Lovebirds

by Lisa Moreau

  Wow. Talk about snarky. It was a perfectly reasonable question. Sydney had to go and blow it just when they were actually getting along. Emily took another bite of Pop-Tart, which was now cold, and concentrated on her laptop. She had more important things to worry about than Sydney.

  After typing Fran’s Fig Farm in the Google search bar, Emily found the website. It was filled with tons of fig facts, photos, and harvesting techniques…everything except what she wanted: an address. Fran was certainly private. Why wouldn’t she want anyone to find her farm? Was Ojai a hotbed for fig thieves? Well, Emily could outsmart the elusive farmer. She connected to Dun & Bradstreet and within minutes had located Fran’s company.

  “Aha!” Emily said to herself. “I’ve got you now.” Or not.

  It was listed as a private business with a blank address. Damn. Emily stared into space, fingers poised on the keyboard. The information had to be somewhere. She could ask the townspeople, but they’d probably be as helpful as Bud had been. Suddenly, Emily had a lightbulb moment. Gretchen could help. She knew all about this stuff since most of her clients were privately owned businesses. Emily grabbed her phone and sent Gretchen a text. Within minutes, she responded and suggested an online research company. After typing in the web address and paying a small fee, Emily had Fran’s address. She smiled and mentally patted herself on the back. Sherlock Holmes had nothing on her. Now all she had to do was get to Fran before she left for Santa Paula.

  * * *

  Sydney slammed on her brakes. Emily had annoyed her so much she hadn’t realized she’d been speeding. Normally, she could care less what people thought about her, so why would a bird-watcher affect her? Not that Sydney wanted to admit it, but Emily’s opinion of her did matter, which was probably what made her madder than anything.

  Sydney answered her cell phone when it rang. If she’d looked at the display first she would have let it go to voice mail. “Hello?”

  “Hi. This is Robin. We worked together at Leave It to Beaver.”

  “Hey. What’s up?”

  “I was wondering if you’d reconsider coming to work at my fitness studio, PoleCat.”

  “Well, to be honest I have an audition with PowerBar.” Sydney sat up a little straighter in her seat.

  “The one in Beverly Hills? Nice. I’m sure you’ll get the job, but if not give me a call. I’d still be interested in talking to you about a position.”

  “Thanks, Robin. I’ll do that,” Sydney lied.

  Considering Sydney was unemployed she probably should have jumped at the opportunity, but she had her sights set on something bigger and better. Robin seemed nice enough, but Sydney had driven by her studio once and wasn’t very impressed. It was in a bad part of town in a run-down building that needed repairs and a paint job. She could only imagine what the inside looked like.

  When Sydney passed the site of the women’s festival, she slowed, hoping to spot the PowerBar tent, which was where the auditions were being held. All she saw, though, was a sea of women―most of who were probably lesbians, not that Sydney cared. She wasn’t beyond having an occasional one-night stand, but relationships were off-limits. She couldn’t think of one couple who’d ever stayed together more than a few months, including her own mother. So many stepfathers had crossed Sydney’s path that she couldn’t keep them straight. Nope. That wasn’t for her. She didn’t want to rely on anyone but herself.

  Sydney stopped at a red light and eyed a white truck behind her. It was the same one that had been lurking around the cabin yesterday. Was she being followed? She’d certainly associated with some shady people in the past but didn’t think she had a stalker. When the light turned green, Sydney floored it and took a series of sharp turns, the truck staying close behind. She needed to lose this creep…and fast. She slowed at a yellow light and then sped up right before it turned red, forcing the white truck to screech his tires as he stopped.

  “Take that,” Sydney said to herself.

  She pulled into a vegan restaurant and got out of the car, hoping they had some cheap breakfast options. She had walked halfway across the parking lot when the white truck pulled up beside her.

  What the hell?

  She should probably run inside and call the police, but curiosity got the better of her. When the driver rolled down the window she glared at a man with bloodshot eyes, a pasty complexion, and white fuzz on top of his head.

