Just Add Trouble (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 3)) (13 page)

“When was the last time you chatted with a deity?”

“Last time I went anywhere with you.”

“Smarty. Start chatting.”

Her lips moved and whoever she was talking to must have listened, for I caught a trough just right, dislodged the anchor and brought in enough chain to get it off the bottom, then, ever so slowly, we motored forward while bringing in scope.  It was a tricky maneuver; too much chain would let the anchor catch bottom again, not enough could smack the anchor into the hull and hole us, or worse, get caught in a prop.

After what seemed an eternity, but was probably only three minutes, we cleared the breaker line where the swells were no more than two or three feet, and the boat settled out. I had Jan hold us steady while I went out on the bow and brought the anchor into her chocks.

We motored into the wind until first light, then turned around and made for the point, rounded it, and found a safe spot in a small cove to re-anchor just as the sun came over the horizon. On rubbery legs, we went below into what was formerly my beautiful main saloon.

“Holy moly! No wonder Trouble got out of here. Look at his cage.” I righted the cage, reinserted his perch and began removing his food dishes. Smashed bananas, shredded hot peppers and bird poop littered my rug. Trouble squawked and flew in to inspect his domain, found it unsuitable for his sophisticated tastes, and began shrieking again. Jan, wise to his ways, broke into the chorus from the River City song, and he joined her. It was amazing what a beautiful voice he had. Someone, at sometime in his life, was a talented baritone. I swear, when that bird sings “Danny Boy”, his eyes get misty.

While we straightened up the saloon and scrubbed gunk from the carpet, we took turns prompting Trouble to sing songs we only knew parts of, but he knew in full. His “
Havah Nagilah
”
was as rousing as his
“
Someday My Prince Will Come
” was sentimental. And he had his own rendition of one of my favorites, “How Much is That
Birdie in the Window
?
”

“Ya know, Hetta, maybe you should sell this scow and take Trouble on the road, make a fortune renting him out for black tie dinners, weddings and bar mitzvahs. She’ll be coming round the mountain…”

“When she comes,” chorused Trouble. Trouble’s antics, along with the giddiness one experiences when surviving a crisis, send Jan and me into hysterics. I wiped away tears and then spotted the clock. It was time for the Sonrisa Net, and I wanted to grouse at someone for being sooo wrong with yesterday’s weather call. Northers were predicted, southerlies damned near put us on the rocks. Jan and I listened as boats reported in from all over the Sea. Absolutely no one experienced southerlies. In fact, everything was Charlie Charlie, meaning Clear and Calm.

I shrugged and shushed Jan—who began pontificating loudly on how I, Hetta Coffey, was probably the only person on the entire planet who could conjure up her own personal storm—so I could hear the day’s forecast. The general consensus was that it was going to blow hard from the north, and since we had to go north, I started the engines. In less than three hours we’d be in Santa Rosalia, at a dock. Then, let ‘er blow

Chapter 14

And boy, did she blow.

We had barely secured our lines at the Santa Rosalia marina when a blast of wind rocked the harbor, instantly raising little whitecaps. Grateful to be safe, I sent thanks upward for getting me into port by the hair on my
chinny chin chin, before the big bad wolf of a norther huffed and puffed and blew me away. Okay, so the hair on my chin has long since been lasered into oblivion, but the metaphor works.

We were back in Cellular Land, for my phone, and Trouble, began chirping La Cucaracha. “
Hola
,” I said, sticking my finger in my ear to block Trouble.

“Hetta?” said the Trob.

“Who else?”

“Turn down that radio. Where are you? I called the marina when you didn’t answer your phone, and they said your boat was gone.”

Amazing. Not that he’d learned I was gone, but that he managed such a long, non-cryptic, sentence. He’s come a long way in the years I’ve known him, but is making quantum leaps into basic social skills since marrying my friend Allison.

“Jan and I took her out. Why did you call?”

“Google alert.”

Back to cryptic. “Google alert?”

“Your article.”

“My article?” Jan sidled up once she figured I was talking with the Trob. She takes perverse pleasure in listening while I strive to pry basic info from Wontrobski. I rolled my eyes at her and sighed. “Uh, what article?”

“
Chronicle
.”

“As in,
San Francisco Chronicle
? Again, what article? And what in the hell is a Google alert?” My voice had gone up a couple of octaves and I was knocking my head up against the wall, delighting Jan no end.

“When something I am interested in hits the Internet, Google alerts me.”

“And what was your interest?”

“Puerto Nuevo Tucson-Guaymas Corridor.”

“Hey, I think I’ll sign up for that Google thing. Matter of fact, I was gonna call you today. I can send you a preliminary report with photos in a few minutes, then finish up the end of next week.”

“Already have some photos.”

How could that be? Jan and I hadn’t sent them to anyone except…oh, dear.

“Wontrobski, are you telling me that the article I wrote for some obscure newspaper in some obscure Arizona berg is in the
Chronicle
?”

“Internet. Check it out.”

“I will. Bye.”

“Bye.”

While Jan watched, I pulled up the
San Francisco Chronicle
and sure as hell, there was my article and Jan’s photos,  under  the  caption,  ARIZONA  TO  DUMP CALIFORNIA PORTS, with the sub-caption: Nuevo Puerto de Guyamas and Tucson: Arizona’s new deep water port?

“Hetta, you’re famous!” Jan shrieked, then began reading aloud. “‘
Sierra Vista
Observer
reporter, Hetta Coffey, has uncovered a secret deal being forged between Arizona and the state of Sonora, Mexico—’”.

“Secret deal? What in the hell are they talking about? I only took the studies done by others, as well as, I might add, published newspaper articles written about the project, and compiled them. This lead-in makes it seem like I’ve uncovered some sinister plot to overthrow California.”

