Just Add Water (1) (16 page)

29

“
Hetta Honey, phone,” Mother shouted. Actually, she didn’t really
shout, she never does. It just sounded that way.

I bear hugged several pillows over
my head, trying to block out the noonday sun. Mom tugged them away, shoved the
phone in my face, and clucked about the room picking up discarded clothing and
a half empty beer bottle. A white ring marred the surface of the wooden bedside
stand, but I knew from experience it wasn’t permanent.

“ ‘Lo,” I rasped.

“Hetta?”

“Uh-huh.”

“This is Morris. From the yacht
club? I guess you’re call forwarding. Your mother sounds real nice. When are
you coming home? You aren’t thinking of running out on our deal, are you? I
made you one hell of an offer on
Sea
Cock.
”

“Oh, hi, Morris. I still haven’t
gotten anywhere with the financing. I can only come up with half and the damned
banks think I’m the leper of the financial world.”

“Bankers are idiots. You give me
the half and I’ll finance the rest myself.”

I sat up, suddenly wide awake and
feeling much, much better. “No, shit?” Mother frowned. “I mean, oh, really? Oh,
Morris, I think I love you.”

Jan and mother left the room. They
hate it when I love someone.

Morris chuckled “Don’t tell my wife. So far she likes you.
I’ll have the papers drawn up. Don’t forget, this deal is kept between us. I’ll
see Garrison today, let him know what’s happening.”

“Tell him ‘hi’ for me. And the only
other person who knows I’m buying
Sea
Cock
is my best friend, Jan. I told her not even to tell her boyfriend,
Lars.”

“Lars Jenkins?”

“Yeah, they’ve been dating.”

“Can she keep a secret? Lars is a
friend of Garrison’s, you know. I wouldn’t want Garrison to find out from
anyone but me that I’ve sold the boat to you.”

“She can and will. Besides, she’s
here in Texas with me. We’ll be back later this week. And thank you.”

I hung up, threw off the covers and
bounded into the kitchen where Jan and Mother sipped coffee. My mother had, of
course, overheard some of the telephone conversation and was grilling Jan, who
was filling her in on Lars.

“Oh, Miz Coffey, he’s the nicest
guy,” Jan babbled, then went on to list Lars’s attributes until she caught me
sticking my finger down my throat.

“Now, Hetta,” Mother chided. “You
should be happy your friend has found such a nice young man. Does Lars have a
brother?”

“Arrgghh!” I grabbed my neck,
trying to choke myself. Mother ignored my antics and got back to more important
matters. “What was that call about?” she asked. “And who is this Morris you
love? Or do I want to know.”

“Morris is a happily married man
whom I simply adore,” I chirped.

“Oh, no, Hetta,” she said with a
little sigh, “not another
married
one.”

* * *

For the record, I’ve never
knowingly dated a married man. It just turned out that way. But then, there was
a great deal I didn’t know about Hudson until after he disappeared. Little
things. Like the wife and two kids he had back in Boston.

Oh, and years before there was that
Trinidadian, but shoot, he got married
while
we were dating, so I don’t think that should count.

Anyhow, mother need not worry about my
love life anymore, since I didn’t have one.
 
Also, I hadn’t deemed it necessary to bother my parents with some of the
more recent and squirrelly events in my life. Like the fact that I was
not
gainfully employed and
was
being terrorized by a mad lock
changer.

Nope, as far as
mère
et père
Coffey knew,
I was headed back to the Bay Area to start a new adventure as a boat person. A
boat person with a whole case of SPF 700 sunscreen that Mom insisted I take
with me. With a goodly slather of that goop, a vampire could go out in broad
daylight.

In case there wasn’t a single restaurant
between Texas and California, Mother loaded us up with road essentials: a
basket of fried chicken, potato salad, pecan pie, a cooler of soft drinks, and
a dime for the phone. Evidently mom hadn’t used a pay phone in several decades.
Before she could check us for clean underwear, we drove west.

“The sun has riz, the sun has set, and
here we are in Texas yet,” I chanted as we entered the El Paso city limits.
“Blimey, I thought we’d never get out of the Lone Star State.”