  “Look, chump. I know you’ve been following me. What gives?” Sydney asked.

  “I have a proposition for you.” He smiled, displaying yellow, crooked teeth.

  “Not interested.” Sydney spun around.

  “Not even for a thousand dollars?”

  Sydney stopped and turned back.

  “Thought that might grab your attention.” He waved five one-hundred-dollar bills in the air. “Why don’t you hop in, and I’ll tell you all about it?”

  Sydney huffed. “Do you think I’m an idiot? We talk inside.”

  She strode into the restaurant and found an empty table. Normally, she wouldn’t give the time of day to a guy like this, but the money he’d flashed had piqued her interest.

  The man entered the restaurant, spotted her, and slid into the booth opposite her.

  “What’s all this about? And who are you?” Sydney asked.

  “Shh. Not so loud.” The guy glanced around and cracked his knuckles. He leaned over the table, so close Sydney could smell a mixture of Old Spice and sweat. “You’re staying at the cabin with Emily, right?”

  “Do you even have to ask? You’re not very good at undercover work. I saw you staking the place out.”

  His pale face turned beet red. “Are you a friend of hers?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I’m gambling that you’re not. I saw you two at the Little Bird Café the other day, and you both seemed less than friendly.”

  “Look, buster, just spill it. What do you want?” Sydney was losing her patience.

  “I want you to snoop on Emily for me.”

  “Did Gretchen hire you? Trust me. We’re not having an affair. We don’t even like each other.”

  “What I want is simple. Find out what bird story Emily is working on. If you tell me what she’s doing here, I’ll give you five hundred dollars. And if I get the story instead of her, I’ll give you another five hundred.” The man cracked his knuckles and smiled widely.

  Seriously? He’d pay a thousand dollars for a story? About birds? They weren’t exactly talking about another Watergate here.

  “Wait a second. Let’s back up. Who are you, and how do you know Emily?”

  The man peered over his shoulder, as though to make sure no one was listening. He’d obviously seen one too many spy flicks. He waited a few beats and whispered, “My name is Owe…”

  “Owen?”

  His left eye twitched erratically, lips set in a hard, thin line. He probably hadn’t wanted to reveal his real name. Sydney wasn’t working with a smooth operator here.

  “It’s Oswald.”

  Sydney snorted. “Right. Oswald,” she said sarcastically. “Are you a bird-watcher, too? Do you own a magazine like Emily?”

  Fear filled Owen’s eyes as he stared at the salt shaker, probably trying to come up with a story. He really should have thought this through before soliciting her.

  “You’re Emily’s competition, aren’t you?” Sydney asked. “Geez. I didn’t realize bird-watching was so cutthroat.”

  “Listen, girlie. Just concern yourself with why Emily is here.”

  Girlie? He was probably trying to be threatening, when really he was nothing but a clown in a suit.

  “Why do I get the feeling there’s more to this than a little healthy competition?”

  Owen glared, pulled something out of his ear, and placed it on the table. Eww. It was a hearing aid with earwax caked on it. Sydney lost her appetite.

  “See this? That’s Emily’s fault.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “She caused an
accident that cost me my hearing in one ear. It’s her fault I can’t properly hear bird calls.” Owen’s nostrils flared. “She maimed me! Because of her, my magazine sales have gone downhill. She owes me!”

  Ah, so he did own a magazine. Sydney held up her hands. “All right. Calm down, Owen.”

  “Oswald!”

  “Whatever.”

  Owen pulled on his collar as though he were suffocating. After a long pause, he asked, “So, will you do it?”

  “All I have to do is tell you what story she’s working on?”

  “That’s it. Easy money.”

  “Why do you need me? Why not just follow her around yourself?”

  “She knows my truck. She’d spot me in a minute, especially in this sea of women. Plus, I need to get back to LA. If you report something worth my time, I’ll be here in a flash.”

  “How do I know I can trust you? What if I give you the information and never see you again? I want the five hundred now.”

