French Vanilla & Felonies

by Erin Huss

  He betrayed me.

  I felt used. Sick. Confused. How could I have gotten everything so backward? He knew how I felt about him. I'm not that good of an actor, and I'm obviously terrible at hiding. He used my gag-worthy girly emotions to his advantage. It was humiliating.

  Still, call me stupid, but I held on to a thread of fraying hope that Chase would not mention my name in his confession. He never did remove Joyce's smoky armoire from my room, and he installed my medicine cabinet backwards. Seemed the least he could do was confirm I was nothing more than a nosy apartment manager who was desperate to keep her job. Unless…

  Oh no, was Chase the father?

  This could have a very soap opera-y ending.

  The door opened, and Detective Spray walked in. My throat tightened. My lips went numb. My stomach knotted. Her expression remained unreadable, but the door was open. Was this an invitation to leave? Was I free to go?

  Then Tom appeared at the door. His face was drawn and worried, but his familiar scent was calming—woody, citrusy with a hint of fabric softener. He dragged a chair next to mine and took a seat, opening his leather folder on the table. Sent text to Chase was scrawled across the top.

  "What's that?" I asked Tom.

  "You said you sent yourself a text message," Detective Spray answered for Tom, entering the room and standing across the table from us. "Why send the information to Mr. Hudson as well?"

  I was so confused. I didn't know what she was talking about, so I said, "I'm so confused. I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You sent a text about Malone's location at six thirteen yesterday evening to Chase Hudson's cell phone. Why specifically did you send the information to him?"

  Yesterday?

  Detective Spray slid a paper across the table. "These are the last dozen or so texts retrieved from Mr. Hudson's phone. Look familiar?"

  I took the paper and scanned the texts.

  Hudson: 32 is fixed.

  Clyne: She just called to say her toilet is still backing up. Can you refix, plz.

  Hudson: Will after lunch.

  Clyne: Nvm. Took care of it.

  Clyne: Not sure what happened just now? Why did you leave? Thanks for fixing the printer. But can you look at 22 g/d?

  Clyne: Excedrin. Soap. Bread. Peanut butter.

  Clyne: Sorry! Disregard.

  Clyne: Did you look at 22 garbage disposal? Plz.

  Clyne: Hello?

  Clyne: Vincent meeting Malone now at alcove. Rev. Alice is Wysteria. She stole the car. Vincent should be in prison. But why? Did he kill Kenneth?

  I read the report several times over, shaking my head. "I must have texted Chase by accident. I meant to text myself. I've done this before, texting him by accident. See?" I pointed to the grocery list. I remembered I was this close to adding tampons to the list. "I promise you that I thought I sent this to myself and was planning to call the police once I got off the roof. I didn't know who Malone was. I only knew something bad was happening in that apartment, and I suspected someone there killed Kenneth Fisk." I slid the paper back to Spray. "Rev pulled me off the carport roof and into his apartment, strangled me, zip-tied my hands, and I was only able to escape because Chase knocked on the door and distracted him." Tears pooled in my eyes. I blinked hard to keep them from spilling down my cheeks.

  Spray was unmoved. "Was Wysteria in the apartment?"

  I shook my head.

  "Do you know where she might be?"

  Tom snapped his folder shut and tapped his watch. "She said she doesn't know. You've got nothing on her. I think we've been here long enough. Done?"

  Spray gave him a disconcerted look. "For now."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Tenant agrees that Landlord will seek revenge if Tenant makes Landlord's life a living hell.

  With his hand pressed firmly on my lower back, Tom led me through the station to the lobby.

  It smelled like BO, onions, and cologne. In that order.

  We passed a man in an Ironman costume who was recounting his tale to a police officer behind a pane of bulletproof glass. It was obvious the sun had long since set and the full moon had taken center stage.

  How long have I been here?

  We neared an old woman seated by the exit. Her mouth was void of teeth, and a gray version of Einstein sprung from her head. Several grocery bags were piled in her lap. She looked exactly as I pictured Betty, my soon-to-be cellmate.

  I don't want to go to jail.

