Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 4) (14 page)

Craig’s dangling the caffeine and breakfast carrot helped me endure yet another forced march towards the golf club café via several miles of back desert roads. Of course, coffee and victuals would have sounded more promising had I not been flanked by a skinny blonde who could regain ten pounds, and a large black taskmaster determined that both he and I lose a few.

Jan, because she could, and without a soupçon of regard for my high degree of deprivation, ordered a huge, carb-and-fat-loaded cheese enchilada breakfast plate. Adding insult to injury, she slathered butter on a plate-sized tortilla while I sipped black coffee and nibbled a piece of dry rye toast. I wanted to strangle her and steal her food. Better yet, throttle Craig and end my misery permanently.

Only one thing might stay his execution. “Uh, Craig,” I said as sweetly as possible while choking down rye-flavored sawdust,  “when we get back to the house, I’ll make your ferry reservations for Baja. You have definitely decided to go, right?”

Craig, who had unsuccessfully concealed his disappointment when the hunky rancher he’d befriended wasn’t astride his usual barstool, waffled. “I’m still thinking about it. Can’t I make reservations when we get to San Carlos?”

“Absolutely not,” I lied, giving him one last chance to salvage his sorry carb-counting butt.

Jan looked up, ready to contradict me, but a mouthful of buttery tortilla saved her an ankle bash.

Luckily for Craig, he took the bait. “Okay, then, I guess I’ll go for sure. I haven’t seen my buddy Chino in years. I’m looking forward to it. I’ll call him later today, make sure he’ll be there.”

Jan swallowed and daintily dabbed the corners of her mouth. I was gratified to see a big grease blob on her tee shirt. “Trust me, he’ll be there,” she said. “Nothing can tear him away from those damned whales.”

“Kinda like you and that tortilla?” I grumbled.

“Hey, I’ve been sick. Oh, I think we have Xers, three o’clock.”

Craig and I turned our heads to the right like marionettes. Hardly subtle. Sure enough, there they were, bow ties and all. They sat at the next table, ordered lunch since it was past eleven, and sat silently watching putters on the practice green.

“You’re right, guys,” Jan whispered, “they sure don’t fit in.” Then she giggled. “Like we do?”

She had a point. Her tall, slim, stunning blonde looks, along with Craig’s sheer size set us apart from the lunch crowd of, well, average looking county residents, at least for this part of the county. I mean, this ain’t exactly Scottsdale. However, next to my friends, I thought I fit in pretty well with the locals, but maybe I didn’t blend as well as I thought.

“Hey, Red,” one of the Xers said.

Startled at being addressed by the guys who, up until now, seemed to ignore everyone in the restaurant except the wait staff, I cleverly answered. “Who, me?”

“You see any other redheads in here?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well, then, it must be you. We see you guys around,” his eyes strayed to Jan, leaving me to believe he was not so interested in my irresistible little self, but using me as an entree to the new and lovely Jan. Eyes reluctantly back on me, he added, “You live close?”

“Sort of.”

“You look like Californians,” the other one said.

“Sort of,” I repeated. For someone who loves drilling for info, I hate it when the tables are turned. “How about you? Not from Oakland by any chance are you?”

Craig nudged me under the table, probably to make sure I didn’t mention the infamous Your Black Muslim Bakery.

“Naw, LA. So, since we’re black you figured us for Oakland?”

The question was thrown like a gauntlet, a challenge to prove I wasn’t some kind of racist. I’d dealt with this kind of shoulder chip before and had no intention of rising to the taunt, although it would have been fun to ask, “Watts?” just because he was being pissy.

“No, I asked because we’re all based in Oakland.”

That took a little attitude off him. “That so? What you doin’ here?”

I wanted to say, none of your damned bidness, but then, if I did, I couldn’t ask the same, could I? “We’re…bird watchers. Well, I am. My colleagues are actually veterinarians. We’re especially interested in the migration habits of the,” Jan and Craig looked amused, waiting for my answer, “monk parrot.” This was a subject I knew well, as my ex-pet parrot, Trouble, happened to be one of those pesky critters.

The Xer’s exchanged a glance, then one asked, “What is a monk parrot?”

Jan, who also knew Trouble, piped up. “Monk parrots are feral birds that have migrated from South America and are not exactly welcomed up here. Truth is, they are illegal avians.”

The two chuckled at our well-worn joke. “And you’re counting them?” Somehow I don’t think they believed us. “You get paid to do that?”

Craig finally spoke up, joining in the deception. “No, we’re volunteers. What about you two? Why are you here?” His voice was controlled, but I detected a hint of his own challenge.

“Water.”

“Like Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca?” I asked.

They looked confused, so Jan and I went into our act. Casablanca being our all-time favorite film, we had parts of the dialogue memorized. Doing my best imitation of Claude Rains as Captain Louis Renault, I cocked my head in a Gallic tilt and asked Jan, ‘“What in heaven’s name brought you to Casablanca?’”

Jan, playing Bogart, growled, ‘“My health. I came to Casablanca for the waters.’”

‘“The waters? What waters? We’re in the desert.’”

