Just Add Trouble (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 3)) (6 page)

“You and your father don’t understand her.”

Oh, we understand her all too well. She’s a bully, an abuser of both people and substances, and takes advantage of your sweet nature
. Because my mother sounded upset, I asked, in a softer tone, “What happened?”

“Well, she called and said she was leaving for a few days and could we feed her bird. She never returned.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“No. No one knows.”

“She take her car?”

“No.”

Well, there’s a break for all of Texas driverdom
. “She’ll turn up. She always does. So, other than the fact that you’re worried, why is this a problem for Dad?”

“It’s Trouble.”

“You said that. What kind of trouble?”

“No, dear. Trouble. Your aunt’s parrot. His name is Trouble.”

“I’ve known a few men like that. When did she buy a parrot? I thought you meant she wanted you to scatter birdseed for her flock of wild birds.”

“She didn’t exactly buy him. He adopted her.”

“Too bad your mother didn’t think of something like that.”

“Het-ta.”

“Okay, okay, tell me the tale.”

“It turns out,” I told Jenks over breakfast, “that my aunt named this wild parrot Trouble, because he sings a song from
The Music Man
, the one about pool? Right here in River City?”

“Robert Preston. Loved that movie. So, there are wild parrots in Texas? And your aunt has one as a pet?”

“Not only that, he’s illegal.”

Jenks raised his eyebrows and took a bite of toast. “This should be good.”

“It is. This parrot, he’s actually a parakeet called a Monk or Quaker. I’ve seen them all around Lake Austin. They’re cute little devils and they’ve survived up north, even in your old home town of Brooklyn, because they are the only nest-building parrots in the world. They make warm homes and hole up in winter.”

“So, if they’re wild, why does your aunt keep him?”

“For some unfathomable reason, he adopted her. If nothing else, this shows a singular lack of good judgment on his part.” Jenks chuckled. He had not only met Lil, he’d seen her in action.

“Anyhow, you know she feeds all kinds of birds behind her house. One day she heard a ruckus, opened the door and in flew this parrot, with a blue jay hot on his tail. Auntie slammed the door, knocked the jay out, and when the parrot calmed down, he burst into song. First, that "Ya Got Trouble" song, and then "Yellow Rose of Texas". She was so impressed, she let him stay and now he lives with her.”

“How’s the blue jay?”

“Woke up and flew off, but waited outside. After that, when Trouble went out, the jay attacked him, so my aunt put Trouble in the car inside the garage, went for a drive, then let him take wing. So now, everyday he flies right over the car as it tools down the road, and when he’s had his exercise, or someone whistles him back, he zooms into the car and they drive home.”

“Whistles for him? Like a dog? I’d pay to see that. So, your aunt has gone missing and now your dad has to uh, drive, the parrot?”

“Yep. And there’re parrot droppings in his pickup. You know how he loves that truck. He wants to turn Trouble loose, but Mama won’t let him. Mom and Dad wanna go RVing and now they can’t because they’re stuck until Auntie Addict shows up. They wanted me to birdsit Trouble for a while. Thank God, I can’t because I’m out of the country. I told them to board him out, but no one will take him. He ain’t got no stinkin’ passport. Without proof of where he came from, pet shops are afraid he’s a carrier for bird flu or parrot fever or some such.”

“I agree with your dad. Turn him loose. He is a wild bird, right?”

“Actually, they don’t really think so. Mother’s afraid he’s been raised by people and can’t fend for himself. And even though Dad wants shut of Trouble, he’d feel terrible if something happened to him. I think he’s grown on them, parrot poop and all.”

“You have a strange family.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve met your brother, don’t forget.”

He grinned. “So what are your parents going to do?”

“Just wait and see, I guess. Anyhow, not my problem. I, for one, would like a long walk on terra firma. We could both use the exercise. First, though, I’ll call the Trob and see about that job down here. At least if I stay I won’t have to make excuses to Mom why I can’t take that bird off her hands.”

The phone rang again. “Jeez, I’m supposedly on vacation. You take it, Jenks. Tell whoever it is to call back in a month.”

Chapter 5

I didn’t make it ashore at Puerto Escondido, because we were headed for Guaymas within the hour.

It took the Trob two up-antes to convince me I should take on a project I’d already decided to take. He averred it was a fairly simple study—oh, sure, I’ve heard that before—as well as lucrative. And, for a change, I would actually report to him. That’s what really sealed the deal. No murky middleman to work around, no hidden agendas, just plain old grunt work using OP’s drawings and studies. I like it when I can cash in on Other People’s toil. Only problem is that he needed me there, on site and sending reports, within forty-eight hours because of some meeting the Baxters had planned. With whom he didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. Sometimes it’s better to remain ignorant of details, just in case I end up in court.

Jenks plotted our course for Guaymas, which would require an overnighter. If we loafed along at six knots, we’d arrive after first light, always a good idea when you don’t have local knowledge. Upon arrival, I’d pay a courtesy call on the port captain, tell him what I was doing there, sort of. The sort of part was that I planned fobbing myself off as a reporter writing a favorable article touting the possibility that Guaymas was destined to become Arizona’s deepwater seaport. I’d get friendly, gently feel him out, get his take on the political feasibility of successfully ushering his port from the nineteenth to the twenty-first century. I said feel him out, not up. I do have my standards, lowly as they may be.

Once underway, Jenks took the first watch, casting a leery eye for panga goons, while I set about printing up new business cards. First, though, I needed the name of a viable newspaper. I fired up the sat system, Googled Arizona, came up with major publications in Tucson and Phoenix. Nope, too obvious, and easy to check out. I needed something small and much more obscure. Tombstone Epitaph? Nah. Yuma Sun? Too far away.

