Dirty Little Lies

by Julie Leto

  “Three? Wouldn’t one do the trick?”

  “Yo no sé,” she replied with a shrug. “Therapy for me is a hard workout with a very sturdy punching bag.”

  Frankie adjusted the rearview mirror again and then smoothly changed lanes. “Is she still having her head shrunk?”

  Marisela chewed on her lip as she scanned through the report, which included a badly photocopied psychiatric evaluation from a place called Windchaser Farm. Farm? Ha! From what Marisela read on the reports, the only thing the place seemed to breed was paranoia and addictions to antidepressants.

  “Her last stay was only a year ago, but for outpatient care. Maybe that means she’s getting better.”

  She continued to review Tracy’s file, but there wasn’t much more to share except that no bank accounts or credit cards or property titles were listed in Tracy’s name. According to her suppliers, for the farm she paid cash for everything.

  At a light just before they crossed outside of the city of Natick and into the countryside, Frankie pulled over into the parking lot of a convenience store and pretended to consult a map, which, thanks to the GPS, they didn’t need.

  “What else have you got?” he asked, looking behind them.

  “Is someone following us?”

  He arched a brow. “Not anymore.”

  Instinctively, Marisela looked behind them. She’d been engrossed in Tracy’s file and hadn’t noticed Frankie executing any maneuvers meant to elude a tail. He always was smooth.

  “Who was it?”

  Frankie flipped the map over. “Don’t know. Blue van. Probably nothing. I got off one exit early to see if they’d come by. They haven’t.”

  “Maybe they know where were going,” she suggested.

  “Maybe they’ll double back just to make sure. Tell me what else we know about Tracy.”

  “The orchard where she lives is owned by a trust.” She flipped the page. “A trust whose executor is none other than her dear brother. That explains where her money is coming from.”

  “Is it a big trust?”

  Marisela scanned the financials, then frowned. “Not really.”

  “Enough to pay Yizenia?”

  She flipped back a few years. The amount in the trust steadily declined with expenses and rose with interest. No huge withdrawals that she could see.

  She frowned. “Not sure.”

  “Then we’d better watch our backs. What kind of stuff does she buy?”

  “Equipment, seeds, veterinary care. Oh, there’s an investment in a co-op. This brochure for Bliss Haven Orchards says that for a fee, she’ll let you pick apples when the harvest comes around. Looks to me like she pretty much lives off that money, so she’s not exactly floating in cold hard cash.”

  “Not that we’ve found yet,” Frankie said. “People can be very sly about hiding their money. Of all the people who would hate those rich boys, this chick’s gotta be the angriest. Brad Hightower used her. Used her sister. I’m betting that even if she didn’t hire Yizenia, she might be very grateful to anyone who did.”

  They parked the car and went inside the convenience store for sodas and a bathroom break, then shared a Snickers bar while leaning against the rear spoiler, weapons close by. Once Frankie was certain the blue van hadn’t returned, they continued on. After a mile or two on the back roads, they spotted the open gates of Bliss Haven Orchards—and the dark Titan sedan sent to watch Tracy Manning.

  They stopped and chatted with the agents, who reported seeing no one anywhere near the farm all night. After calling in to Titan to verify the change of shift, Frankie maneuvered the Corvette through the gates, directed by a small, hand-painted sign that announced the presence of the farm with a crooked arrow and an invitation to taste the brand-new crop of strawberries.

  “You like strawberries?” Frankie asked.

  “I always wanted to try them dipped in chocolate,” Marisela answered seriously. “But I thought strawberry season was like February.”

  Not that she was a particularly agricultural-minded person, but Tampa wasn’t far from Plant City, Florida, where the locals kicked off strawberry season with a festival that she and Lia had attended yearly, if only for the delicioso strawberry shortcake and decadente elephant ears. The event was pig-out heaven.

  “Apparently not in New England. Looks like we’re in luck.”

