by Erin Huss
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DOUBLE FUDGE & DANGER
Cambria Clyne Mysteries book #3
by
ERIN HUSS
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2019 by Erin Huss
Gemma Halliday Publishing
http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
To my beautiful daughter Natalie, who endured many years of apartment tours, move-out inspections, and long office hours. I love you!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A huge thank-you to Gemma Halliday, Susie Halliday, and everyone at Gemma Halliday Publishing. To Jed, Natalie, Noah, Ryder, Emma, and Fisher, you are my motivation in all things. Thank you to my beta readers Ashley Denton, Nicole Laverne, and Blaine Tavish; Cody Christiansen for being my go-to lawyer; Ashley Stock for my author photo; everyone at Cozy Mystery Mingle for your input and support.
I underwent a prophylactic bilateral mastectomy while editing this book. The entire process—from diagnosis to surgery—was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, and I want to thank my readers for your kind thoughts and prayers. They meant everything to me. Thank you to my author tribe, my friends, family, and especially Dr. Leslie Memsic and Dr. Georgeanna Huang for taking great care of me. There's no way I would have had the mental and physical health required to keep writing if I weren't in such great hands.
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PROLOGUE
We all have fears. You know it. I know it. If monsters are hiding under the bed like my daughter thinks they are, then they know it too. There are the small conquerable fears. For me it's elevators. A tiny box suspended above the ground by thin cables—no thanks. If stairs are available, I will take them. Unless I'm going to the tenth floor. Then I'm able to look fear right in the face and say "Not today, fear" and hyperventilate the entire ride up.
There are the deep-seated emotional fears. For example, Tom, my baby daddy, who has a fear of commitment. Or maybe it's rejection. Or maybe it's failure. Or maybe it's all the above. Whatever the fear, it drives me bonkers.
Then there are the unspeakable fears. A threat to our survival, or worse, a threat to those we love most. The type of fear that ignites the fight or flight within and drives you to make desperate and even deadly decisions.
This is what makes my job interesting.
As an apartment manager, I'm privy to all my residents' freak flags, secrets, and fears. Whether I want to be or not.
Trust me. It's not a job for the delicate, bad-tempered, or anyone prone to panic attacks. It's a job for me…or at least I thought it was until I woke up in the back of an ambulance with a gunshot wound.
Now, I'm not so sure.
It might be time to quit.
CHAPTER ONE
—Lessons I've learned since I became an apartment manager:
the term emergency is subjective.
"It's back on!" I ran to the couch with my bowl of ice cream, careful not to knock down the fans strategically placed around my living room. "Everyone, quiet." I unmuted the television, sat beside my daughter, Lilly, and handed her a napkin to wrap around her ice cream cone.
Celebrity Tango, a dance competition pairing sort-of celebrities with hot professional dancers, was on. My best friend, Amy Montgomery, was a sort-of celebrity and had managed to clumsily dance her way into America's hearts. No one, Amy included, anticipated her making it past week one. She lacked rhythm, grace, and popularity. Vegas gave her +2500 odds to win at the beginning of the season. I had no idea what that meant exactly, since I'd never gambled (you kind of need money to bet money), but I'd been told it wasn't good. And now Vegas could shove it, because Amy was on fire!
All that stood between her and the semifinals were a former NFL quarterback, a former soap star, a former boy band member, and an Argentine tango. This had to be celebrated.
And celebrate we did.
If celebrating meant eating ice cream, watching the show on my non-high-def TV with my maintenance man, his wife, my neighbor, and my three-year-old daughter while six fans were going at high speed around us, because it was June and 110 degrees inside my apartment—then, yeah, we were celebrating.
My name is Cambria Clyne, and I'm an on-site apartment manager slash party animal.
I ate a spoonful of double fudge ice cream, crisscrossed my legs, and stared at the television, feeling excited and proud. I already knew the results. The show had taped earlier, and Amy had sent me a text saying Raven (the former soap star and this season's favorite to win) had been sent home in a shocking elimination.
No one else at the party knew.
The Celebrity Tango logo flashed across the screen. Dom Astroid, a fifty-something former child star with skinny eyebrows and a helmet of dark hair, was this season's host. He flashed a movie star smile and told a few corny jokes that elicited a giggle from Lilly. Then he introduced Amy and her partner. The two took center stage. Amy looked nervous but happy. Her partner looked extra bronzed and determined. The music started, and they began to tango.
"I can't believe how much she's improved," I said in awe. "There's no way she'd be able to do that turn week one."
"Sure she's improved," said Kevin. "But this choreography is crap. They'll get a seven at most." Kevin was my neighbor. His parents owned the building—making them my boss's boss's boss. But Kevin had been disowned years ago and held no weight in decision-making around there. Otherwise, the new air-conditioning units I'd lobbied for might have been approved, and I wouldn't be sitting in a pool of sweat.
