place started going downhill the moment I started. I mean, literally, within an hour…" A thought pecked at my subcranium…the moment I started.

  "By the way, the doctor doesn't think it's allergies, and he didn't seem too interested in the article you wanted him to read," Tom said.

  I gazed up. "Huh?"

  "The doctor," he repeated. "He said it didn't look like an infection or allergies. If anything it's a cold."

  "Oh, right." The doctor's appointment. Slipped my mind. "What can we give her for a cold?"

  "Tylenol. Kids her age can't take cold medicine."

  Cold medicine?

  Cold medicine…cold medicine?…cold medicine!

  I got it.

  Less than an hour after I started, Kenneth was found dead in the dumpster, beside him was the backpack, the gun, the wallets…and the pregnancy test…the positive pregnancy test. Pregnancy…holy mother crap of bleeping nuggets…Pregnancy. Cold medicine. Dumpster.

  I grabbed Tom by the shoulders. "She's pregnant!"

  "Who are you talking about?" He looked so freaked out, I had to laugh.

  "Why are you laughing?" The concern lacing his words was even funnier than the fact I so blindly missed the obvious.

  "You can't buy cold medicine without an ID!"

  "Now you're scaring me."

  I placed a hand on Tom's chest. "Can you please stay here with Lilly? I have to talk to someone. I'll be right back."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tenant shall not keep any items of a dangerous, flammable, or explosi
ve nature on the Premises.

  "She's pregnant," I thought out loud, nearly singing it. Ty from Apartment 12 gave me a double take, repositioning the car seat draped over his forearm, protectively placing himself in front of his newborn. I caught my reflection in his dark glasses as I whizzed by in a flash, not even bothering with a polite smile. I had a murder to solve.

  Through the ivy-laced breezeway and into the third courtyard I went. Determined. Silvia descended the stairwell in front of her apartment, her heels clanking against the worn stone steps, still wearing her silk floral robe. The same one she'd been sporting all week. Harold was in his usual spot, bobbing his head around, his claws digging into Silvia's shoulder. Her bulging eyes met mine. I didn't waver though. I pressed forward, maintaining eye contact.

  She stopped at the base of the stairwell, one age-spotted hand resting on the railing, the other balled into a fist. I stared into her mucus-colored eyes as the distance closed between us. I once read if you should ever encounter a lion, you should stare directly into its eyes to prevent being attacked. I applied the same approach to Silvia.

  It worked.

  She broke eye contact and stepped around me. I ran up the stairs to Apartment 22 and knocked with both hands continuously, impatiently, feverishly, and all other related adverbs. "Clare? Bob? It's Cambria. I need you, please!" I shouted.

  I heard Silvia huff from below. "I knew it," she hissed.

  I snapped around and leaned over the railing. "Yeah, and it was awesome!" I yelled. "Maybe you should get some. Then you wouldn't be so miserable when everyone else does."

  She gasped, bringing her hand to her chest. Harold turned around, flashing me his backside.

  "What was awesome?" Clare stood in the doorway wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, holding her hand up to block the incoming rays of the setting sun from her eyes. "What's wrong?"

  "Hi, Clare, I'm sorry to bother you. I'm looking for Chase. I need to speak with him right away." She stared at me, blank of any recollection. "He's the maintenance man. Is he not here fixing the garbage disposal?" I asked.