  Frankie pulled up the drive, which was nothing more than a dirt and gravel road leading through ramshackle fences that likely couldn’t keep the most contented animal penned in. He drove the length of the road, past the house and barn, deep into the orchard, looking for signs of the blue van—or any other vehicle that might be where they shouldn’t. The Corvette reacted to every pothole and divot, causing Marisela to wince more than once as the fiberglass chassis scraped the gravel.

  “Next time we’re heading out to a farm, maybe we should requisition another truck?” she offered.

  Frankie grinned. “And miss this primo ride? Ian can afford body work.”

  Once he was certain no one else was on the property, Frankie turned around and returned to the house near the entrance, pulling up beside a rusted white pickup. Colorful curtains flapped from the windows of a small cottage, painted in what at one time was probably a bright blue but had faded to nearly gray. The lawn, what there was of it, was overgrown, as if the goat penned near the barn, which overshadowed the house like an architectural David and Goliath, hadn’t been let near the house in way too long. Marisela waited for the dust kicked up by the Corvette’s tires to die down before she opened the door and slid out.

  When a cool breeze and barely seventy-degree temperatures greeted her, Marisela decided she could get used to summer in New England. The apple trees, lined in neat rows on either side of natural wood fences, had bright green leaves. Clusters of white, star-shaped flowers, some still clinging to the trees, some on the ground, emitted a fresh, sweet smell. On the backside of the barn, Marisela recognized the raised rows of strawberry plants. Intermixed with the scents of fertilizer, apple blossoms, and country fresh air, Marisela caught a whiff of the ripe berries and her stomach gave a little rumble.

  Unfortunately, Frankie was close enough to hear the sound. “The candy bar didn’t do the trick? Should have had a real breakfast before you left the hotel.”

  “I was too busy with some varón I found in my bed this morning.”

  He clucked his tongue. “You didn’t look too disappointed when I woke you up by sucking those sweet—”

  The screech of an unoiled screen door cut off the rest of Frankie’s dirty talk—dirty talk that, Marisela had to admit, inspired a steady pulse between her thighs.

  “Here for the berries?”

  The woman in question was clearly Tracy Manning, judging by the resemblance to a yearbook picture Max had tucked in the briefing file. Her hair, once a large pouf, leftover-from-the-big-hair-eighties style, was now darker, thinner, and longer. Her eyes greeted them warily.

  Frankie waved. Tracy’s smile was tentative as she donned a large-brimmed hat. When Marisela held out her hand, Tracy hesitated before accepting it. When she did, Marisela felt a delicacy in the bones that seemed out of place with running a farm.

  “I’m Tracy,” she said by way of hello.

  “I’m Marisela. This is my—” Wow. They hadn’t practiced this part. It wasn’t as if they were deep undercover or anything, so they’d at least decided to use their own names. But they’d planned to wing the rest.

  “Novio,” Frankie provided.

  Boyfriend? Ha! What was he smoking? Lover, maybe. Ex, definitely. Friend with benefits? She thought that one had potential, if not for the fact that they were constantly at each other’s throats when they weren’t pleasuring other parts of their bodies.

  He took Tracy’s hand in his. “Name’s Frank. Beautiful farm you have here, not that I’d know a beautiful farm from an ugly one.”

  Tracy gave him a short grin. “Oh, I think you’d know.”

  Flirt.

  �
��Are you visiting the area?” she asked them.

  “On our way to Boston to see the Red Sox. Frank here used to play,” Marisela said.

  “Professionally?”

  No, in the sandlot two blocks away from where they’d grown up, but Tracy didn’t need to know that.

  “It was a long time ago,” Frankie said. “But I’m a baseball freak as much as my woman here loves fresh fruit. Thought we’d stop by and pick a quick snack for the rest of the trip to Fenway.”

  “I’ll grab you some baskets,” Tracy answered briefly, her eyes lingering with a tinge of suspicion on Frankie.

  Marisela figured she’d need to be chatty with this one.

  “This place is so adorable. Is it a family farm?”

  “Sort of.”

  Tracy waved at them to follow her through the barn to the strawberry field on the other side. Just steps from crossing into the two-story opened door, Marisela stopped up short when a strong odor shoved its way up her nose.

  “What’s that smell?”

