Just Add Salt (2) (6 page)

“What idea?” a voice boomed out behind us. We turned to see one of the former commodores of the yacht club, David Dean.

“Hiya, Dave,” Jan chirped. “Going to Cabo. Hetta was thinking of taking
Raymond Johnson
, but it doesn’t look like it’s gonna happen. Can’t find a captain.”

Dean got a dreamy look in his eyes. “I’ve made that trip many a time, but the wife has clipped my sea legs. I’d take you down myself, but Vicki’d kill me.”

“Wish you could. We’re having zip luck finding a captain,” I whined while signaling for another split of Cooks. I noticed the bar was starting to fill up with members looking for a cheap Friday night steak.

David came back to earth. “Can’t find a captain? Hells bells, Hetta, delivery captains are thicker’n barnacles.”

“Yeah, but not ones that want to take me south of San Diego by the end of September.”

“Then get a sports fisher captain. Or a Mexican.”

He had my attention. “What’s a sports fisher captain?”

“San Diego’s full of ‘em. They ferry sport fishing boats up and down that coast like it was the Los Angeles freeway. You got five or six days to make it, even if you know there’s a hurricane down south. ‘Course most of those boats’ll do twenty knots, but
Raymond Johnson
could make it easy in five, six days.”

“David, how do I find one of these guys?”

“Like I said, Southern California’s chockablock with ‘em. Just ask around at the brokerages. They hire them all the time.”

“Oh, Dave, I think I love you.” I planted a big smooch on his cheek and gave him a hug.

“Unhand that man, you Jezebel.” For such a small woman, Vicki Dean had a commanding voice.

I swiveled my barstool around. “Hey there, Vic. Your husband is a most wonderful man.”

David blushed. “I didn’t do anything. Guess what, Vicki? Hetta’s taking
Raymond Johnson
to Mexico.”

“Atta girl. David, Mumms please. Now Hetta, tell me all about it.”

“Mumms? How come I always get Cooks?”

“Because, Hetta Dear, you do not have someone like David in your life.”

Ain’t that the truth? Vicki shared her Mumms with me while a crowd drew around to hear of Hetta’s new misadventure. Those who had sailed to Baja recounted their good times of cheap beer and sandy beaches, others told the wonders of boating in an area of such pristine beauty. All were envious and piled on their praise that I was going to take my boat south.

Good champagne and kudos had me basking in the limelight, soaking up the admiration. I raised my glass to Jack London. Even he seemed to smile approval down upon Hetta Coffey, world-class yachtswoman.

My bubble was rudely deflated when one of the barstool sailors slurred, “So, what does Jenks think of all this?” Some folks really know how to throw a wet blanket on a beach party.

Chapter 6

When the phone rang I was conked out on the couch after so many yacht club alcoholic accolades. It was Jenks, so I figured Miz Jan had rushed home and ratted me out. I was right. He wanted to know what I was up to, so I explained, quite reasonably I thought, about the job in Magdalena Bay and my plans to take
Raymond Johnson
south. When I took a breath and waited for him to say something, there was a delay that was a tad too long to chalk up to satellite lag, so I filled it with what came out in a whine. “And besides, Jenks, you took a job in Kuwait.”

“I haven’t given Wontrobski my final answer. I wanted to talk to you first, but I guess you’ve made the decision for me. Unless, of course, you renege on your contract, I turn the Trob down, I come home and we get back to planning a sensible trip to Cabo.”

It was the
sensible
that pissed me off. I abhor sensible, I hate being lectured to, and this was beginning to sound very much like a sensible lecture.

“I think I’ll stick with my contract,” I weaseled, sounding stubborn, even to myself.

Jenks, being Scandahoovian and therefore more stubborn than
moi
, bulled up. “Fine, have it your way.” Dead airspace hung heavy and this time I held my tongue. Finally, he said, “Gotta go to work. I’ll call you before you leave. Bye.” He was gone.

“Hey,” I yelled into the ionosphere, “where’s the love you part?” I stared at the dead phone and my heart died a little with it. All I had to do was call back, agree to wait until he came back, and….

The phone trilled in my hand. Spirits soaring, I said, “Look, I’m sorry. We can work—”

A hollow voice silenced me. “Stay away from Mag Bay or you’ll pay.”

Huh? “What did you say?”

“Stay away from Mag Bay or you’ll pay,” he repeated, his voice sounding like an echo through a culvert pipe.

“Did Jan put you up to this? Or Jenks? Well, very damned funny. And by the way, you’re a lousy poet.” I hung up and called Jan.

“Hello,” she answered, her voice gravelly with sleep.