"The choreography isn't crap. It's art." I pointed the remote at the television. "They're supposed to be in an interrogation room. He is the detective, and Amy is the person of interest. He's coaxing the truth out of her with a sexy man shimmy. They get a—" I caught myself before I spoiled the ending. "I imagine they'll get a decent score."
An eight. They get an eight!
"There's nothing sexy about a man shimmy," Mrs. Nguyen (pronounced when) piped in.
She and her husband, Mr. Nguyen, lived on-site and were Lilly's stand-in grandparents since her real grandparents weren't local. Mr. Nguyen was also our trusty maintenance man. I couldn't pronounce their first names, so we kept it formal. "And what happened
to his shirt? Can't the show afford buttons? Why do I need to see his belly button?"
"That's how kids wear clothes today," Mr. Nguyen added. "Nothing to the imagination."
Lilly looked up at me with her big hazel eyes. "What does man shimmy mean?"
"It's this." Kevin puffed his chest and gave it a shake.
Lilly made a face. "Oh yeah, that's not sexy."
I tucked a dark curl behind her ear. "Don't say sexy."
Lilly pushed my hand away. "Why not?"
"It doesn't sound right coming out of a three-year-old's mouth."
"Can me say shimmy?"
"It's I, and sure."
"Yay." Lilly did a shimmy then licked the dribble of ice cream slithering down her cone.
"Speaking of sexy. Amy's partner is hot." Kevin whistled. "What's his status?"
"He's way too young for you." Mrs. Nguyen positioned herself in front of a fan and pulled at her shirt. "And he doesn't even have chest hair yet."
"I think they wax," I said. "Also, Kevin, he's married."
"To a man or woman?"
"Does it matter?"
Kevin thought this over. "Guess not. He's in New York, and I'm in LA. The distance thing wouldn't work."
I rolled my eyes. Kevin was a good-looking guy. Auburn hair peppered with a few strands of gray. His face had strong, well-defined masculine features, and his physique was less scrawny now that he was sober. But he had terrible taste in men. I had pasty skin, a face full of freckles, blue eyes, and dark hair that I'd nicknamed Einstein. Not because of its intelligence, but because it resembled Albert Einstein's do. And I had great taste in men.
Mostly.
Amy and her partner continued their seductive interrogation and twirled around the dance floor. She looked terrific—slender, her blonde and teal hair slicked into a tight bun, and her ordinarily skeletal frame had definition for the first time in the twenty years I'd known her.
Dancing does a body good.
I looked down at my stomach and poked my gut, watching the tip of my finger disappear. Ice cream doesn't do a body good.
I had a bad habit of eating my feelings.
If you had my job, you'd eat your feelings too.
My cell buzzed in my back pocket, and I paused the television. Everyone did a collective "hey!" while I glanced at my phone. It was the emergency line. Crap. I thunked the heel of my hand against my forehead.
During my stint as an apartment manager, I'd learned the term emergency was subjective. Last week I'd received a three AM call from a resident because the wind was too loud.
FYI: not an emergency.
I placed the phone to my ear and waited for the automated recording. "You have a call on the after-hours emergency line. To accept, please press one." The robotic operator had a pleasant British accent.
I did as instructed and waited until I was connected before saying, "This is Cambria."
"We have a flood in our apartment!" a woman cried.
FYI: this is an emergency.
I handed Kevin my bowl of ice cream and shot upright. "Can you see where the water is coming from?"
"It's raining down from the ceiling in the master bathroom!"
In the background I could hear droplets splattering against the linoleum.
Great.
Water from the ceiling meant I had two flooded apartments. I sandwiched the phone between my ear and shoulder while I slipped on my shoes. "I'm on my way. Which apartment are you in?"
"Apartment 105."
Hal-le-lujah!
I kicked off my shoes. I managed a 40-unit apartment building in Los Angeles, and starting tomorrow, I also managed a 32-unit apartment building in Burbank. In short, no Apartment 105 under my stewardship and I could continue to party.
"Sorry, you have the wrong number," I said.
"No. I meant to call you!"
"We don't have an Apartment 105." I grabbed my bowl of ice cream from Kevin. "You called the wrong emergency line."
"No, I didn't. I live next door, and I called the manager's cell, and she's not answering. I need help!"
"Did you go to Violet's apartment?" Violet Pumpkin was the property manager next door. We'd conversed on several occasions. Mostly during market surveys. I'd call and ask her what her current prices were and how many vacancies she had. All the other managers on my survey list either tiptoed around the last question, or they'd tell me they were at full occupancy. Then I'd ask the mailman, and he'd give me the real number. But not Violet. She'd give me her actual vacancy percentage, talk about decreased foot traffic, what advertising methods were working for her, and which weren't. She was open and honest. A real team player.