‘“I was misinformed.’”

Jan and I cracked ourselves up, but the Xers obviously had a limited sense of humor. Before they had a chance to clam up, though, I asked, “So, why are you here, really?”

“Believe it or not, we’re doing a study on the San Pedro River. It runs, as you probably know, from Mexico into Arizona. There is some concern of contamination from the mining operation in Cananea.”

Aha. Maybe that’s what El Ratón was doing at their trailer?  “So, you take water samples and send them off somewhere?”

“Exactly. We also have testing equipment in our RV.” Hmmm.  As the chief project consultant regarding contamination problems at the mine, shouldn’t I have heard of a water study?

Something, probably the caffeine, jangled my calorie-starved brain. A picture of Sonrisa, jabbering away in the backseat of their Jeep flashed to the forefront. “So, I guess your Spanish must be pretty good, huh?”

Like bobbleheads, they both did a no shake. The taller one answered. “No, unfortunately, not a word. Well, maybe a word, but that’s about it. Well, we have to get go—”

He was interrupted by a loud, cheerful voice. “Yoohoo, Sister Jan, I’m sooo glad to see you looking sooo well.”

We were sooo busted.

It was Patricia Norquist, the receptionist from the Copper Queen hospital, where I’d taken Jan for treatment of her
tourista
. Just great.

The Xers exchanged a look, one of them mouthing silently at the other, “Sister?”

“What a wonderful coincidence to see you here. This is Father Harry, visiting from Holy Trinity Monastery in Saint David, just north of here. Sister Jan, surely you’ve heard of the Oblates of the Order of Saint Benedict? My memory fails me, what is your Order?”

The Farrakhan brothers, who’d been so intent on leaving, now sat back with smug smiles as Jan’s cheeks flamed red and her pursed lips remained firmly clamped around a large forkful of refrieds she’d conveniently shoved into her pie hole.

I stood and stuck my hand out, as did Craig. “Hi, Father Harry, I’m Hetta, this is Doctor Washington,” they shook, “and of course, our friend, Sister Jan.”

Jan just nodded and made a mmmm sound.

“Well, I guess she’s not really a Sister anymore since she, ah….” I let that pause hang heavy in the suddenly stifling air.

Jan took the clue and hung her head over her plate in what passed for disgrace. Father Harry, on the other hand, beamed a beatific smile, mumbled something about lost sheep and redemption, and quickly moved to a table.

We beat feet for the exit before we really looked stupid. As we passed the Xers, one of them smirked and waved. “Have a good day, Doctor, Sister Doctor, and of course, you, Red.”

We were out the door before I realized I hadn’t gotten the Xer’s names. I must be slipping. A quick stop at the RV registration desk did the job though. Oh, yeah, Brother John Smith.

We went home, made ferry arrangements for Craig, and settled on the sun-drenched verandah to read the local paper and sip iced tea.

An announcement of a new Yoga class caught my eye. I need Yoga so I can kick myself in the butt when I screw up.

Jan reached over, rattled my paper, and whispered, “Company.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t look now, but we are found.”

Of course, I looked. Sure enough, John Smith and his buddy rolled to a halt in front of the house. There were no golf clubs in their cart.

“Nice digs, bird watchers.”

“Hello again, Mr. Smith,” I returned, letting him know I’d checked up on him.

“Touché,” he said, gave me a little salute, and rolled away. For some reason, his knowing where I lived bothered me, but then again, I knew where they lived, as well: too close.

What with a couple of mysterious Black Muslims taking a sudden interest in us, we figured it was a good thing we were blowing town for San Carlos. Craig had a ferry to catch, I wanted to check on my boat, and Jan said she’d much rather slink out of Dodge than risk another awkward encounter like the one with that hospital receptionist and a monk the day before.

Jan, still chagrined by the Father Harry thing, took every opportunity to give me grief. I knew she’d see the humor in the situation soon, as she always does, and there’s nothing like a road trip to cheer folks up and clear the air. As an added bonus, once we dumped our keeper, Craig, onto the ferry for Baja, Jan and I could hit the town like old times. Even she, who started out as his staunch ally, was chaffing at his Draconian exercise regimen, even though he let her eat and drink pretty much what she wanted.

We packed up my VW and left Craig’s car in my garage, with promises, under penalty of death, not to drive it when we returned. As Craig so charmingly stated it, “You two are way too careless with stuff like cars.”

We should never have shared with him our recent adventures, which, among other things, involved a burned up rental car, a pickup with a bent axle, and a totaled VW Thing. We were only directly responsible for one out of three of those incidents, but in Craig’s mind, a wreck is a wreck.

I’d spotted a promising taco stand in Naco, Sonora, on my last trip south, so we decided to grab one or two for breakfast. This was after trying to convince Craig that, just as the Weather Channel map stops at the border, so does the existence of cholesterol and calories. Won over or not, he agreed to the tacos.

As we crossed the border, the usual flock of giggling school kids headed north, on their way to school in Naco, Arizona. I wondered aloud if they had any idea how lucky they were to be able to cross into the U.S. so easily, when others were dying, literally, to do the same thing.

