by Erin Huss
Kane and Julia looked at each other and said, "We'll take it."
* * *
Kane and Julia admired the landscaping as we walked back to the office. It was a beautiful day. No clouds. No wind. "Blue sky and 87 degrees," per morning weather report. The buds had blossomed into poppies, geraniums, and iceberg roses. The ivy was lush and covered the breezeway in rich leaves and pink flowers.
We saw Kevin sorting through a stack of mail. He had his backpack slung over his shoulder and his work uniform on—Gus's Cleaning Crew. Tom had helped Gus with his legal woes. Gus had been the one who'd been accused of hiring a hit man to kill his boss. He'd been exonerated, thanks to Tom, and had opened his own cleaning company, since his boss was dead. He'd hired Kevin as a favor for Tom. It was "the crappiest job on the planet, maybe second only to yours," Kevin had said to me on his first day. But he was a rent-paying resident now. News he'd taken far better than I'd thought he would. It gave him the motivation to do something better with his life. He'd signed up for art classes at the local junior college. He planned to put his age-and-weight-estimating skills to use as a police sketch artist someday. Until then, he kept track of my ever-fluctuating weight. Today I was 129.
I never did tell Amy that Kevin was Dirty Dan because, again, I didn't want to deal with any more murders.
"Hi, Kevin," I said as we passed.
Kevin grunted a greeting without looking up.
"Who's that?" Julia turned around and watched Kevin kick the pool gate closed with his shoe.
"That's Kevin. His parents own the building."
"And he lives here?" She bit at her lip.
Good luck.
Though, selfishly, if Kevin had another friend to hang out with, then who would watch If Only with me on Monday nights? We were about to find out who Bobbie Dart would choose—her newly resurfaced husband or the detective.
Kevin was rooting for the husband.
I was rooting for the detective.
Kane, Julia, and I stopped at the first laundry room to have a look around. The machines were all going, and Sophie from Apartment 38 was inside cleaning the windows. She'd fallen into a bit of trouble after a customer had received a bad essential-oil concoction. According to the legal papers, the plaintiff turned blue after spritzing himself with the Weight Loss Blend.
Sophie needed cash. I didn't need any more vacancies. Plus, I hated cleaning the laundry rooms. And now that Mr. Nguyen was both the maintenance man and training to become a maintenance supervisor over multiple properties, the laundry rooms were my responsibility. I assigned them to Sophie, gave her twenty bucks a month, and everyone was happy.
Except for Tam in Apartment 7. He was the one who turned blue.
"It's cool you have two laundry rooms," said Kane.
Julia ran her hand along the washing machine. "I hate lugging my stuff to the laundromat."
"It's a wonderful place to live," Alexis from Apartment 28 chimed in. She was sitting on the counter, waiting for her clothes to dry and stroking the doxie-poo on her lap.
I'd learned a doxie-poo was half-dachshund and half-poodle. After she'd filed for divorce from Trent, her therapist had said a dog would help her not want to kill her husband. She had a note from her doctor, and Patrick said there was nothing we could do, and I didn't want to deal with any more dead people. Once the doxie-poo entered the community, Apartment 8's podiatrist prescribed her a cat. Apartment 12's chiropractor said he had to have a yorkipoo. (Apparently, you can breed a poodle with anything and call it a "poo." And no matter how much poo was in a dog, I was still allergic).
In short, I hadn't taken a deep breath since March.
I didn't mind, too much.
After my interactions with Munch, I got it. Animals are great companions. I looked into getting a hairless dog myself but—holy poo. They cost around eight hundred dollars.
You'd think there'd be a discount since they didn't come with fur.
I got my animal fix whenever I went to Tom's. Munch was a great companion for him and, based on the bra I'd found in his couch the last time I visited, Tom's dry spell was over. I never did receive, nor find out, what the sparkle was.
* * *
Back in the office, I pulled an application from the file cabinet and placed it on the newly installed counter. "I'll need three months of pay stubs from you both and copies of your driver's licenses," I said.
