Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 4) (15 page)

“Nice goin’ back there, Hetta. Keep the heat on, indeed. You trying to get yourself canned?” Jan asked as we left the mine office and entered the main highway for San Carlos.

“Racón won’t touch me for something as simple as turning up the heat in the office. Don’t forget, I’m a world-class mining expert, he said so himself. Well, he didn’t, Juan Orozco did, but they’ve painted themselves into a corner with the unions, touting me as the person who will fix everything.”

“Boy, if they only knew,” Craig said, then cranked his head toward Jan in the backseat. “Actually, I thought helping poor freezing Maria out was very thoughtful, and, after all, how often is Hetta thoughtful?”

“Hey, Doctor Washington, how’s this for a thought?” I said with a show of teeth meant as a snarl. “You want to walk to Baja?”

“On second thought, Hetta Coffey is one of the most caring individuals I know. So, how long a drive to San Carlos?”

I shrugged. “Depends on how many slow trucks we get behind. Like that one up there. Hold on, we can take him.”

“But what about that…Oh, crap.”

We made it from Cananea to San Carlos in four-and-a-half hours, something of a record I was later told. I was given a great deal of help by Our Lady of Guadalupe; on the switchback curve where her shrine stands, one can see traffic coming down the mountain from the opposite direction for at least a quarter mile, so I managed to pass four trucks.

Craig swore he would never ride with me again, but I knew he’d get over it. Jan thought the trip miraculously uneventful, considering some of our past jaunts, and called Craig a wuss. They were still bickering over my driving skills when we skidded to a stop in front of the Captain’s Club near Marina San Carlos.

“Last one to the bar gets a time out, and pays for the first round,” I told them, launching myself from the driver’s seat.

Craig, crammed into the back seat after insisting on a seat change, even if it turned him into a sardine, also got stuck with the bill. By the time we cranked down a few fish tacos and a couple of gallons of beer—even Craig, who I suspect was stuffing road fear—it was time to head for our rooms at the Adalai.

Small, family run, and off the beaten path, the Departmentos Adalai, as it is called, is a favorite with boaters. Rooms are cheap and clean, the owners friendly and accommodating. Luxurious, it is not, but it fits the bill for non-tourist types looking for a soft place to land.

We opted for two rooms, both with a small fridge and microwave. I’d packed a kit with coffee makings and healthy snacks, but Jan and I planned on grazing our way through town as soon as we dumped Der Carbmeister onto the ferry. Love the man, but he simply had to go. Maybe a few days of living on fish would give him a new attitude towards a good old greasy cheeseburger. His ferry didn’t leave until Saturday night, so we were stuck with him for another day, but as soon as he was gone, we planned on a major fried shrimp scarf-down.

After breakfast at Barracuda Bob’s the next morning, we headed for Marina Real to check on
Raymond Johnson
. In addition to her hull work, I wanted to have the engines serviced so when she launched we’d be ready to cruise. I was hoping that “we”  would be me and Jenks.

In addition to checking on Mad Russ’s progress with the blisters, I’d scheduled a meeting with my mechanic, Franky. Franky and I have a love-hate relationship; he loves working on boats, and I hate waiting for him to work on mine, even though he’s worth the wait.

As we entered the work yard, I surmised the
work
part I was paying for got lost in translation, for while there seemed to be a lot of work going on, it just wasn’t on my boat. Other boats bristled with ladders and men sanding, caulking, and painting. Nary a ladder nor man near the forlorn-looking
Raymond Johnson
.

“Uh, Hetta,” Jan said, eyeing my poor boat, “what exactly did you say they are supposed to be doing here?”

“Not storing her, which is what it looks like. I at least expected to see the blisters fared out so they’ll dry. I’m paying a premium to be in the work yard section, but
Raymond Johnson
looks exactly as I left her. Will you stay here and get one of the guys to call me on channel sixteen when Franky shows?” I waggled my handheld VHF at her.

Jan said yes, I asked Craig to accompany me and to put on a mean face, then we steamed toward the marina in search of
Tequila Mockingbird
, and her owner, Mad Russ.