  Owen stuck his hearing aid back in. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t. We’re both taking a gamble.” Sydney paused. “I want a nonrefundable two-fifty now for my trouble, and the rest when I get the information.”

  Owen squinted, his beady eyes slits. “Nonrefundable?”

  “You’re asking me to befriend someone who doesn’t even like me and play private detective. I deserve something for my time.”

  Owen sat back and crossed his arms. “All right, but you better come back to me with something.”

  Owen fished the money out of his pocket and gave it to Sydney. After they exchanged phone numbers, he left when she promised to contact him in a couple of days with an update.

  Sydney sat motionless, amazed at her incredible luck. It wasn’t enough to pay the income taxes, but at least she could eat. The thousand, though, would solve a lot of her problems. Of course, she’d have to rat Emily out, but it wasn’t like they were friends. Besides, Sydney needed the money more than Emily needed a story. It was just freaking birds. It wasn’t like it was anything important. The only problem now was how she could make her roomie think her attitude had done a one-eighty without causing suspicion.

  Chapter Eight

  Emily’s Fake Friend

  Emily passed Bud’s Burrito ’n Bait Shop on her way to Fran’s Fig Farm, determined to strong-arm her way in if need be. Sitting on her butt―her less-than-firm butt, according to her mother―in the cabin for a week until Fran got back wasn’t an option. Emily followed the GPS instructions, turning down several dirt roads before coming to a halt at a closed gate with an incredibly large padlock attached. A looming sign overhead read Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted, and the barbed-wire fence was lined with yellow caution tape, making it look like a crime scene. Emily got out of the car and waved away the dust that had yet to settle. She peered over the gate at an empty field split in half by a long, straight gravel path. This called for her high-powered Avalon 20x50 binoculars. With those suckers she could see three miles away.

  Emily grabbed the field glasses out of her trunk and rested her elbows on the hood of the car, not wanting to take the time to set up the tripod. Immediately, she spotted a small white house in front of what looked like several acres of trees. She scanned to the right and froze. She’d recognize that overall-clad physique anywhere. Fran was standing next to a pile of tree branches stuffing them into a wood chipper. Hopefully there weren’t any lovebirds on the twigs. Emily shuddered. Fran didn’t seem to be a fan of the feathered friends, and Emily wouldn’t put it past her.

  She lowered the binoculars and considered her options, which were dismal. Ramming her car through the gate wasn’t a possibility, nor was attempting to squeeze through the barbed-wire fence. Knowing Fran, it was probably electrically charged. And even if Emily could get through the gate somehow, she’d have to walk at least a mile to reach the house. Her only option was to sit on her horn in hopes that Fran would hear and come to see what all the ruckus was about.

  Emily looked through the binoculars again, a chill running down her spine at the sight of Fran still cramming branches into the wood chipper. Maybe she’d seen Fargo one too many times, but she had a sudden urge to bolt. She slumped and glanced upward at the no-trespassing sign. Yes, she should scram. Breaking the law wasn’t an option. Emily got into her car and sped away, hoping Fran hadn’t seen her spying.

  On a whim, Emily pulled into Bud’s Burrito ’n Bait Shop. Since her farm visit had been a bust, maybe she could at least get a little more insight from Bud. A wave of nausea washed over her as the scent of burritos mingled with minnows assaulted her nostrils. She resisted pinching her nose when she spotted Bud. Had he even changed clothes or moved a muscle from yesterday? He looked like an exact replica, toothpick hanging out of his mouth and everything.

  Emily approached the counter and flashed the best smile she could muster. She’d learned long ago that a little kindness goes a long way. Too bad she couldn’t remember that when it came to Sydney.

  “Howdy do, little lady.” Bud tipped his faded, weather-worn cowboy hat. “What brings you back so soon?”

  “I was wondering if maybe you could tell me a little more about Fran.”

  Bud scratched his scraggly chin. “Why you so interested in her?”

  “I’m…I’m a…a fig investor.” What the hell is a fig investor? “I’d like to learn more about her…um…farming techniques.”

  Bud peered at Emily hard. “A fig investor, you say?”