Kane and Julia clicked their pens and filled out the applications.
Once done, they each said "I'm done." And pushed the papers across the counter.
"By the way, I like the orange." Julie pointed her pen to the accent wall.
"Thank you. We're in the process of remodeling." As if the tarps, sawdust, exposed beams, and two electricians currently working didn't speak for itself. It had taken a while to get the insurance money. Filing two claims for the same room over the span of two days had raised a few red flags.
I did get a new desk. It was a bamboo, fully adjustable standing or sitting desk. Someday I planned to stand while I worked. My knee was still wonky. And by wonky, I meant it clicked when I walked and locked when the temperature dipped below seventy.
I should probably see a doctor about that.
Amy opened the door and peeked her head in. "Sorry to interrupt, but don't you have to leave soon?"
Yes, but I was renting an apartment here. Priorities! I wanted to say, but instead said, "I'll be right in."
"Was that Amy Montgomery from Ghost Confidential?" Julia asked. "Her death scene this week was—wow! I didn't see that one coming."
"Neither did we." A piano to the head, then her ghost was sentenced to eternal damnation. In short: there was little hope for a comeback. Even without Lola and Frank, the show continued. The ratings were higher than ever.
"If that was Amy Montgomery, then…" Kane took a step back. "Is this the apartment complex that was on the news?"
Ugh. "It is," I admitted. I'd lost way too many prospective residents once they'd figured it out.
Kane's face lit up. "That means Crazy Bird Lady lives here?"
Crazy Bird Lady, aka Silvia Kravitz, had become a meme and GIF star.
"I can't give out personal resident information," I said.
"So you're saying she does still live here?" Julia asked, hopeful.
"I can't confirm or deny."
For whatever reason, the possibility of being neighbors with Crazy Bird Lady sold them. (They obviously hadn't met her yet.) They turned in their paycheck stubs, signed the rental verification permission slip, and I made a copy of their driver licenses.
We said our goodbyes, and I locked the door behind them.
Amy was in my newly painted and carpeted living room, lounged across my new ultra comfy gray chaise couch. (It pays to have renter's insurance, just as it pays to have smoke damage.) Amy had on a wide-rimmed hat and flowy sundress, like she was sitting poolside at the Four Seasons, not here to babysit. She pointed the remote at the television and pressed the Off button with no luck. "This thing is busted." She pounded it against the palm of her hand before giving up.
"I think I rented my last apartment," I said.
"Shanna's?"
I nodded.
"Did you ever hire an exorcist?" she asked.
I'd looked into it, but exorcists were expensive. "No, but I put salt in the corners."
"That should…oh no!" Amy squealed in horror. "Can you believe this?" She pointed behind me.
"What now?" I turned around. On the television screen was a commercial for the 20/20 episode about the Ghost Confidential Murders. Amy's face took up the entire screen. It was footage of her leaving the police station after her last interview. Tom was at her side. She had on big-rimmed sunglasses and a floppy hat. She'd had an allergic reaction to the seaweed wrap, and her face was covered in welts. Not a good look.
"My name has been cleared. Why do you keep bringing me into this? Find a new story!" Amy screamed at the television.
I grabbed the remote and hit Pa
use. "Isn't any publicity good publicity?"
"Not when it involves murder!"
Good point.
I pushed Play. The deep voice-over announced, "We'll take a closer look at all parties involved. Into the life of Jessica Wilders before she achieved fame and fortune." They cut to the same picture I'd found in Shanna's box, the one of Jessica and Shanna with their charm bracelets on and Katherine behind them. "We'll look at Lance Holstrom." They cut to a picture of Lance on the beach with a coconut drink in his hand and a smile so big you could almost see every single one of his bleached teeth. "And the assistant who knew too much." They cut to a picture of Zahra. She was a short middle-aged woman with dark skin and dark hair streaked with gray. Not at all like the Zahra I'd pictured in my head. In my head Zahra looked like Ellen DeGeneres. Not sure why. Ellen's my go-to actor when visualizing people.
