French Vanilla & Felonies

by Erin Huss

  "That's it. We're leaving," Tom whispered, starting to stand.

  "I'm fine," I said, slowing my breathing and trying to calm down. "Fine," I repeated to myself.

  Breathe.

  Then it happened. The air shifted. A scruffy-faced man took the stand, swore in, and sat. Chase. He wore a fitted dark blue suit, white shirt, and a solid yellow tie. His normally shaggy hair was slicked back and wrapped behind his ears.

  The District Attorney stood behind a wooden podium, a pudgy fellow with a comb-over of silver hair. He asked Chase to state his name for the court. Chase rattled off a series of numbers instead.

  Tom's jaw dropped about a foot.

  Chase was no druggie. Chase was no maintenance man either. Chase was an undercover cop.

  I stared in awe over the next hour as Chase recounted the events leading up to the arrests, amid peppered questions and objections from various attorneys.

  Chase wasn't the bad guy. He wasn't a bad guy at all. He was the exact opposite. He was the good guy. A guy who had been protecting me all along. He'd tried to stop Patrick from hiring me to keep me off the property he knew was overrun with drug dealers. He'd been so shocked when Spencer admitted he was participating in illegal activity because he had done a sweep of all the residents and determined him harmless (which he was). He was terrible at his job because he was too busy doing his real job. He was disappearing and reappearing when I needed him, and after everything that had happened, my gut was right.

  It turned out Chase had been working on the Malone case for over a year before he went undercover. Rev was Malone's top dealer. The detectives had been following him closely, hoping he'd lead them to Malone. Over the summer, Vincent approached Rev about making extra money to pay off a gambling debt. Rev hooked Vincent up with Malone, and the two dealt together. When Rev moved in with Vincent, Chase had a hard time keeping tabs on the two because of the location of the apartment. So he took on the role as the maintenance man at the property, having assumed the identity of Chase Hudson. He built a good rapport with Vincent and later with the Rev. Turned out Rev and Vincent asked that Chase keep the nosey apartment manager (aka me) distracted—and what a distraction he was.

  Chase did not witness the murder of Kenneth Fisk. He wasn't on the property yet. But Vincent told him what had happened. That Kenneth saw him and Rev make a drug transaction outside his apartment early in the morning. Kenneth pulled his phone out to call the police (or so Vincent assumed, because yes, the police would have been the wiser choice). When Rev saw what was happening he "took care of him." An arrest couldn't be made because it was all hearsay. There was no proof.

  Chase received a tip from an anonymous source (aka me) with the exact location of Malone. After they got Malone and Vincent, they came back to the apartment building to arrest Rev, but first they had to catch him dealing.

  "When Rev answered the door, he was agitated," Chase continued. We were on hour two of his testimony. "I found the apartment manager inside. It was later confirmed during a confession by the defendant that he had taken the apartment manager hostage with plans to kill her."

  Yikes.

  "Once he agreed to sell me a gram, we were able to make the arrest. I'd planned on staying undercover, so I was arrested too, as was the apartment manager because at the time we weren't sure of her involvement. But she turned out to be in the clear."

  For a few glorious seconds our eyes met, and that spark exploded around us. He'd blown his cover so I wouldn't have to testify. Chase, or whatever his real name was, returned his attention to the District Attorney and casually lifted his hand and scratched his scruffy chin—the signal.

  Everything was fine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I and/or We have read and agree to abide by the terms of this lease. In witness thereof, the Parties have executed this Lease on this day.

  I took a seat at my desk. The office was quiet. I'd only just removed the Be back at 4:00 sign from the window. I grabbed the program from Kenneth's memorial service out from my bag and placed it in his thick file, on top of the incident reports, pages of notes, my theories, and the security deposit reconciliation sent to Scarlet.

  "Rest in peace, friend," I said as I closed the file for the last time.

  With a sigh, I scrunched my knees up to my chest. I still had on the black slacks and gray sweater I'd worn to the memorial. Good thing because the office was a freezer—sixty-degrees outside and five degrees cooler inside. My teeth chattered, my lips were chapped, and my skin was dehydrated. Didn't help that I had just polished off a pint of French Vanilla.