“Hey,” Craig said, “they’re elementary school students. How aware were you as a kid that you were lucky to be an American?”

“Oh, trust me,” I said, “very. We traveled extensively and I saw, first hand, kids sleeping in doorways and begging for food and money on the streets. I knew I was lucky. How about you, Jan?”

“Naw, I was just a stupid kid who didn’t know I was poor. Mom forgot to tell me.”

“You weren’t poor poor. After your dad died, your mom had to make ends meet on a clerical salary. Craig, on the other hand, was a rich kid.”

“I guess so, but my parents forgot to tell me.”

I rolled to a stop in a cloud of wood smoke. The fragrant smell of grilling carne asada sent my stomach a-rumblin’. Mesquite grilled beef, topped with a dollop of fresh salsa, and then rolled in a steaming hot tortilla is a little piece of breakfast heaven.

As we savored our breakfast, a group of tired, hungry looking people gathered across the street. I clutched my third taco protectively.

Jan cocked her head in their direction. “Think they’ve just been dumped back in Mexico by the Border Patrol?”

I shook my head. “That sign says
Centro de Rehabilitacion y Recuperacion para Enfermos de Drogadiccion y Alcoholismo
. Rehab center for drugs and alcoholism. Maybe we should check you in, Sister, so you can ditch that habit.”

Craig laughed, but Jan glowered. “Ya know, a pun can be overused.”

“Oh, lighten up. I practically saved your life by moving you to the front of the sick line, and the only way to do it was tell them you needed a fix. Ungrateful wretch.”

“Girls, girls,” Craig held up his hands, “peace. Let’s get on down the road before…well, well, look who’s here. Or rather, there.”

I looked where he nodded, and who should appear in front of that rehab building? Our little Miss Sonrisa. “For a tiny Indian from way down south, she sure gets around.”

My voice carries. She spotted us and crossed the street. Walking straight to our table, she asked, “¿
Está usted va a la viña
?” No
good morning
or
how are you
from this one.

“And a good
dia
to you, as well. No, we are not going to the vineyard,
vamanos al
San Carlos.”

She then made us understand she’d like a ride as far as the turnoff for the Ruta Rio Sonora, just north of Cananea. I reluctantly agreed, and she accepted with all the grace of a pit bull. She did, however, manage a crack of a smile and a nod when Craig offered her a taco.

Not another word passed Sonrisa’s grim little lips as we finished our breakfast while chatting about our trip plans and schedule. When we let her off at her turnoff, she mumbled something that could have been thanks, or screw you. I’m betting on the latter.

“Charming little ingrate, huh?” I said, watching her stalk away.

“What is her problem?” Jan wanted to know.

Craig filled her in on what little we knew of Sonrisa’s hard life before she ended up at the winery, and that Nanci said her reticence was due to shyness. As we pulled into Cananea, Craig and I were arguing over whether Miss Sonrisa was reticent or downright surly.  Jan averred that Craig was probably right, and that I was being too hard on the poor little thing.

Mean old Hetta pulled into a Pemex station, topped off the tanks, and ended up paying five pesos each for the three of us to use the bathroom, even though I’d just overpaid by at least ten percent because all the pump counters are misset, and it ain’t in your favor. Jenks calls it a
milagro
, a miracle, for only in Mexico can you get 22 liters in a 19 liter gas container.

Who says Mexicans aren’t enterprising souls?

Things were quiet at the mine entrance. A few soldiers slumped about, but the former roadblocks and angry strikers were gone. The old man and dog once again guarded the gate, and even though they actually appeared awake, it was hard to tell, as the gate stood open and we rolled on through.

Maria greeted us outside, even though the temperature was in the low forties, and hustled us inside, where it wasn’t much warmer.

“God, it’s freezing in here, Maria. What’d they do, cut off your power?”

“Oh, no.
Señor
Racón requested we not use the heater. He says we must save
electricidad
.”

“Oh, he does, does he. Where is the little
ratón
?”

She smiled. “In Mexico.”

Craig looked puzzled. “I thought we were in Mexico.”

I explained that Mexicans, when they say Mexico, mean Mexico City, then I asked Maria, “So, who’s the boss today?”

She looked confused. “Boss?”

“Who is the
jefe
? Who tells you what to do when the bosses are gone?”

A frown crossed her pretty face as she thought about that. “I guess, today, that would be you?”

“Yes, I think so. When will Racón return?”

“Two weeks.”

“Maria, will you type a letter for me?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, here goes: To Miss Maria, uh, what’s your last name?”

“Fuentes.”

“To Miss Maria Fuentes. Until further notice, please keep my office at seventy-five degrees, Fahrenheit. Thank you, Engineer Hetta Coffey.”

“Café, there is no heater in your office.”

“Then leave the door open so heat can get in there.”

“Yes, Café. Thank you.”

“
De nada
. I’ll be checking in at my office every day, so be sure it’s warm, got that?”

“But, I thought you were on your way to San Carlos.”

“Who told you that?”

“You did.”

“I lied.”

She smiled and gave me a kiss on the cheek.