Banging on
Tequila’s
hull got no results, but just as we were ready to give up and walk away, Russ stuck his head out of the cockpit hatch. “Hetta?” he mumbled sleepily, “What are you doing here?” He glanced warily at the suitably menacing Craig.

“Checking the progress on my boat, Russ, which, I might say, is zero. Zip. Nada.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say that.”

“What, pray tell, would you say, exactly?”

“It’s drying out.”

“How can the blisters dry if they aren’t ground out so they can drain?”

He looked surprised. I’d done my homework since we last talked. I now knew what had to be done, and all the steps to get there. “Well, you know, I was getting to that. Soon.”

“How about getting to this? You give me a bill for what you haven’t done, and I’ll pay for it by the hour.”

“Aw, Hetta, you know how it is,” he whined, but made no move to leave the safety of his boat.

“No, Russ, I don’t. As the Donald would say, you’re fired.” I tramped back to the boat yard, where I tracked down Mario, the marina employee who’d discovered the blisters in the first place. He looked nervous, as though I’d somehow blame him for Mad Russ’s lack of progress.

“Mario, who can I get to fix my boat?”

He smiled with relief and pointed to another man in the yard, one who was actually working on a boat. “Arturo.”

Thirty minutes later, Arturo had a bunch of my money, and I had a schedule for the completion of
Raymond Johnson
’s bottom job. He also told me the blisters were much less severe than I’d been led to think and then,
milagro
: Franky showed. I was assured by my new guys that in no time my boat would be in her slip, shipshape, and ready to head for California. Franky even said if need be, he’d go along as chief mechanic.

Having a mechanic of his caliber on board for a trip north was mighty tempting, but his offer dampened my buoying spirits.  Would Jenks be there to take her home, or would I indeed end up with a crew? Where was Jenks? Was he all right? It had been eight days since he said he was going to some mysterious location. In what country? He hadn’t said when he would return, and, uncharacteristic for me, I hadn’t asked. He did say he’d call when he could, but I had expected that would be by now.

Suddenly a devastating mental image of some wild-eyed, sword-brandishing, contractor-beheading terrorists loomed.

Jan, who was chatting with a couple of boaters she knew, broke away and grabbed my arm. “Hetta, you okay? You look like you’re about to conk out.”

I shook my head. “I’m not okay, I’m scared. What if Jenks is—”

“Don’t even go there,” she said. “Say goodbye to these nice folks. We are going to the motel, get our stuff, and head for the house in Bisbee, where, through the wonderful world of every resource we have, we are going to find Jenks Jenkins. Okay? Craig, you can take a taxi to your ferry tonight.”

“No problem,” he said. “You go do what you have to do. You’d better hustle, though, it’s already pushing ten. I don’t want you two out on Mexican roads after dark, and that’s pretty early this time of year.”

I didn’t protest, for Jan was right. Action was needed and we were gonna do it. We drove to the motel, hurriedly packed up my VW, grabbed box lunches at Barracuda Bob’s, and headed for the border. Just south of Hermosillo, I pulled over.

“Jan, hand me that map of Sonora from the glove compartment. I have an idea.”

I spread the map out and traced a road with my finger. “See this? This road goes up the Rio Sonora, right by Ted and Nanci’s vineyard.”

“And?”

“And, Ted was in the Middle East with Jenks. They worked together. He started to talk about what they did over there once, but Nanci shut him down. If we go this way,” I tapped the map, “instead of through Imuris and up Mex 2, we can stop by the winery. Maybe Ted’ll come up with a contact who’ll track down Jenks. It’s worth a try.”

Jan studied the map. “Is this a good road? Can we make it to the winery before dark?”

“About the same distance as if we went through Cananea, looks like. Maybe even a little shorter. I can’t tell you how good the road is from this map, but it is paved. When Craig and I went through…here,” I showed her a spot on the same highway, just north of the winery, “we did have to ford the river. My guess is we’ll have to do so a couple of times, but what the heck, it’s not rainy season, so we should do all right.”

She shrugged. “Okay by me, can we call Ted and Nanci, let them know we’re on the way?”