  Still, I knew I'd never survive a real snowy, blizzardy, mittens-and-earmuffs kind of December like the rest of the country was experiencing, and I was fine with it. I'd take crisp, smoggy air, bare trees, and the occasional rainstorm over frozen pipes, shoveled walkways, and slippery sidewalks. It sounded like a lot more work. Being a SoCal apartment manager had its benefits.

  The lobby door opened, and Mr. Nguyen backed in, dragging the five-foot palm tree I bought for the office. It wasn't until after I paid for it that I realized there was no way I could get it home. Then in came Mr. Nguyen to save the day. Just as he did when Apartment 5 had dripping muck-colored water at three in the morning, and when the pool's heater broke, and when Larry got his ponytail stuck in the garbage disposal. He was a lifesaver. Patrick called us "the dream team" because we were.

  I'd be lying if I said a ping didn't stab at my heart when I caught a glimpse of the embroidered "maintenance" above Mr. Nguyen's shirt pocket. I had a small sliver of hope that Chase, or whatever his real name was, would have contacted me after Rev's trial had ended. Show up at my apartment. Send a letter. An email. Maybe a friend request on Facebook?

  Nothing.

  Not one word.

  He'd been whisked away after his testimony, not to be heard from again. Granted it had only been two weeks. And it was possible he was already on a new job, having done his judicial duty by ensuring Rev got the life without parole he deserved. According to Tom, Chase didn't show up at Vincent's trial, where he was sentenced to twenty-five years. Malone's was still ongoing (and seemed to be never ending). According to the various news outlets covering the trial, Chase had not yet been called to testify.

  As for me, I was still hanging out on Alcatraz—catching some rays, feeding the birds, living the spinster life to the fullest. After Rev's trial the life rafts stopped…until today. Tom had sent me a text while I was at Kenneth Fisk's memorial, saying he had something "important to talk about" tonight. And he wanted to talk "alone." Which wouldn't typically mean too much except for the accompanying wink and heart emoji.

  A wink and a heart!

  Not to get all school-girly but—eeeekkkk!

  With Tom at my side, all would be right in my world—except for Wysteria.

  Wysteria's trial had been postponed again and again and again. It was bordering on ridiculous. Not only because she deserved to rot in prison, but also because there was a chance Chase would show up to testify, a very small chance. "Less than a one percent chance," Tom had said when I asked, not hiding his frustration with the question. He was cute when he was jealous.

  I went to the lobby and showed Mr. Nguyen where to put the tree. The added foliage helped the ugly. Except, crap. Now everything was off-centered. "Would you hate me if I asked you to get another one?" I asked directly into Mr. Nguyen's ear. Patrick said he'd personally see to it that Mr. Nguyen got fitted for hearing aids in the New Year. Mostly because talking to him on the phone was grueling.

  He shook his head. "No problem! I go now!" He was out the door before I could thank him.

  I grabbed the mail piled on the ground near the mail slot and sat on the couch with my feet propped up on the coffee table. I sorted the mail—most were bills, some spam. The property management catalogue looked interesting.

  Mickey from Apartment 19 walked through, arguing with himself. "Hi, Mickey," I said automatically, my attention on the magazine. He flung ope
n the door. "Bye, Mickey." I flipped to the marketing section. "These waving inflatable tube men are only fifty bucks?"

  "Those things are kind of creepy, though."

  My heart skipped two beats. I dropped the magazine, afraid to look up. My mind was playing tricks. It had to be. I had no time for liquidy limbs.

  "Cambria?" It was Chase. It was his voice. It was his smell. It was his sensual energy.

  I rolled my sleeves up to my elbows. It sure is hot in here. Deep breath in, slow breath out. I gazed up.