  "Can you tell me what you know?" I asked Tom.

  He loosened his tie and smiled, but it was without conviction. "We'll talk about it in the car."

  "No, now. Am I going to end up back here? Maybe I need to give a more detailed report of what happened. I was so flustered I don't think I got my point across."

  "There's nothing you can do right now." He placed his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eyes. "OK?"

  I shook my head. Nothing was OK. Frankly, I was tired of that word. "I'm not OK. I was arrested today. One of my residents is dead, and another was dealing drugs out of his apartment. My maintenance man was buying them. So was…holy crap. Kevin. We forgot about Kevin."

  "We forgot about Kevin," the old woman who looked like Betty repeated.

  "Kevin?" Tom asked, ignoring Betty.

  "He's the son of the owner of the building," I explained. "He was arrested too. The naked guy."

  Tom nodded, understanding whom I was referencing. How could you not?

  "I doubt his family would send a lawyer. Trust me. If you knew his story, you'd be all over this."

  "All over this," Betty parroted, letting out a Wicked Witch-inspired cackle. "Naked. Naked. Naked. Naked."

  Tom placed a hand on my lower back again, urging me away from the cackling stranger. I didn't move. "Tom, help him," I pleaded.

  He grunted. "He's the owner's son?" I nodded. "What's his last name?"

  "Kevin… I actually don't remember his last name. It starts with a Mc." I bit my lip, flipping through my memory bank. Kevin's file only said Kevin as if he were Prince or Cher. Certain people need only a first name. I'd read the family trust name on paperwork before…

  Betty began spitting out last name options. "McFarlin. McDonald. McDermott…"

  "I love Dylan McDermott," a woman chimed in. She had a teased pouf of red hair and bright orange lipstick. She was wearing a pleather tube top and a leopard-print short, short skirt. "He was in that show The Practice. You look like him, you know. Like a young Dylan McDermott." She pointed a crimson fingernail at Tom and winked.

  I studied Tom's profile with a musing tilt of my head. I'd never made the connection before. "You know what? I can see it now. A little…if you squint your eyes," I said to the woman. "Oh, hold on. I got it. It's McMills. Kevin McMills."

  Betty applauded and threw a starlight mint at us. It bounced off Tom's face.

  "Let's go," he barked.

  "But my mint," I pouted.

  Tom's eyes were ablaze and jaw tight. It was the angriest I'd seen him since…well…since that morning.

  "What's wrong with you, Cambria? None of this is funny. Do you realize how bad this could have been? You could have been killed. You could have been raped then killed. You could have been tortured, raped, then killed. Why aren't you taking this more seriously?" His eyes glistened. Is he going to cry? "I told you to stay out of it! You just inserted yourself into a major drug operation with one of LA's biggest drug lords. Do you realize the only reason I was able to get you out of here was because of some technicalities?"

  I didn't answer. I didn't know how to. He was clearly upset with me, maybe because he'd spent all night at the police station or because he knew he'd never get paid for his time or because he was as tired and hungry as I was. Or maybe he truly was upset with me for putting myself in this situation. Regardless, if anyone had the right to be mad it was me, but I wasn't. I was too tired and emotionally bruised to be angry—at least not yet. And I didn't want to fight with Tom, especiall
y after all he had done.

  "Thank you for everything. I'm sorry if I put you out," I said, my voice small.

  "You didn't put me out, Cam." He exhaled and ran his hands down his face. "I'll go find out what happened with Kevin. You…" He looked around the room. "Just…sit here." He pointed to an empty chair next to a man with a bloody tissue up his nose. "And don't talk to or leave with anyone."

  Seriously?

  Tom stalked off to speak to a policewoman behind the glass, glancing over his shoulder to be sure I was following instructions, as if I were an unruly child. His mood was out of character. He was the even-tempered, everything-is-gonna-be-totally-fine one. I was the pessimistic overreactor. If we were switching roles, he should have discussed it with me first.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tenant forfeits security deposit if Tenant turns out to be a complete psychopath.

