Just Add Trouble (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 3)) (20 page)

“Like I said, I got down here.” He sounded pretty defensive, which is the reaction I get from most men, right before they start avoiding me. Only Jenks appreciates stuff like this, but I think that’s because he can figure circles around me, could have had that calculation down to the last decimal point before I started. Oh, and he doesn’t feel threatened by a woman who actually knows what six inches is.

“But like you said,” I said in an attempt to pat down Smith’s ruffled ego, “you do it all the time. It’s just that the idea of some guy underway, asleep, at night, and on autopilot, isn’t all that reassuring for the rest of us.”

“You powerboaters worry too much. If I get really tired, I just heave to, put on my strobe light, go to bed and drift.”

“We’ve done something similar. Kill the engines, turn on the strobe and drift. Even then, though, we have someone on watch. Are you banking some shrimper’s gonna post a watch?”

“So we do a little bump in the night.”

“It’s you boat,” I said, parroting a former boat captain of mine. “What radio channel will you be on?”

“I’ll monitor sixteen and seventy-two. I’m all set to leave, wanna help me with my lines?”

He started
Taiwan On’s
engine, and several other boaters sauntered over to help him on his way. As I watched him pull out of the harbor, it made me feel pretty wimpy that I was worried about crossing a little patch of sea by myself in broad daylight.

Trouble, who had been perched on my shoulder since we left the pickup, flew ahead of me as I headed for
Raymond Johnson
. I followed, but another boater came out on the dock.

“Hey, Hetta, what time you leaving?”

“Four, four-thirty.”

“Need me to help with the lines?”

“Naw, I’ll be fine. I just hope I don’t wake everyone up.”

“Well, if you—”

A raucous squawk and a scream cut the night air. I ran for the boat, only to find a man face down on my deck, with Trouble sitting on his back. Every time the man moved, Trouble bit his ear.

“Good bird! Hey, who are you and what are you doing on my damned boat?”

“
Por favor
. Can you to remove him from me?”

“I’ll think about it. Why are you on my boat?”

“I am from Arturo.” He tried to reach in his pocket, but was nailed for his trouble.

“Arturo? Arturo who?”

“
Señor
Arturo Oberto. He sees this animal on television and wish to purchase him.”

“As in, Oh Boy! Oberto, Oberto?”

“
Si
. I have the letter.”

“Trouble, get over here and leave the man alone.” I turned to the crowd that gathered on the dock. “Everything’s all right. Sorry for all the racket.”

People began to drift off as I helped the man up. He eyed Trouble warily, dug in his front pocket and produced a piece of paper. Stretching his arm as far as it would go while leaning away, he handed me a note and snatched his hand from harm’s way.

Just for fun, Trouble made a little feint in his direction, which made the man jump back. “Quit it, Trouble. This man is your dream come true. Your ship has come in. Seems Mr. Art Oberto, who obviously saw your television debut on CNN, has a place near here and he sent this nice man to buy you. Think of it. Unlimited jerky for-ever.”

I turned to the cringing man. “Mr. Oberto doesn’t care to buy me as well, by any chance?”

“¿
Mande
?”

“Never mind. Please, sit down, I’ll be right back.”

I felt a little guilty when Trouble went passively into his cage, never guessing that I was, quite literally, selling him down the river. “It’s for your own good, honest,” I said, but I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince, him or me. I gathered up some goodies for his road trip, covered his cage, and took it outside. Quickly jotting down Trouble’s idiosyncratic eating habits, his desire for a daily warm shower, and a warning as to his racist tendencies, I handed the man the list.

“Here you go. Whatever you do, do not open this cage,
intiendes
?”

He didn’t need any convincing there. “Oh,
sí
, do not worry, I will not to open the cage. How much?”

“At least a few days.”

“¿
Mande
?”

“Keep him in cage.
Tres, cinco dias
.” I figured three to five days would give me time to get the hell out of Mexico.

“
Si
, I understand. How much pesos?”

I could hear Trouble mumbling contentedly, as he always did before he went to sleep.

“Thirty pieces of silver?”

“¿
Mande
?”

“Just joking. No money. Here,” I turned the letter over and scribbled on the back, “give this to Señor Oberto.”

“
Gracias. Muchas gracias, señora, y que vaya bein
.”

“Same to you. I guess.”

As I watched them leave, I teared up a little, but this is what I wanted, right? Trouble has a good home with lots of jerky, and I’m as free as, well, a bird.

Twice during the night I awakened to the flutter of wings, but it turned out to be a great blue heron instead of the great green Trouble.

I missed him.

To my complete and utter surprise, I crossed the sea without a single incident.

After oversleeping, I was underway by five, overtook Smith around noon. I waved gaily as I passed, noting that he looked grouchy and tired, and I figured he still had a good thirteen miles to go. So much for his hoped for five knots; he was barely making four.

I was back in my slip by one, and helped Smith with his lines much later. He and Maggie joined me for a rum and coke—she takes hers with ice, hold the rum, hold the coke—then, worn out, the sailor headed for his bunk. I didn’t ask how often he’d set his alarm the night before, but it was obvious that only one of us had a restful night.

Feeling mightily pleased with myself for my uneventful crossing, I deigned to call Jenks and brag a little, but his cool reception led to a strained conversation that I was in no mood to lighten up. It was only after I hung up that I wished I’d been less defensive when he expressed relief that I was back in my slip.