  Chase. His hair was shorter, styled, and darker—light brown. Only the faintest appearance of a five o'clock shadow brushed his jawline. The scruffy I-woke-up-like-this Chase had nothing on the groomed I-could-be-an-underwear-model Chase. He had on jeans and a red hooded sweatshirt with USC printed on the front in bold yellow lettering. I didn't know what to say, so I made a squeaky noise that could be interpreted as "Hello."

  He twisted his mouth to the side. "Maybe I shouldn't have come," he said more to himself than to me.

  "No…" I didn't know his name. It could be Bartholomew or Dan or Peter. It was hard imagining him going by any other name than Chase.

  "My name is Chase," he said, as if reading my mind. Holy crap! He's an undercover cop. He could read minds. Not literally. Part of his job was to get a read on people. I'd seen it on the hundreds of crime shows I'd watched. He had to know I was pining over him the entire time he was here. That's embarrassing.

  "You OK?" he asked.

  My insides were hyperventilating. "I'm fine. A little surprised, that's all." I was determined to have a normal "hey, haven't seen you in a while" conversation. Tom was on his way over with a heart and a wink! "What brings you by?" I asked casually. "We don't have any more drug dealers I need to know about, do we?"

  He took a step closer, close enough to touch. Control yourself, Cambria.

  "I wouldn't know. I'm not undercover anymore. I went to uniform with a different agency."

  "What?" I suspected that meant he was a regular police officer now. "Why?"

  "It was time."

  "Oh." I paused to regroup. "By the way, sorry for, you know, hitting you that night. I don't think I've ever hit anyone before."

  He laughed. It had a charming musical sound. "I thought it was awesome. Here you were, face-to-face with two druggies, and instead of cowering, you went all Tyson. You can definitely hold your own. I like that."

  "Thanks." I blushed, biting my lip.

  "So, hey." He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. "I came by to see if you wanted to go out. Maybe get ice cream?"

  "Go out?" I chuckled. No matter how hot he was (and he was), I couldn't run off with him like some schoolgirl. "Chase, I don't even know the real you."

  "What do you want to know?"

  "I don't know… Do you have a wife and kids at home?" It had crossed my mind, numerous times.

  "Do you think I'd be here asking you out if I did?"

  I shrugged. People are idiots. You never know.

  "No," he finally answered.

  Phew.

  "I've never been married. Never been close to anyone. Not a good idea when you're doing what I was doing for a living. I did grow up in Long Beach as I said. I do have nieces—four of them—and three brothers and a sister. I'm the second oldest. I did go to Long Beach City College, except I didn't drop out to do maintenance, obviously. I transferred to USC. I'm fluent in Spanish, Cantonese, and I can get by in Japanese. Still working on it. I root for the Angels. I run for fun. I could watch Seinfeld all day. I went undercover six years ago, and this is the first time I've worked in uniform. Anything else you want to know?"

  "How old are you?"

  "Thirty-three."

  "Chicken or beef?"

  "Vegetarian."

  "Morning or night person?"

  "Night."

  "Do you have a cat?"

  "No. Goldfish named Fish."

  "Was that really an old injury you had the day we were spying on Spencer, or did you hurt yourself chasing bad guys?"

  "Neither. I fell off a ladder getting a wasp's nest."

  "Did you…wait, you fell off a ladder?" I laughed. I laughed until tears blurred my vision. "I'm sorry. It's not funny…except it is. No offense, but you weren't very good at your job. Unless that was part of the cover?"

  "Hey, I fixed the air conditioner," he said with pride.

  "It broke the following week."

  His shoulders drooped. He looked genuinely sad, as if I'd just told him Santa wasn't real. "You know, it was a lot harder than I thought it would be. Doing this job and mine. I bet if I gave it my full attention, I'd be a good maintenance man."

  "Without a doubt," I humored him.

  "Yeah, the truth is I probably wouldn't." He laughed.

  "A man who can laugh at his own expense is a keeper," Grandma Ruthie used to say.

  I wiped my eyes. "Seriously, I have one more question. Did you really tell Patrick not to hire me because you were trying to protect us or was another undercover cop trying for my job?"

  "To protect you."

  That's what I thought.