"It's been three months. You'd think news would die down by now." Amy bit at her nail beds. "It's probably because of the stupid movie."
"What stupid movie?"
Amy gawked at me. "You haven't heard about the movie?"
"No!"
I had my new phone out. According to Google, Lifetime had The Ghost Confidential Murder movie in production. I scrolled through the cast list on IMDb.
Jessica Wilders played by Anna Paquin.
Meh. I could see the resemblance if you squinted your eyes and tilted your head to the side.
Scroll
Scroll
Scroll
Amy Montgomery played by Julianne Hough.
Oh geez. Not that Julianne Hough was a bad choice. It was further proof of how badly Amy's career had tanked. She couldn't even land the role as herself.
Scroll
Scroll
Scroll
Detective Cruller played by Chace Crawford.
I could see the resemblance.
Scroll
Scroll
Scroll
Apartment manager, Cam, played by…
"David Spade!" Not that there was anything wrong with David Spade, other than the fact he was a man and I was a woman. "This is ridiculous! Stupid producers." I tossed my phone onto the couch. "I hate Hollywood."
"Hear, hear." Amy wiped away a tear. "Aren't you going to be late?"
I checked my watch. "Not if I leave now and don't hit any traffic."
"Are you wearing that?"
I looked down at my jeans, Converses, and blue shirt. "No?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
See also: David Spade
I took the 5 Freeway and made it to Burbank in less than twenty minutes. I parked at the curb and climbed out of my car. As I stepped onto the sidewalk, I flattened the front of my dress with my hands and picked off the crushed Cheerios stuck to the bottom. I had on a blue Anthropologie dress, the one I'd worn when I first interviewed with Patrick last year. Fitting, given the situation.
Trevor had fired the Burbank apartment manager during the inspection. It had been three months, and they had yet to find a replacement. It was easy to see why. The position wasn't on-site, the pay was crummy, no benefits, no pool, no laundry room, no parking, 32 units, and three vacancies, with two notices on file. Seasoned managers wanted nothing to do with it, and those who had applied weren't qualified. I wasn't sure at what point Patrick thought, This place is a hot mess, the situation is dire, no one will take the job…you know who would be perfect? Cambria Clyne. But he had called the week before to offer me the position over the phone. The deal was I'd manage both communities for slightly more pay, plus gas money. It wasn't the golf cart I was hoping for, but it was a step in the right direction.
Before I could accept the offer, I had to look at the property to be sure it was a good fit for me. The fact I had to park three blocks away wasn't a good start, but the fact that I barely made it one block before I had to stop and catch my breath told me the forced exercise wouldn't be a bad thing.
The street was lined with apartment buildings on both sides, cars were parked along the curbs, and the sidewalks were busy with women jogging, men pushing strollers, college-aged kids with a script in one hand and pulling a cart of groceries with the other.
I arrived at Building 414 feeling a bit winded. I could tell the property had been without a manager. The Now Leasing sign was dirty, there were cobwebs in the windows, and the gutters needed to be cleaned. Details only a trained eye would notice. Other than that, it was a nice place.
The building was a two-story Spanish style with clean landscaping and a towering palm tree in the front. There was no security gate, and I walked under an archway, past the mailboxes into the courtyard. I did a slow spin to take in the surroundings. I counted forty-two infractions. Charcoal BBQ pits, wet laundry flung over the railing, chalk drawings on the walkways, ashtrays by the front door.
"These people are going to hate me," I said under my breath as I did another spin around.
At least I wouldn't live here, so they could hate me all they wanted Tuesdays and Thursdays from nine to five. Then I could go home. Not a bad gig for an extra ten grand a year. My only reservation was the close proximity to Warner Bros. Studios. I had a hunch most who lived here were starving actors. And I'd sworn off Hollywood.
I checked my watch. I was going to be late, but I had a good feeling about this. I could turn this place around. Before I'd left, I'd called Patrick to let him know. "I'll take it."