“Not amusing, Miz Jan. And it won’t work.”

“What won’t work?”

“Whatever clown you put up to calling me. And by the way, thanks loads for ratting me out to Jenks.”

“I had to tell Lars. He must have told Jenks. But I don’t know what else you’re talking about. What clown?”

She sounded so sincere that I was caught up short. If she didn’t set this guy on me, who did? If I told her about the call, she’d get spooked. “Oh, nothing. Sorry I woke you up. See you tomorrow? Early? We have tons of stuff to do.”

“Yeah, okay. See you around eight. ’Night.”

“’Night.”

I sat and mulled. Who in the hell was making crank calls to me? The voice seemed to have a slight accent, but not one I could identify. As far as I knew, only a handful of people actually knew why I was going to Mag Bay. I hadn’t shared that info at the yacht club, so it was just me, Jan, Jenks, Lars, Wontrobski and probably his wife Allison. Weird.

Shrugging, I stood and came eyeball to eyeball with Jenks. Well, his photo. It was taken the day we re-christened my boat with her new name,
Raymond Johnson
. I know, I know, boats are supposed to have girls’ names, but trust me,
Raymond Johnson
was a far cry better than the original and embarrassing moniker:
Sea Cock
. Besides, I named her for the real
Raymond Johnson
, my dog. RJ died right before I got the boat and we gave him a burial at sea the same day I changed the name in his honor.

In the burial party snapshot, we were standing on the bow of the boat, just before scattering RJ’s ashes. A friend, who was up on the flying bridge, yelled, “Hey you guys, turn around and smile.” We did and she took the shot. Seconds later, I remembered with a chuckle, I opened the urn and a sudden gust of wind blew dog ashes all over us.

Next to the group photo was another of RJ with a silly doggy smile on his face and a crushed beer can in his mouth. He was soaking  wet, and behind him the Pacific Ocean sparkled. A deep, hurtful, sense of loss descended on me, as it always did when I thought of my yellow lab. He had been a grand dog and I missed him.

I also missed Jenks. Smiling back at me from the christening photo, he had one long arm draped around my shoulder. His hair, blondish gray, was mussed. Blue eyes twinkled in his tanned face. Lean and lanky, towering over me by almost a foot, he was quite a contrast to his well-rounded brother, but they both looked like Viking warriors in blue blazers.

Yachting attire was the dress code that day, so Jan and I also sported blue blazers and white pants. Wontrobski, however, was wrapped in something from Gothic Haberdashers. At least it was blue. The diminutive Allison Wontrobski, in proper yachting duds, looked  positively doll-like next to her graceless hubby. Craigosaurus, resplendent in his Rochester’s Big and Tall getup, stood behind his ex-amour du jour, Raul. Raul’s pretty face and eyelashes were the envy of every woman there. Detective Martinez and his wife completed the picture.

Before I moved aboard
Raymond Johnson
, Detective Martinez, of the Oakland Police Department, investigated a series of break-ins at my hilltop home. He was also Johnny-on-the-spot when I discovered my ex-fiancé, Hudson Williams, floating face down in my hot tub.

Despite Martinez’s initially suspicious nature concerning the shade of my character, we became friends and he had come to my rescue more than once. The last time was when he and Jenks rushed to save me from that Brit, Alex, who was rudely dead set on making me dead. Martinez also helped smooth things over with myriad legal agencies taking a dim view of me shooting up Clipper Cove when the Brit didn’t get me first.

When he retired, Martinez had pooh-poohed my brilliant suggestion of starting his own private detective agency, Dick Mart. He said when he started taking my advice on
anything
, that would be the day. Instead, he’d taken his pension and left the area to build a home somewhere in…Mexico!

I booted up the computer, scrolled to the M’s in my address list. Seconds later, I had it: Marty and Gloria Martinez, APDO 77, San Quintin, BCN, Mexico. No phone number. BCN? I went to Google, typed in BCN and came up with Baja California Norte. Martinez lived in Baja?

Grabbing a map, I quickly located San Quintin just a couple of hundred miles south of Ensenada. I jotted myself a reminder to call his son the next day, get a phone number and maybe we’d see the perpetually dour ex-cop on the way down. It wouldn’t hurt to have a contact down there. And who knew, perhaps retirement had painted a smile on his face? Nah. It was too bad Martinez wasn’t still in the Bay Area; he could trace the call if my mystery man delivered another rotten rhyme. ‘Stay away from Mag Bay or you’ll pay,’ my ass.