We read the rest of the article together, which consisted of my byline and the piece just as I wrote it, but then, with dramatic flare, ended with, Ms. Coffey could not be reached for further comment.

The phone rang again, and this time it was Jenks.

“Hetta, you’re on CNN.”

“What?”

“They just had a camera crew and reporter on site, in Guaymas, interviewing the port captain. And looking for you. Where are you?”

“Er, on the boat.”

“I called the marina when you didn’t answer your cell phone. You, and the boat, are not there.”

Jeez, did the marina office have to blab to everyone I know? “Well, we—”

“Hold on, they are saying something about…you’re in Santa Rosalia?”

“How did you know that?”

“Port Captain just said so, on TV.”

“Good grief, who in the world gives a damn where I am?”

“Me, for one, and CNN. They make it sound like you’ve uncovered some big secret scheme. Is your satellite TV working?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never used it.”

“Go online, CNN’s site, and you can see the report on video. We’ll talk about this Santa Rosalia thing later. I’m just glad you’re safe. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Bye.”

An hour later, Jan and I were giggling, reveling in the brouhaha we’d stirred up. By now I was an “investigative reporter for the award-winning
Sierra Vista Observer
,” and Jan was an “internationally acclaimed photog.” We’d broken the story after months of undercover work in both Mexico and Arizona.

“To our fifteen minutes of fame!” I toasted.

“Think we should write something else? Maybe how you single-handedly uncovered the wreck of the Spanish galleon,
San Carlos
?”

I guffawed. “Along with my fellow researcher, that renowned marine archeologist, Doctor Jan Sims?”

Laughter tears rolled as we conjured up wilder and wilder scenarios, until we noticed other boaters eyeing us warily. “Sorry,” I waved at them, “we’re just…being silly. Hey, do you know if they have TV in this town?”

A tall sailboater, fiftyish, without the prerequisite beard so many sported, sauntered over and leaned on the rail. Peeking shyly from behind him was a sweet-faced white West Highland terrier. Her ears were on alert, and her tail wagged hesitantly. She turned her head quizzically, as if trying to decide whether we were friendly, or just plain nuts. And whether the bird on my head was edible.

The sailor patted the dog’s silky back, and she leaned into his leg for reassurance. He gave her ears a rub and said, “Seems to me like you two are having way too much fun. Can we get in on it?”

This sent us into another spate of laughter. The dog looked worried, so when I could control myself I said, “Sorry, you had to be there.” We introduced ourselves.

“Nice boat. I’m Smith, and this is Maggie. Our boat is
Taiwan On
.”

“Clever. Well, hello Smith and Maggie. Come on aboard and have a cool one.”

Jan shot me a frown, which I ignored. She never understands my lack of discrimination when it comes to meeting new people, and even accuses me of lax judgment on occasion. This time though, my friend fell for the charms of Maggie after the dog scampered onto the boat, jumped right into her lap and demanded a tummy rub.

Trouble went airborne and for one horrible instant I thought he was on the attack, but no, he landed daintily on Maggie’s head. This gave me a momentary fright as well, for a dog, even one so small, can do grave bodily damage with a single chomp, but the two became instant friends.

Smith’s easy, guileless manner soon convinced Jan he was simply a guy who, when he had a chance, loaded up his dog and set sail. The Sea of Cortez is full of folks who follow their dream of getting down to the twos: two pairs of shorts, two swim suits and two pairs of flip-flops, in case one pair has a blowout. One of my favorite things about the cruisers is their lack of interest in what is happening back home. Except for the occasional case of boat envy, there are no Joneses to keep up with. The main topic of conversation is food, and where to get it. My kind of place.

In that vein, Smith invited us for an
Exquisito
hot dog dinner at a small stand in town. The hot dog vendor’s cart is in front of a church designed by the famous French designer, Gustav Eiffel, no less. The Santa Barbara “Cathedral,” pre-constructed over a period of two years for display at the World Exposition in Paris in 1889, was later deconstructed and shipped to Santa Rosalia. In 1895 it was erected by the French miners who worked here during the town’s heyday as a mining center. Both the church and the hot dogs are truly
exquisito
.

Since Smith had been in town for a week, he was thereby a local expert. He pointed out the quaint mining houses, a bakery that actually makes French baguettes to this day, and the Mahatma Gandhi—go figure—Library. I noticed that many of the people living here had fair skin and blue eyes, no doubt a direct result of former imported miners and sailors.

“Cute town,” Jan said as we prepared to hit the sack. While I closed all hatches and doors, she shut down lights, radios, and the like.

“Cute guy.”

“One word. Jenks.”

“Jeez, Jan, I was just making an observation, not a life changing decision. And don’t tell me you weren’t entranced by that silky hair and beautiful brown eyes.”

“Nope. Nor did I take note of that amazingly rounded, taut butt.”

“I was talking about the dog.”

“Sure you were.”

We chuckled together.

“Want a nightcap?”

I burped a little
Exquisito con
relish,
mayonaisa y salsa Mexicana
. “Sure.”

We settled on the back deck where we had protection from the wind that still howled, and watched fishing pangas buzz in and out of port, their occupants decked out in yellow slickers against the salt spray and chilly air. “What do you think they’re catching?”

“Someone said squid.” I sniffed the air. “I detect the stench of a packing plant north of us. Luckily this wind is blowing the stink right past us. When this storm is over, pray for a southerly.”

“I’m surprised they’re going out fishing on such an ugly night, but I guess they have to earn a living. Tough life, but Chino says many would rather fish than work on someone’s payroll and time clock.”