How dare he worry about me.

Chapter 24

I wrote a wrap-up report for the Trob, to which I planned to attach a grossly inflated invoice. Knowing he would question it line by line, it was a padding game we played, even though we both knew where we’d end up.

Trouble, safe and sound at Rancho Oberto, was no longer a reason to linger in Mexico, and with my silly self the possible subject of a search by at least three bad guys and the Budget rental police, my host country was growing a mite unwelcoming.

And I was lonely. Yes, there were cruiser parties almost every night, and yes, I did lots of busy boat work and supervised even more, and yes, I spent hours on the computer working, but I was still alone. Jan was diving for treasure with Chino, Jenks was in Kuwait with his brother, Trouble was, according to phoned-in progress reports from Rancho Oberto, in Baja, happily munching unlimited jerky, and Mom and Dad were RV-ing somewhere in Canada.

My stateside project wasn’t due to get started until after the first of the year, so what I needed was a new project—somewhere besides Mexico, and preferably
muy
pronto
—before I reverted to type and slid into a Tequila stupor. Jimmy Buffett knows of what he sings when he talks about wasting away in Margaritaville.

Before I fell into a permanent blue funk, I picked up the phone. “Yo Trob, I need a job.”

“I gave you a job.”

“I need another.”

“Finish the one you have.”

“You’ll have the whole enchilada tomorrow.”

“I thought you had another deal lined up.”

“I do, but not until after Christmas.”

“I’ll put feelers out. When will you be back up here.”

“Soon. Say, has Allison mentioned my car lately?”

“You better talk to her, she’s your lawyer.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

My so-called lawyer, Allison, barely gave me a chance to say hello before launching into a quite un-lawyerly diatribe. “Hetta, you can’t hide out south of the border forever. If you don’t start returning my damned calls, I’m going to come down there and drag your skanky butt back here myself.

“One more call from the OPD and I’m telling them you are no longer my client. They only want to
talk
to you, not arrest you. They know you had nothing to do with that body in your car.”

“Okay, okay. I’ve been a little busy. And I am coming home. I did call them and they said they would release the car to you.”

“Not exactly.”

“What exactly?”

“They let me take it to the mechanic, but he won’t release it onto the street until he gets an okay from Norquist. And Norquist wants to talk to you again.”

“What now? Doesn’t he have better things to do?”

“His life is full of boring stuff, like murders and mayhem. He needs a little excitement.”

“Har har. He’d be bored with what I’ve been up to.”

“Liar. Jan called.”

“Oh.”

“Car theft? Consorting with drug runners? Attempted vehicular manslaughter? Have I missed anything?”

“I sold my bird down the tubes.”

“Save that one for when you get home. And when will that be?”

“Real soon, I promise.”

“They running you out of the country?”

“Something like that. How much for my car?”

“Three grand.”

“What? The whole car isn’t worth that much.”

“You said to fix it, I had it fixed.”

“I’m going to revise my invoice to your hubby. Looks like I’m going to need a cash influx.”

“Plus two more grand for the deductible on that rental car you blew up in Baja.”

“Uh, car?”

“Yes, car. As in a Budget rental, wrecked, burned and abandoned in the Baja?”

“Oh,
that
rental car. It was rented on Jan's credit card.

“You signed the agreement. ”

“How does Jan know how much the deductible is already?”

“She may not. The police in Baja called the OPD since her, and your, address of record is in Oakland. And believe me, when your name crops up, the local cops listen. Especially Norquist.”

Damn. I knew I should have called Budget and reported the car fire. Evidently they found out on their own.

“Not only that, the cops in Loreto thought maybe you two had died in the fire, and that caused quite a stir. When they found no bones, they searched the desert. In other words, your crass irresponsibility caused everyone a great deal of time and expense.”

“Sorry, but I—”

“Too late. Jan explained how the car overheated and caught on fire, so what was the big deal reporting the loss?” Bless Jan’s little lying heart; I’ve taught her well.

“Okay, go ahead and give Norquist my Mexican cell number. I’ll explain about the amnesia.”

“Amnesia?”

“Until this very minute, I had completely forgotten about that rental car. Must have been the shock. Now it’s suddenly all coming back to me.”

“Well, then, Miz Hetta, you’d best suddenly call Budget, for they are on the very verge of issuing an arrest warrant for your amnesiac self. And you would not like the inside of a Mexican jail. Plus, I will not be coming to get you out this time.”

“I’ll take care of it. I promise.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. Do you have, like, a contact number for Budget? My rental papers were sort of blow…burned up.”

“Along with your memory? Or could it have been a recurrence of your brain tumor.”

Jeez, that Jan has a big mouth. “Just give me the damned number.”

She did. I called, told them how, right after the car caught on fire, we were set upon by banditos who attacked me, hit me on the head, and I had been recovering ever since in a San Diego hospital. They agreed to charge the deductible to Jan’s burned up Master Card.

I plumb forgot to notify Jan of the charge.

That amnesia is a bitch.

In a surge of contrition, I set out to ameliorate the swath of crap I’d managed to leave in my wake the past couple of weeks.

I called Jenks, apologized for acting like a jerk and not listening to his advice. After all, I needed to stay at his apartment in Oakland. He graciously accepted my apology and our conversation ended on much friendlier terms than the last.