  “Yeah. I’d like to…well…invest in the farm. You know, to make money for both of us. But I can’t likely do that unless she lets me onto her property.”

  Emily lied about as well as the Pope. Luckily, Bud actually seemed to buy it.

  “Well, what is it you’re wantin’ to know?” he asked.

  “Does Fran have any family?”

  “Nope.”

  “Friends?”

  “Nope.”

  “Favorite activity?”

  “Nope.”

  Emily took a deep breath. “Work with me here, Bud. Isn’t there anything you can tell me about Fran that would help?”

  Bud took the toothpick out of his mouth and flicked it a few times between his two front teeth. “Well, there is one thing Fran loves. More than figs. More than her farm. More than anything.”

  “What’s that?” Emily asked, brightly. Finally she was getting somewhere.

  “Conway Twitty.”

  Who?

  As though reading the question in Emily’s eyes, Bud said, “He’s a country ’n’ western singer. Fran is the president of his North American fan club.”

  He has a fan club?

  “She has every album he’s ever made. Her dream was to go to Twitty City in Tennessee, but they stopped giving tours.”

  “Huh. Well, that’s unexpected. I thought you were going to say her favorite thing was a pet or truck or something. So, this Conway Twitty guy…is he still alive?”

  “Nope. He died in the ’90s. Fran could tell you the day, year, and probably the time.”

  Well, that wasn’t much help. How could a dead country-western singer help her reach Fran?

  * * *

  Sydney turned a corner in the Nature’s Bounty grocery store and spotted Emily standing in the aisle holding a can. Maybe it was the lighting or the quirky, confused expression on her face, but she looked awfully cute. Not in an overtly sexy, put-it-all-out-there way like the women Sydney had worked with at the club, but a unique kind of pretty. If they had met under different circumstances, Sydney probably would have hit on her, not that Emily would have given Sydney a second look. They were in totally different social classes.

  Sydney approached and lightly tapped Emily’s hip with the shopping cart.

  “Oh. You.” Emily’s face fell.

  The chilly reception wasn’t surprising. Sydney had a lot of backpedaling to do to get on her good side.

  “Stew in a can?” Sydney scrunched her face.

  “I’m in d
ire need of some comfort food.” Emily put the item back on the shelf and scanned the selections.

  “Rough day?”

  “You could say that. And rough night.” Emily peered at Sydney sideways.

  “Oh. Right. I…uh…I owe you an apology.”

  Emily’s head jerked toward Sydney, a what-the-hell expression on her face.

  “I’m sorry about the loud music and not responding when you knocked.” Surprisingly, she’d actually meant that. It had been rude and Sydney was the squatter, whereas Emily had paid for the cabin—not that she’d ever admit that.

  “Hmm.” Emily cocked her head and seemed to weigh the sincerity of the apology. “So what are we supposed to do about this rooming situation?”

  “Considering there aren’t any other places available, maybe we should make the best of it.”

  Emily snorted. “You certainly changed your tune.”

  Too much too soon? Sydney better scale it back a bit so as not to raise suspicion.

  “It’s not what I’d want,” Sydney said adamantly. “But we don’t seem to have any other choice.”

  “At least not until Jill responds to my email and I find out you’re lying.” Emily sulked and studied the label on a can. “Would you look at this? Fat-free, organic, vegetarian stew? Where’s the real food?”

  “You are in a health-food store, you know. I thought you already went grocery shopping.”

  “I did, but I was craving something else.”

  “Not this.” Sydney grabbed the can and placed it back on the shelf. “If you’ll buy the ingredients I’ll make you my world-famous stew.”

  “You don’t look like the type that would have a stew recipe,” Emily said. “And you’re seriously going to cook for me? Why are you being so nice?”

  Sydney spotted a boy about ten years old wearing soiled clothes two sizes too big. He glanced around nervously, fear etched across his face. It was a look Sydney knew all too well. He was alone, desperate, and had just done something he shouldn’t have, considering the extra-lumpy jacket he was wearing.