  Tom sat behind the wheel of his 4Runner, one hand draped over the steering wheel and the other clutching the armrest. His eyes darted to Kevin's reflection in the rearview mirror, then to me, then to the road, only to repeat the rotation again. Kevin was squished in the back seat between Lilly's car seat and the window. He was swimming in Tom's Laker shirt and khakis, with his feet slipped into Tom's three-sizes-too-big sandals. He stared out the window, his face etched in sadness. Tom said people can be depressed when they come down from a cocaine binge, and Kevin was no exception. Especially when you added in the possession of cocaine, resisting arrest, and public nudity charges—he had plenty to be unhappy about.

  "Hey, Kevin," I said, turning around in the passenger seat to face him. "Did you happen to see Chase when you were in there?" He continued to stare out the window, not answering. "You ever see him visiting Apartment 39?"

  "He was there all the time," he said, monotone, to the window.

  My heart sank. Regardless of the fact that Chase had been arrested and that the police had his phone records, I still hung on to the hope he'd mistakenly been caught up in all this. Like I was.

  "I wish you would have told me," I said. "I was completely blindsided."

  Kevin exhaled, fogging the window enough to write his name in it. "I didn't say anything because you were screwing each other and I figured you must have known."

  I was shaking my head before he even finished his sentence. "Nope, that's not true. Nothing happened at all."

  "You wanted it to then." True. Not something I wanted revealed in front of Tom, especially after his outburst over Chase spending the night.

  I flipped back into the passenger seat, fidgeting with my seat belt. "He must still be high," I told Tom. He returned a halfhearted smile and pulled into the parking lot of the apartments. The SUV bounced over the uneven pavement until we arrived at the entryway, near Kevin's apartment.

  The place was quiet at nearly four in the morning, and only a few windows showed signs of life—the blue glow from a television or the dull light of a lamp. If I hadn't spent the entire day in hell, I'd be tucked into my own bed sound asleep as well.

  "Remember, Kevin, Sunday at ten," Tom said to the rearview mirror. "Keep the clothes, and wear a suit and tie if you have one."

  Kevin slipped out the door without answering, slamming it shut behind him. He looked like a child in adult clothing shuffling along the pathway to his apartment.

  Poor Kevin.

  I leaned back against the headrest. What a long, terrible, terrible day. Tom looked about as exhausted as I felt, his face pale, the top button of his shirt undone, and tie pulled loose.

  He began mindlessly playing with the keys dangling from the ignition. I noticed the bronze circular keychain hiding in the mass of keys, the one with I Love Daddy stamped in the middle. A gift I had bought him for his first Father's Day. I had wrapped it in blue wrapping paper (his favorite color) and attached a homemade card with Lilly's handprint on the cover. I said it was from Lilly, but of course there was no way she crawled down to Hollywood Boulevard to purchase it for him, nor did she wrap it, tie a bow, or even know it was Father's Day. Tom never said anything. Anything. He barely acknowledged the gift. Not even a blasé "Thanks." I was livid. Livid. And still bitter over it. At least I had been until I noticed the keychain hanging from his ignition, weathered from years of use. I'd never noticed it on his key ring before. Probably because this was the most time we had ever spent together since…well…since the night we made Lilly.

  "What time do I need to get Lilly from Mrs. Nguyen?" I asked.

  "I told her I'd call first thing in the morning to let her know when I'd be able to pick Lilly up. I checked in with her before I knew what was happening with you." Tom let out an exhausted sigh.

  "Do you think I'm going to jail?"

  He shook his head. "It's not you they want. They've been working on this Malone case for over a year. You were proving problematic at first because you kept calling the police and staking out apartments, but still, they figured you were harmless. Chase and Kevin both corroborated your story. Detective Spray was really stuck on why you sent that text message. It's because of that text message that they were able to find Malone and make the arrest."

  "What about Kenneth Fisk? I think Rev is the one who killed him."

  "I don't know. They were still looking for someone named Wysteria. They could have a few more questions for you, but you had been detained for far too…" He paused for so long I thought he had fallen asleep until he said, "I wouldn't be surprised if they contacted you for some more of that stuff."