“I’ll try. They have HughesNet up there, therefore Internet, ergo, phone. Reach in my purse and get that little red book. Last name is Burns.”

Rosa answered, said Nanci and Ted were out riding, but she’d let them know we were on the way. I hung up and told Jan, “I figured they’d be there. They told me they weren’t going anywhere until next month. They’re in the process of changing out cobalt rods and have to stick close to home until the exchange is made.”

“Did you say cobalt rods? What the hell kind of wine are they making up there?”

I told her all about irradiated wine, now that I’m an expert on the subject. Maybe I’ll add that to my resume, right along with internationally renowned mining consultant.

The Rio Sonora Valley’s villages are rustic, historic, and charming. Many of them are over four hundred years old and imbue a rural charm long lost to most of the United States and Mexico. Nary a stoplight, golden arch, or neon sign for miles. Just one sleepy, pristine pueblo after another, each anchored by a mission or church plaza at its center. Between villages, we rarely saw another vehicle.

The small colonial-style towns, which spread from central plazas worthy of a sit, are authentically colonial in style. The old houses, even those with peeling paint, looked homey and lived in. Rattling along on narrow cobblestone streets built well before automobiles were invented, we found friendly folks willing to while away time shooting the breeze with a couple of Gringas. We stopped briefly at each town, keeping a close watch on the hour and miles to go as we went.

Jan kept up a verbal travelogue, using a dog-eared guidebook I’d picked up at Barracuda Bob’s a few months before. I never leave a map or guidebook lie, because you never know when you’ll get a chance to check out a new spot, and here we were.

Touristing our way north, we hit Huépac and took a gander at their mammoth femur displayed like a hero statue, bought tiny but fiery chiltepin peppers in Baviacora, and gaped at Achonchi’s black Christ figure. Jan wanted to hit the thermal springs reputed to have medicinal qualities, but we were running out of time and daylight.

Fording the Rio Sonora at night was not an option, so we reluctantly blasted by Arizpe’s huge cottonwood trees teeming with great herons. The trip so far had been surprisingly relaxing, informative, and fun, so, of course, things had to hit the dumper.

We picked up a tail just north of Arizpe.

Charming as the pueblos were, we’d seen so few cars between towns  that  a tinge of unease niggled at their remoteness. Already on the alert because of reported
drogista
traffic in the area, my hands tightened on the wheel as we passed a white SUV parked on the side of the road. To make matters worse, two youngish men wearing baseball caps lounged in the front seat.

I didn’t say anything to Jan, and was thinking maybe I was being paranoid when the SUV loomed in my rearview mirror. I moved over the centerline, hogging the road to prevent them from passing.

“Jan?” I said, “Tighten your seatbelt.”

She did it without first asking why. She’s been around me way too long.

I downshifted, hit the gas, and we were doing eighty in no time. The SUV stayed on my tail.

Jan craned her neck to take a look. “Where did they come from?”

“They were sitting on the side of the road, almost like they were waiting for us.”

“Hetta, I know you have a suspicious nature, but are you sure they aren’t just a couple of dudes on their way home in a hurry?”

“You saw them. What do you think?”

“Punks.”

“Yep. How far to the next town?”

Jan studied our map. “I don’t see anything. The winery turnoff is…what’s the last kilometer number you saw?”

I told her. “Okay, then, we have about five miles to go. Think they’ll follow us up the winery road?”

“Don’t know, but I can surely outrun them for another few minutes. Dig my cell phone out of my purse. Ted’s number is in memory.” The SUV had dropped back some, but was still following us much closer than I liked. I frantically watched the countryside for a house, while praying we’d come upon a truck or bus going our way. If I could pass one and then really slow down, I’d have some cover. Where’s a slow Mexican truck when you need one?

Jan tried the phone, but no service. Figures.

White knuckled, and in a cold sweat, I concentrated on keeping us on the road and the SUV in my mirror. On straightaways  I  pushed ninety. On curves, since I took up both lanes, I alternatively hoped for traffic, and prayed there wasn’t any, because if we met, one of us was leaving the road.