I yawned and headed for my bed. I was just drifting off when it hit me: Jan, Jenks, Lars, the Trob and Mrs. Trob and a bunch of folks at Tanuki, and probably Baxter Brothers, knew I was headed for Mag Bay. Great, for some unfathomable reason, someone at one of two huge international corporations was probably trying to scare me off what promised to be a seriously bankable project.

As is my habit when I’ve got something to worry about, I lay awake drumming up suspects until I heard my ship’s clock chime two. Damn, I needed some sleep. I got up and washed down an extra strength PM, thought about it, and slammed down another. I then set my alarm for eight, because I knew these babies would have me out like a light within an hour. The downside was that once I went out, it took a claxon to rouse me before I’d slept at least six straight hours, and I had lots of stuff to do early the next morning.

Sometime during the wee hours I was partially roused by a clanking sound and a splash, but my friendly PM’s overrode any curiosity. Yes, uncharacteristic for nosy me, but I had lived aboard for quite awhile, and the marina abounded with clanking and splashing. By the time I was jarred awake at eight by my ill-mannered clock, I had forgotten all about the nocturnal noises.

I was sleepily sucking on a coffee cup when Jan arrived with breakfast, or what she considers breakfast. Myself, I prefer eggs and a nice Jimmy Dean sausage or two, but Miz Jan, distaining my penchant for pork, shoved a bowl of nonfat yogurt and granola at me.

“Nice start, Jan. What are we really having for breakfast?” I might as well have been talking to a post.

“So, what’s on our agenda for today?” she asked.

Sigh. I took a bite of yogurt and pretended to gag. “I think we should shop for provisions. You know, real food for the voyage.”

“Nice try, Hetta. We have plenty of time for that. What else?”

Double sigh. I picked up my ever-growing list. “First and foremost we have to find a captain. Or at least knowledgeable crew.”

“I vote for both.”

“We don’t need both. Why don’t you get on the Internet and look for brokers who advertise offshore deliveries. According to Dave Dean, there’s lots of ‘em since Californians are looking to bypass the tax man by taking delivery in Ensenada. While you put together a list of brokers to call, I’ll knock off some items from Jenks’s list. Then we can—”

“Ahoy,
Raymond Johnson
.” I recognized the voice: Rosemary Dekker, our salty dock master. Dock mistress, I guess, in her case. I get along fine with the feisty Ro, but some yachties, namely men, resented her no-nonsense adherence to the regulations of our rental contracts.

I stuck my head out the door. “Mornin’ Ro. What’s up?”

“You practicin’anchoring?”

“Huh?”

“Yer anchor. You ain’t s’posed to leave it in the water. ’Gainst the marina rules.”

“My anchor?” I stepped out on deck and walked to the bow. Yep, my anchor chain hung straight down into the estuary. I dimly remembered hearing a clanking and a splash through my PM-induced coma, but figured it was coming from another boat. “I guess the brake let loose, because I sure as heck didn’t let it go.”

“Well, you’d best bring her up. Probably need to hose off the mud. This bottom is fair ugly.” She handed me my hose and turned on the dock spigot. I quickly turned down the pistol sprayer, but not fast enough to save me and Jan from an unscheduled shower. Shaking water from my hair, I handed Jan the hose, went back inside and flipped on the anchor windlass switch.

Jan turned the nozzle back on high and aimed it at the chain while I tapped the footswitch next to the anchor windlass. I hit it a couple of times to straighten the chain, and saw a red chain link clear the water’s surface. Ten feet of chain was still in the water. Since my slip depth was about twelve feet, the anchor still rested on the yucky bottom.

“I’m gonna bring it up slowly, Jan, so you can knock off as much salt water and crud as you can on the way up. Otherwise I’ll have to swab the decks. Ready?”

Jan gave me the go-ahead and I slowly raised the chain while she gave it a liberal rinse. Rosemary watched from a safe distance, probably to make sure no bottom muck dripped onto her precious dock. I was more interested in preventing the anchor, when raised, from swinging into my hull.

A yellow chain link let me know we had five feet to go. Rosemary moved to the dock in front of the bow. “When you get her up, I’ll watch she’s headin’ right into the chock. But like I said, you’ll get some ugly stuff on the end.”

“Thanks, Ro. Here she comes.” I hit the foot control again. It was a good thing I only had yogurt for breakfast, for the dock mistress was dead right; there was something really ugly on the anchor. Rosemary, Jan and I screeched in unison.

The rest of the day was a blur of coasties and cops. All kinds of cops: harbor patrol, sheriff’s department and the OPD. I couldn’t blame the Oakland Police for their obvious suspicion.

It isn’t every day that one ends up with a body on one’s anchor.