"We did, and she didn't answer," the caller said.
"How long ago did you call her?"
"It's been at least five minutes."
Good grief. "You need to give her time to get back to you."
"I don't have time. There's water coming from the ceiling."
Good point.
I covered the receiver and looked at Kevin. "There's a leak in an apartment next door. They can't get a hold of Violet."
"Not your circus. Not your monkeys," he said.
True. I had my own circus and plenty of monkeys to deal with.
"Have they tried Antonio?" asked Mr. Nguyen. "He lives on-site."
Right, the maintenance man. "Did you try Antonio?"
There was a pause. "No, I haven't. But—"
"If I were you, I'd go knock on his door and tell him what's going on."
"OK, but—"
"I'm positive Violet will call you shortly. She's always on top of things. If she doesn't get back to you soon, you can call a plumber."
"Call a plumber," the woman echoed in disgust, as if I'd suggested she don a red wig, move to New York, and try out for a Broadway production of Annie. "Do you know how much I pay in rent? I shouldn't have to call a plumber myself! I shouldn't have to call around to get help! I shouldn't have a leaking ceiling!"
"I understand your frustration, and I wish you luck. Good night." I hung up before she could continue to yell. I was trying this new thing where I didn't allow other people to take out their frustration on me.
Especially when it's not even my monkey.
I searched through the contacts on my phone and found Violet's cell number. My call went straight to voicemail, which meant Violet was probably on the other line already dealing with the leak.
Good.
I pointed the remote at the television and pushed Play.
Amy finished her tango with a dip and a megawatt smile. The crowd cheered. Amy beamed. Her partner did a fist pump. The two hugged. The camera zoomed in on Amy's boyfriend, Spencer, who was in the audience, on his feet clapping. The judges prepared their scores, when my phone rang. The emergency line, again. I gave my forehead another thunk. Pressed Pause. Everyone went, "Hey!"
"You have a call on the after-hours emergency line. To accept, please press one."
I did as instructed and waited to be connected. "This is Cambria."
"Cambria!" It was Julia in Apartment 15. I recognized her voice. "Someone is trying to break into my apartment."
I sat up. "Someone is breaking into your apartment right now, or someone broke into your apartment, past tense?" Surely she had to mean the latter, because if it were the former, why would she call me? Yes, I watched a lot of cop shows. But, as I'd been reminded many times, that didn't make me an actual cop.
"Someone is breaking in. He's on my patio knocking on the door and trying to get in. But…oh, wait…he's gone."
"Where'd he go? Or even better, how'd he get on your patio?" Julia lived upstairs.
"I have no idea how he got up here but…wait…he's on the roof."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'm looking out my front window and can see someone running across the roof."
Good grief.
"Julia, listen to me carefully. Stay in your apartment. I'll be right there." I put on my shoes and grabbed my keys
.
"Where are you going?" Mr. Nguyen asked.
"This one is my circus, and I've got a monkey on the roof! No maintenance required! Can you stay here with Lilly?"
"No need to yell anymore." He pointed to the hearing aid wrapped around his ear. A new development.
Sorry, I mouthed. "I forgot." The Nguyens had been hard of hearing since I'd met them. Old habits die hard.
"No apology. Go. Go." Mrs. Nguyen plopped down on the couch beside Lilly and positioned a fan in front of them.
"I'm coming with you," Kevin said. He didn't bother putting his shoes on, being that he wasn't wearing any when he arrived. He wasn't wearing a shirt either.
Clothing wasn't really his thing.
I ran through the first courtyard with my phone ringing in my ear and Kevin trailing behind. "9-1-1 dispatch. What is your emergency?"
"I'm an apartment manager, and one of my residents reported a man attempted to break into her apartment, and he's now on the roof." I stopped in the breezeway and peeked around the corner. Kevin ran up behind me, struggling to catch his breath.
Exercise wasn't really his thing either.
The building was split up into three courtyards with ivy-laced breezeways connecting them. It was your typical seventies-inspired construction. Brown fascia. Tan stucco. Black iron railings. Brownish-greenish grass. Nothing spectacular, but clean, and I loved living there.
Mostly.
Apartment 15 overlooked the pool in the second courtyard. Below, and tucked around a corner, was Apartment 13. (The building wasn't numbered in order. Why? No idea. Drugs were popular the 70s. Maybe the architect was high.) Daniella lived in Apartment 13 with her pet tarantula. She was a feisty little thing with dark hair and lipstick on her teeth (Daniella, not the tarantula) who berated me in both English and Spanish and lived in a world where everything was my fault. If she knew a man had attempted to break into Julia's apartment, she'd leave a nasty review on Rent or Run dot com, and I'd only just got our run rate down.