  Tracy lifted her hand to her mouth, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle. “Horse manure, likely. I haven’t made it out to muck the stall yet today?”

  “You do that yourself?”

  The shocked expression on Marisela’s face finally broke the ice and Tracy allowed herself to laugh. “Does it look like I can afford a lot of help? Some kids from the high school come over nearly every day and do some chores in exchange for credits for their agriculture class, but that’s later in the afternoon. I’m not as weak as some people might think.”

  Marisela stepped into the cool, shadowy barn, ignoring the overwhelming stench. “No, no. Perdone. I’m just a spoiled city girl. You don’t look weak to me. Not at all! Look at the size of this place. And you take care of it all on your own?”

  Tracy gave a humble shrug, like a child who didn’t know how to take a compliment.

  “I’m very impressed. Aren’t you Frank?”

  Frankie, engaged in a staring contest with the horse, a huge dun-colored animal with large black eyes who didn’t seem to like the strangers in his domain, didn’t respond right away.

  “Is that one of those beer horses?” he asked.

  Tracy laughed again, every giggle a step closer to trust. “Pack likes to think he’s a Clydesdale, but he’s not even close. Just your average farm horse. He’s harmless, mostly. Just doesn’t like men much. I think his last owner was a son of a bitch, if you know what I mean.”

  As they walked through the barn, Tracy pointed our the various animals penned there, including a smaller pony named Freddy, an assortment of goats, hens, and a collection of lazy cats who seemed more interested in finding the right strand of sunshine to bask in than they were in the strangers who’d invaded their home. By the back door, Tracy retrieved two straw baskets and handed one each to Marisela and Frankie.

  “So is there a trick to this?” Marisela asked, only half kidding when she looked at the plants as if they were tarantulas rather than bearers of sweet, juicy fruit.

  With a shy grin, Tracy walked with them into the field and instructed them on which berries were ready for picking and which ones should remain a few days longer. After making a selection, Marisela brushed a choice, red fruit on her sleeve and relished the sweet succulent taste. Frankie eased into her personal space just as she was about to plop a second treat in her mouth, his eyes glittering with hunger that couldn’t possibly be sated with a fruit that size, but since Tracy’s eyes were trained tightly on them, she fed him with all the adoring indulgence she could muster.

  He’d pay for that. Later.

  When the private moment nearly sent Tracy away, Marisela piped up. “You know, my grandmother grew figs in her backyard when I was a kid. I used to bribe my little sister to do the picking and washing. I preferred the eating part.”

  Tracy’s smile was soft and melancholy. “My sister probably would have worked the same sort of deal, if she’d ever gotten within five hundred feet of a fruit tree, which she never did. Except maybe to carve her and a boyfriend’s initials in the trunk.”

  Marisela chuckled and exchanged a glance with Frankie. She spoke pretty easily about her murdered sister for someone who was supposed to be so screwed up. But her eyes darted away quickly and she shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot—as if she hadn’t expected to share that memory out loud.

  Marisela decided not to push. Too much, too soon, and the chick could clam up for good.

  “Oh, I remember doing that,” Marisela shared, “on the only pecan tree in our neighborhood. We’re from Florida, so when we hit the backyard, we had our pick of produce,” she explained, chattering about the sour oranges her mother used to make her garlicky mojo until Tracy relaxed. She listened raptly, asked questions, always watching Frankie warily, but after a little less than half an hour, she was grinning broadly at the two overfilled baskets of berries and yakking as if they were old friends.

  “Why don’t you wash these up in the barn before you get back on the road?” Tracy asked.

  “That would be great,” Marisela said warmly. “Is there somewhere I can wash up, too? This is hard work, farming.”

  Tracy hesitated for a moment, then, tentatively, nodded toward the house. She walked ahead of them hurriedly.

  “Just let me clean up a bit,” she said, her voice shaky. “I live alone. I’m not used to company.”

  Marisela and Frankie stopped on the porch and allowed Tracy to slip inside. Marisela leaned in close to Frankie, looking like any adoring girlfriend when all she really wanted to do was talk to him without being overheard.