  "I was upset when I heard you got the job," he continued. "You also made my job difficult by being so…"

  "Nosy?"

  "I was trying to think of a different word. But, yes, nosy. Squad cars here from a different agency. You staking out apartments. Hiding on top of carport roofs." He narrowed his eyes. "I still can't believe you did that."

  "You can't believe I did, or you can and wish I hadn't?"

  He smiled. "I bleeping wish you hadn't." He leaned over and placed his hands on my shoulders. His touch was warm. His face so close I could feel his breath brush against my cheeks. Heaven help me, I wanted to kiss this man.

  So I did.

  Once his mouth opened against mine—all else was forgotten. It was almost ravenous. Instinct took over, and I liquefied faster than a pint of French Vanilla sitting on my counter in the 90-degree heat.

  And I didn't mind one bit.

  * * * * *

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Erin Huss is a blogger and best selling author. She can change a diaper in fifteen seconds flat, is a master overanalyzer, has a gift for making any social situation awkward and yet, somehow, she still has friends. Erin shares hilarious property management horror stories at The Apartment Manager's Blog and her own daily horror stories at erinhuss.com. She currently resides in Southern California with her husband and five children, where she complains daily about the cost of living but will never do anything about it.

  To learn more about Erin, visit her online at: https://erinhuss.com/

  * * * * *

  BOOKS BY ERIN HUSS

  Cambria Clyne Mysteries:

  French Vanilla & Felonies

  Rocky Road & Revenge

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  If you enjoyed this Cambria Clyne Mystery, check out this sneak peek of another exciting novel from Gemma Halliday Publishing:

  A PLAYBOY IN PERIL

  a Jamie Winters Mystery

  by

  KELLY REY

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Nicky D's dead," Maizy Emerson whispered in my ear.

  Maizy was an almost-eighteen-year-old with Smurf blue hair, a collection of body piercings, and an IQ that was off the charts. She was also my landlord Curt Emerson's niece and the ept half of our inept crime-solving partnership, so when Maizy whispered, I listened. Even if I had to mute Bert Convy on the Game Show Network to do it. I had a thing for Bert Convy. I think it was the dimples.

  "Who's Nicky D?" I whispered back as I held my phone to my ear.

  "Why are you whispering?" she asked. "Oh my God, is Uncle Curt there? He is, isn't he? Are you guys doing
nicky-nack?"

  Hardly. Thanks to the miracle of air conditioning, I was dressed for a sweltering Northeast summer in sweatpants, a long-sleeve tee, and thick gym socks; if any skin was left showing, it was purely by accident.

  "Nicky D?" I prompted her.

  "They found him dead in the dressing room," Maizy said. "An amplifier fell on his head."

  "That's horrible," I said. "Who's Nicky D?"

  A sigh huffed into my ear. "Virtual Waste."

  I frowned at the phone. "Give me a break. I'm not that bad. I just had a long day."

  I could practically hear her eyes roll. "Virtual Waste is a band. Nicky D's the drummer. He's kind of a stud muffin." She paused. "Well, not so much anymore, I guess, since the amplifier landed on his head. I haven't been able to get backstage, but you wouldn't think something like that would improve his looks, right?"

  Eww.

  "Why would you want to go backstage?" I asked.

  "Are you kidding?" she asked. "I went to the trouble of renting a Cordoba from Honest Aaron and pushing it all the way to the Pinelands Bar and Auditorium so I could sneak into the Virtual Waste concert. Who wouldn't want to get backstage?"

  I clamped my mouth shut. Trust me, nothing good was waiting to come out. Honest Aaron was a shyster who operated on a cash-only basis, had no regard for legalities such as a current driver's license, and carried no inventory newer than 1975.

  "You're not saying anything," Maizy said. "You're wondering why a Cordoba, right?"

  "I'm wondering so many things," I told her.

  "Let me help," Maizy said. "It's easy to sneak in here. There's only one bouncer, and she's always too busy putting out dumpster fires to notice who might be avoiding an arbitrary Friday night cover charge."