  "That stuff?" I snorted. "Did you just fall asleep?"

  "A little," he confessed, flashing his signature side-smirk.

  I laughed much harder than the situation called for. "Go get some sleep."

  "That's the best idea you've had today." He gave a tired chuckle and shifted the car into reverse.

  "Wait." I placed my hand on his arm. He tensed under my touch. "Let me get out first."

  "I thought you were staying with me."

  "Why would I do that?"

  "I figured you wouldn't want to be alone. Plus you said you were losing your job, your apartment…your parents think I'm gay… Ring a bell?"

  Oh. That. You know it's been a bad day when losing your job slips your mind. Life had been hell since becoming an apartment manager. After Patrick found out what happened, would he let me keep my job? Would I still want it?

  I didn't know.

  All I knew for certain was that Tom was right—I didn't want to be alone.

  "Before we go," I said, "can I go to Vincent's carport? I want my phone back." I felt naked without it, as if I were missing an appendage.

  "Not a good idea."

  "Why not? I have to answer the emergency line."

  He gave me a you've-got-to-be-kidding-me look.

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

  "You're going to have to wait until we're sure the police have finished examining the area."

  Now it was my turn to give him a you've-got-to-be-kidding-me look.

  Finally, Tom sighed, clicked his seat belt free, and reached for the door. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he groaned. "I doubt it's even up there, but I'll go check."

  "Really?" I was surprised and thankful. He was going above and beyond his lawyering and baby daddy duties. I'll have to buy him lunch or dinner for his help. I still had those free burrito coupons. "I promise I'll stay here and not move, ever," I teased.

  Tom allowed himself a small smile. "I think I'd like that," he said, more to himself than me, looking surprised at his own words as he opened the door and slid off the seat.

  I think I'd like that?

  What does that mean?

  I propped my elbow on the windowsill and watched Tom stroll toward 39's patio fence.

  Was he throwing me a life raft? A means of escaping the Alcatraz Island I'd been trapped on since I uttered the words "I'm pregnant" nearly four years ago?

  No.

  He couldn't be.

  Or could he?

  I hadn't been
down the "maybe" road with him in months…or…er…weeks. Not wanting to get my hopes up only to have them squashed by his playboy ways. It was the family life I'd longed for since my parents' divorce twenty years ago. A real family—a mom, dad, kid all under one roof kind of family. It was easy to picture Tom, Lilly, and me all gathered around the kitchen table eating the mac and cheese I made from the dusty cookbook my mom had given me. Tom would make Lilly laugh, distracting her from her food. I'd playfully scold him but secretly love every second of it. Family vacations to the snow, all three of us clothed in mittens and scarfs and puffy jackets, building a snowman or sledding down a hill. Then there'd be soccer games, me as the coach, him as the team parent, Lilly as the star player. Family pictures at the beach in jeans and coordinating shirts. Eventually, a little brother or sister would be added to the mix…

  It was a warm thought. Everything I'd ever wanted.

  Then my mind took a swift left turn, and the green-eyed maintenance boy entered the picture. Chase and his ridiculously perfect hips, the way they swayed when he walked. The way his jeans hung off them in the right way. In my daydreams he didn't have to be a criminal. In my daydreams he could be an upright citizen, an excellent maintenance man, and an even better boyfriend, eventual fiancé, husband, stepfather then father. He'd be wonderful with Lilly, taking on the stepfather role with ease…

  What's wrong with me?

  Why couldn't I get Chase out of my head? Why would I ever entertain a thought with him in it? Ugh, I was developing Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome.

  Hold on.

  Where's Tom?

  Too busy daydreaming, I'd forgotten what was happening. Tom was nowhere in sight. I pulled the keys out of the ignition and jumped out of the car, locking it over my shoulder with the remote. I headed to the wall, the one I had so ungracefully climbed hours earlier. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I loudly whispered, "Let's go, Tom."

  Nothing.

  "Psst, Tom. Don't worry about my phone." A sudden chill ran down my spine. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting to find someone, but no one was there.