“Hetta, remember how I threatened to murder you if you smuggled a gun into Mexico?”

“Yep.”

“I was wrong, and anyhow, you never listen to me. So, where’s the gun?”

“Sorry.”

“The next time you listen to me, I really am going to kill you.”

Even in my fearful state, I had to laugh. Howl, in fact. We both grew hysterical and I lost my concentration. When I looked into the rearview mirror, the SUV was no longer behind us.

My peripheral vision picked up a flash of white, and just like that, they drew alongside, staring at us with bewildered looks. Instead of being frightened by their move, their confusion only added to our cackles.

Tears blurred my vision so I had to slow down. If they intended to cut us off, this was the time, but they stayed a safe distance ahead. When I slowed, they slowed.

“Hetta,” Jan hooted, gasping for air, “l-let’s knock their dicks in the dirt.”

“That’s the best idea you’ve had all day. Hang on.”

I hit the gas and was on their bumper in a flash. Now that the tables had turned, I felt, well, in the driver’s seat. The biggest danger to us at this point was them hitting the brakes, but they didn’t. I rode a foot off their bumper, trying to decide whether to, as Jan so charmingly suggested, try and knock their dicks in the dirt. At this speed, just a properly aimed tap on their left bumper should do the job.

We rounded a curve, and Jan yelled, “Hetta, the winery. I just saw a sign.”

“How far?”

“Kilometer. Half a mile, more or less.”

“I’m doing sixty miles an hour. Start counting, like, one one-thousand, two-one thousand. Out loud. This old car doesn’t have a trip odometer.”

“You got it.” She counted, while I drafted the SUV and crossed mental fingers for what seemed forever. Finally, Jan hit four-hundred-forty, and I held my speed, but at four-hundred-forty-five, I hit the brakes, slowing to thirty miles per hour, hoping whoever made the winery sign knew how to calculate distance.

The SUV driver, seemingly unaware we’d suddenly slowed, disappeared around a curve just as we saw our road. I skidded onto it, then stopped. A brisk breeze instantly carried our dust away. Fighting the desire to sprint for the winery, I crept up the rocky incline at a dust-free speed. From my last trip, I recalled a dip where we could hide, a dry creek bed less than a quarter mile in. As soon as we got there, I killed the engine.

No longer visible from the main road, we sat, listened, and heard nothing but birds, and an ominous hiss denoting I’d possibly pushed my VW a mite hard.

“I think we lost them,” Jan whispered.

“Let’s wait another five minutes, and if we don’t hear them we’re probably home free.”

It was an interminable five minutes until we agreed to forge ahead. The VW, however, had other ideas. After several tries, I gave up on starting her, we grabbed our overnight bags and trudged up the steep road. When we crossed over a cattle guard, I told Jan she’d better keep us a tree in mind as we walked, just in case Booger Red showed up.

Thankfully, just before dark fell in earnest, barking dogs led two armed, mounted ranch hands to us, and soon we were sitting in Ted and Nanci’s living room, sipping excellent wine, telling of our road scare, and getting a scolding.

“Why didn’t you call us before taking the Rio Sonora road?” Nanci wailed, visibly upset. “We would have told you not to, no matter what. There have been all kinds of problems along there, not the least of which have been roadblocks, set up by thugs. People have died.”

“We did call. Rosa said you were out riding, but she’d tell you we were on the way.”

“Well, she didn’t. Rosa knew you were on the Rio Sonora highway?”

“Uh, I didn’t tell her where we were. Taking that road was a spur of the moment thing, so I didn’t ask any questions like I should have. I wasn’t thinking, I guess.”

Seeing my dismay at being so stupid, Ted said, “How could you know? I’ll tell the staff to warn anyone who calls about that road until things get much safer around here. By the way, where in hell is Rosa?”

The question was directed at Nanci, who answered. “I haven’t seen her since before we left for our ride. I can’t believe she didn’t tell us you were coming. When I do find her, we’ll have a little talk.” She stomped out of the room, fuming.

“She’ll cool down,” Ted told us, “but I wouldn’t want to be in Rosa’s
zapatas
right now.”