  “Think she’s really cleaning up?”

  “Either that,” he said, eyeing the house over her shoulder, “or hiding something she doesn’t want us to see.”

  Thirteen

  AT THE DOOR, Frankie hesitated. “You should go in with her alone. She’s warming up, but I think I still make her nervous.”

  Marisela skimmed her fingertip down the slim line of facial hair on Frankie’s face, loving the sharp feel beneath her skin, though she wouldn’t admit her weakness, even under torture. “Can you blame her? With that beard and moustache, you look like el diablo.”

  “Last night, you thought it was sexy enough.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got a thing for fallen angels. Not all women need a danger fix the way I do.”

  For an instant, Marisela felt herself rising on the balls of her feet, her mouth inches from his, her gaze riveted on the lips that had brought her such decadent pleasure the night before. Frankie could be macho and rude and intimidating, but she couldn’t manage to kick him out of bed for his faults, not when he was so damned skillful underneath the covers. And on top of the covers, for that matter.

  “I’ll call in to Titan,” Frankie said, watching over Marisela’s head as Tracy scurried through her house, cabinet and drawer doors slamming shut as she moved. “See if you can get her to open up.”

  Tracy appeared at the screen door, slightly breathless and red-faced. “Come on in!” she said with an animated friendliness that completely contrasted with the shy woman who’d first greeted them. “I’ve got some iced tea, if you’re interested.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Marisela replied, swinging around Frankie. “Honey, why don’t you make that call and meet us inside?”

  He handed over the berries and headed toward the Corvette.

  With a basket hooked on each arm, Marisela smiled as Tracy pushed open the door. Once inside, the clutter silenced her. The couches, two of them, overflowed with a dozen pillows in various colors, textures, and types. Shelves upon shelves, those on the walls or inside curios, were crammed with collections of all shapes and sizes—candles and candlesticks, snow globes and music boxes, statuettes of everything from birds to bunnies to bears. And where there wasn’t bric-a-brac, there were books. The woman could open a library. Stacks of tomes from worn leather hardbacks to the latest paperback bestsellers were stacked two and three deep. The ceiling glistened with w
hat Marisela guessed were tacks and fishing wire, supporting a wild array of wind chimes, dreamcatchers, cut pieces of crystal, or discs of artsy stained glass. Surprisingly, the floor was clear except for rugs, yet every other space swam with something to grab the attention.

  And perhaps distract from the sadness in the soul.

  “I have a lot of collections,” Tracy explained flippantly, watching as Marisela’s gaze swept through the living room, dining room, and front hall.

  Marisela pressed her lips tightly as she formulated an answer that wouldn’t be rude. “That’s one way to put it.” She smiled and winked.

  “I guess you could say I’ve got issues,” Tracy replied with a nervous twitter of a laugh.

  “Who doesn’t?” Marisela shrugged, which sent a few berries skittering to the floor. She put down the baskets and retrieved the escapees. “You should see my shoe room.”

  Tracy’s eyes widened to the size of the dozen or so saucers she had lined up on the mantel. “A whole room?”

  It was a lie, of course. Despite her admiration and recognition of a good Jimmy Choo, Marisela was the sort of woman who could make do with flip-flops from Wal-Mart, decent leather boots like those she wore today, a couple pairs of sexy high-heeled sandals for special occasions, and running shoes in three states of existence—old and grungy, broken in, and brand, spanking new. However, she knew women well enough. Shoe-bonding was genetically ingrained.

  “I converted a guest room,” she replied.

  Tracy’s smile warmed. “I used to love shoe shopping,” she said wistfully, and for the first time, Marisela heard a child-like quality in her voice that she’d attributed to simple shyness before. Now she realized that while Tracy might have aged physically since her sister’s murder, her mental state was trapped in teenage angst.

  No wonder her brother freaked when they threatened to speak to her about Rebecca’s death. She was practically a poster-child for innocence, all laced up in gut-wrenching tragedy.

  “I hear there are great boutiques in Boston,” Marisela said. “At least, there had better be or Mr. Baseball out there isn’t going to be making it to any bases tonight.”