* * *
I parked at the police station, climbed out of my car, and called Chase to tell him I was there. He told me he'd be right out and to meet him by his car, which was all fine and dandy, except there were ten black sedans parked in the back and I had no idea which one was his. I assumed we were taking a work vehicle since this was official police duty.
I assumed wrong. My phone rang from the depths of my purse, and the screen told me it was Chase.
"Where are you?" he asked.
"Waiting by the assembly of black sedans."
"We're taking my car."
I looked around and saw Chase across the parking lot waving his arm to get my attention. He was dressed casually: jeans, white hoodie, black baseball cap on his head. With the urn in his hands.
"Why aren't you more dressed up?" I asked.
"Because we're not going to a funeral."
Fair enough.
Chase drove a black Jeep Wrangler Rubicon. He opened the passenger door for me, and I slid in and buckled my seat belt. Chase climbed into the driver's side and passed over Mom. I put her on my lap and held on with two hands.
"You sure about this?" Chase asked.
"I'm positive. Now drive."
He typed the address into the GPS, and the automated woman's voice directed us to take the 405 north. Jessica's father didn't want the urn back. He'd told Chase to burn it. Poor Mr. Wilders had no idea how badly that would end for him. The next person Mom would go to was Shanna, who was in prison for the foreseeable future. The urn had sat in the police station until Chase was able to find the next of kin, which wasn't easy. Katherine Roberts was an only child, and her parents had died when she was a teenager. Finally, after three months of searching, and three months of me pestering him, Chase had found a cousin in Calabasas who said she'd happily take Katherine's remains. And he asked if I would like to deliver the urn personally.
I'd said, "No."
Then he asked me again, and I replied with, "Hell no."
By the third time, I gave in.
Katherine's cousin lived in a gated community not far off the freeway. We had to provide photo identification to the security guard working the booth, before the golden gates would part. The cousin's mansion was at the top of a hill overlooking the valley. Chase pulled into the circular driveway, and we took a moment to marvel at the grandeur. It looked as if it were cut from Beverly Hills Living magazine. Everything about the home was grand. The marble fountain out front, beaming white columns, bushes trimmed into perfect squares. The balconies were bigger than my apartment, and the front door was made of glass and stoo
d at least fifteen feet tall.
If Katherine was still disturbed here, then there was no pleasing her.
I rang the doorbell, and a beautiful melody of chimes echoed from inside. Chase put a hand on my lower back while we waited. We saw the silhouette of a person walking down a winding staircase toward the door. She stopped to speak to another silhouette before she answered.
My heart leapt into my throat, and I made some sort of strangled sound as the door opened. It was Bobbie Dart from If Only. Bobbie Dart played by…by…by…Sandy Roberts. I'd never been more starstruck in all my life. Or dumbstruck. I forgot how to speak. So Chase took over for me.
"Hello, Mrs. Roberts. My name is Detective Chase Cruller, and this is Cambria Clyne."
Sandra had long black silky hair, big brown eyes, dark skin, and a smile that lit up a room. She took Mom from me and invited us to stay for tea in the library. Even though Chase and I had dinner plans, and even though I didn't drink tea, I eagerly replied, "Yes!" Because how often are you invited to tea with your favorite television star?
Sandra's library was a circular room with floor-to-ceiling books. Four cozy-looking leather armchairs were positioned around a small coffee table that looked as if it belonged in an ancient Greek castle. A short woman in jeans and a high ponytail, who I assumed to be the maid, brought in a tray heavy with teacups and a kettle.
The three of us took a seat. The leather felt like butter against my skin, and I wanted to curl up and take a nap. Sandra poured us each a cup of tea. The tea tasted like watered-down grass, but when Bobbie Dart offers you tea, you drink it. And you like it.
"Are either of you readers?" Sandra asked.
"I read casually," Chase said. "I know Cambria is. She keeps a copy of Pride and Prejudice in her nightstand."
Sandra's eyes gleamed at this news.
Oh hell.
"My all-time favorite book. Don't you just love Jane Austen?" she asked.
"Who doesn't?" I said. "Mr. Darcy is my favorite character."