“It’s not Rosa’s fault we took the scenic route.”

“No, but at least we would have been expecting you. Anyway, all’s well that ends well. You did the right thing, giving those guys the slip. No telling who they are.” He asked me for my keys, and sent a couple of his ranch hands to tow my car to his shop.

Minutes later, Nanci returned, clearly distraught. Rosa was nowhere to be found.

The men sent to fetch my car also returned with bad news. Like Rosa, my beloved VW had vanished.

I would, in time, forget the fortune I’d spent having that car restored after an old enemy dumped her into the Oakland Estuary, but her sentimental value went deep. She was the only tangible thing I had left of my dog, RJ, since I’d bought the car for him. Okay, so maybe it was to save the leather in my BMW from dog drool, but it was still his car. And I could almost forgive someone taking her if they really needed a car, but those jerks, and I was positive it was the guys in the SUV, already had wheels. The question is,  were they waiting for us on the highway and if so, why?

“So, who do you think these buttheads are?” I asked Ted. “And why would they chase us around and then steal my old junker?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? This is Mexico. If you leave it, it’s fair game. Someone else might have taken it, you know.”

I thought about that. Maybe so. It could be that the SUV guys were simply having a little fun on the road, nothing more. I mean, the world abounds in white cars, so I was probably being overly suspicious, thinking that white SUV was the same one Craig and I saw on my last trip to the winery.  Even with my vivid imagination, it was a stretch. One thing for sure, though, I was out an automobile, and all I carried on it was Mexican liability insurance.

“Think we should call the cops?” Jan asked.

“We could,” Nanci said dryly. Her answer and demeanor didn’t exactly instill confidence in that plan.

“But?” I asked.

“Won’t do much good. With your car permit, it can be out of Sonora in hours.”

“What car permit?”

“The one required to drive here.”

“I thought I didn’t need one in Sonora.”

Ted shook his head. “Not so. If you drive from Naco, through Cananea and on down to Imuris on Mex 2, you don’t, but once you turn off on Ruta Rio Sonora, you are no longer in the so-called hassle-free zone. You have to get a permit.”

“Well, fooey, I didn’t. Not last time, either.”

“Good thing the cops didn’t get you. It’s a big fine, and they can confiscate the car. Now, for sure, you do not want to report the car stolen because it is in Mexico illegally. Don’t know what your car is worth, but it’ll cost you big to get it back, even if you do find it. Sorry.”

“It’s just a car. No word from Rosa yet?”

“No,” he said, “and it is so unlike her. She told no one she had plans to leave. We’ve searched every building on the place, thinking she might have fallen or something, but no luck. First Lupe walks off the job, now Rosa.”

We were all in a bit of a funk when we sat down for a late dinner, but good company, great wine, and spicy food cheered us. Not so much that I didn’t still wish a million painful deaths on the perps who took my car, but my practical side was already trying to figure out how we were going to get home, and where I’d get new wheels.

My worrywart gene, a gift from my mother, nagged that the garage door opener still clipped to my car’s sun visor was going to cost me for a replacement. Also, someone could actually check the registration, find where I lived, and get into the house. Then, up popped another thing to worry about: Craig’s car, sitting in the garage, keys in the ignition.

Nope, I thought with relief, my car was still registered to Jenks’s apartment in California, and there isn’t any mail with my Bisbee address in the VW, right? And what about—

“Earth to Hetta,” Ted said, and I gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m flying to Sierra Vista in the next couple of days, so I’ll drop you guys at the Bisbee airport, then you can call a cab, or maybe someone there will give you a lift, since your house is so close.”

“That’ll work. Craig’s car is in my garage, so we’ll use it until we come up with something else.”

Jan shook her head. “Oh, no. Craig will have our heads if we touch that Porsche.”

“Craig’s in Baja and won’t be back for days. He’ll never know. I’ll chalk mark the wheel location, then disconnect the odometer, just in case he checked it before he left.”

All three had comical, quizzical looks on their faces, so I explained, “Misspent teenager-hood.”

Nanci laughed. “See, Ted, I knew there was a reason we never had kids.”