I needed a town close enough to care about the goings on in a Mexican seaport. Then I hit it, The
Sierra Vista Observer
, Sierra Vista, Arizona. Population, a little over 40,000. Located in Southeast Arizona, very near the border. Better yet, home of Fort Huachuca, a center for Army Intelligence. A town no one ever heard of, with a daily rag to match, was perfect for my purposes. I downloaded the paper’s logo.

“What do you think?” I asked, handing Jenks my newly minted business cards.

“Do journalists actually put Journalist on their cards?”

“I dunno, but I thought Hetta Coffey, Girl Reporter, sounded somewhat dated.”

“Is there really a paper by this name?”

“Yep, and a town. There’s an army base there, Fort Huachuca, so I figure the folks in this burg would be interested in the development of a seaport to their south, in a country we’re not on super terms with when it comes to avenues for terrorism.”

“Beats trucking everything from the West and Gulf coasts, I suppose.”

“That’s what I love about this project. It’s clean.”

“I hope so, for your sake. When Mexico smells money, things can get dirty, fast.”

“You’re telling me? This time, though, all I need do is summarize the feasibility studies of others, adding my onsite survey, so I’m not really breaking new ground. My job is to simply ensure we’re not comparing coconuts and mangos. I actually have some professional background on this subject. A mite rusty, perhaps, but a soupçon of knowledge in transportation. Marine transportation.”

“Oh, yeah? When?”

“Before I started college, I did a summer internship at Brown and Root, now owned by Halliburton. The guys you and your brother are subbing for in Kuwait.”

“Small world, but the world of big boy engineering always has been. So what did you do?”

I let that big boy thing slide. “A summary of Alaska Pipeline sealifts, beginning with the early seventies. Every year, all the barges had to be loaded and underway in order to make passage to Prudhoe Bay, through the Bering Strait before it refroze. The fascinating critical nature of that lift led me to specialize in Material Control and Logistics. Coordinating a project, down to the last nail, appeals to control freaks like me.”

“And your journalistic credentials?”

“I do the Wall Street Journal crossword puzzle.”

“With a ballpoint, no doubt?”

“Mont Blanc.”

“Oh, well, then. What’s for lunch, Brenda Starr?”

“You’re dating yourself.”

“Really? Then how do you know who Brenda Starr is?”

“I took a course in classic comics while studying for my Masters in Journalism at Harvard. No, make that a PhD.”

He rolled his eyes.

Guaymas can best be described as a blue-collar seaport with few redeeming qualities other than a populace of very hardworking people. 

My cruising guide said there was a new marina in town, but no one answered, so after we anchored at a place called Playitas, in water best described as fishily suspicious, we dinghied ashore, found a small motel, and asked them to call a taxi so we could scout out the city. We gave them ten bucks to keep an eye on the dink, but I was still slightly worried because, during the wait for our taxi, a couple of rooms changed hands. Twice.

From the looks of it, Guaymas qualified as a seaport only because it was on the sea, and it is a port. From what I could tell from the charts, the harbor was well protected, but aside from a fleet of rusting shrimp boats, not much was happening, big boat wise. After living near the Oakland Estuary for years, I knew what a busy port looked like, and this definitely was not it. But then, that’s why I was here; someone wanted to turn this small town into a major shipping zone. Fortunes would be made, lives changed forever.

I couldn’t help thinking, as a bunch of uniformed, clean-cut teenagers crossed the street in front of us,
look out what you wish for
. The kids retained a glow of fresh-faced innocence from a bygone era. Not a tattoo, nose ring, or blue hair among them. A few had cell phones, but instead of text messaging, they were actually laughing and talking. What a concept. They saw us and became shy. Not many Gringos about, I’d wager. That, too, would change.

We found the port captain’s office easily, but after my little fracas in Magdalena Bay involving a disingenuous assistant port captain, I was on edge, not knowing what to expect. What we received was a genuinely warm greeting.

Decked out in crisp white with some gold braided scrambled eggs here and there,
Capitán
Reyes was fortyish, with slightly graying, thick black hair cut in military style. Shorter than Jenks, he still hit nearly six feet. He cut quite the dashing figure, one that, pre-Jenks, would have definitely captured my attention.

We shook hands, I handed him my card, and his face lit up. “Sierra Vista! My niece lives in Sierra Vista. Julietta Bradley, do you know her?” He pronounced her first name Who-lee-a-ta.

Jenks cocked his head at me and lifted his eyebrows. His deep blue eyes shone with delight as he waited to see how I handled the mess I’d created for myself within minutes of officially arriving in port.

“You know, I haven’t lived there that long.”

“Oh, you must know her. She works for your newspaper.”

Oh, dear. “Oh, well, then. Which department?”

“I think it is the place where one sells things?”

“Classifieds?”

“Yes, that is it.”

“I rarely go into the office. I am more of a freelancer. When I return, though, I will look her up.” This subject needed torpedoing,
rapido
. “So, where is the best place to anchor our boat? I see you have brand new docks, but they are full.  We’ll be around for at least a month.”

“Yes, we are very proud of our new waterfront, but as you can see, it is still small. There will be larger slips in the future, but for now you should go to San Carlos, a few miles north. There are two marinas, many yachts. Guaymas is more of a working port, but we have,” his face broke into a beaming smile, “big plans for the future. If you wish a marina seca, though, we do have one.”

“
Marina seca
?”

“Dry dock. A storage yard where work can be done.”

“Ah, a boatyard. Well, I only need a marina.”

“Then you must go to San Carlos. Or, if you wish, you can bring your boat there,” he pointed at a fleet of corroding shrimp boats, and a pier lined with old tires, “and tie to our dock while you made arrangements in San Carlos, or a slip opens in the Guaymas marina.”