“New Mexico coming up,” Jan encouraged.
“Maybe we should get a Tex-Mex fix before we cross the state line.”

“We could, but I was thinking chicken
fried steak with cream gravy.”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

Jan and I have so much in common.

We grazed through four western states
and, per Jan’s insistence, we didn’t make the detour through Laughlin. As we
rolled along I-10 for miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles, we whiled
away the time thinking up boat names. I was kidding about
Hetta-row
.

“How about, “
Hi, Sailor
?”

“Hetta, get serious. This is a very
important decision. As you well know. Think of what we thought of folks when we
saw some of those boat names on the bay. Absolutely nothing with “sea” in it
and certainly not
Seaducer
or
anything like that. Crude and unimaginative.”

“
Cirrhosis
of the River
?”

“Apt, but gross. Maybe something dreamy,
like
Wanderin’ Star
.”

“Too . . . sailboaty.
No Forwarding Address
?”

“No, Hetta, it’s not you. How about
Country Girl
? The problem there is
figuring out which country.”

I nixed it and munched on a chicken leg.

Jan contemplated for a while, finished
off a thigh, gave me a wicked grin and said, “Hetta, I’ve got it. It’s you.
Bullship
.”

I gave her the look she deserved. “Cute,
Jan. Have you ever hitchhiked?”

Jan looked at the barren roadside stretching
for miles into parched desert. “Maybe I can come up with something a more
apropos.
Hydrotherapy
?”

“Gag. I’ll think of something. But I
wasn’t kidding about the no forwarding address. I’m gonna change all my
addresses. I’ll get a post office box, change my e-mail address, and
everything. That way, whoever is bugging me can’t find me after I move onto the
boat.”

“Good thinking. Maybe you should get an
answering service for your business, too.”

“What business? But you’re right. I do
have a few proposals out, so I’d better keep the old phone number and put a
service on it.”

“Anything from Allison about when Seattle
will reach a decision regarding your undeserved sacking?”

“Naw, not yet. But she hasn’t let me cash
their check, so there’s still hope. Also, I’ll call the Trob when we get back,
see what he’s heard. I need to talk to him anyhow, because I’m thinking of
having a memorial service, kind of a delayed wake, for RJ. I want to invite
Fidel. For RJ, the Trob might come out of his treetop. Allison went over to
meet him not long ago to get info, and she said she actually had a conversation
with him that lasted more than five minutes. I think the Trob might be coming
around to understanding us lesser mortals.”

“Good. He can’t spend his whole life in
the tower of Baxter. A wake for RJ, huh? No funeral?”

“Nope. Maybe a little get together at the
house before the new owners take over, then I’ll do something creative with
RJ’s ashes later. Maybe cast them upon the bay from my own boat. Save myself
the grand demanded by Critter Cremains. Besides, I hate funerals and weddings
for the same reason. I prefer to think of folks as they were when still alive.”

30

We arrived in Oakland a day earlier
than planned due to an overwhelming desire for a decent vinaigrette. Someone
needs to tell America that salad should consist of more than chopped up iceberg
lettuce topped with gooey substances and flanked with stale saltines.

My determination to never spend
another night in the house went down the tubes, overridden by the deep fatigue
of fifteen hours on the road. The good news was Jan had another day of vacation
and we could sleep in. The other good news was I’d arranged to move aboard
Sea Cock
the very next day.

The bad news started when we got to
the house. The alarm was off. Again. By now we were so used to it that, after a
half-hearted search for lurking bad guys, we shrugged it off to equipment
malfunction. After opening all the windows to air the house, I pushed the HEAT
button on the hot tub and whipped up a red meal.

Sun-dried tomato fettuccini
marinara, a salad of red leaf lettuce, radicchio, arugula, red bell peppers,
and red onion topped with a red wine vinegar dressing, accompanied by, what
else? Valpolicelli. Strawberries for dessert satisfied both our pallet and
palates. A girl can take just so much road food.

We’d finished our
banquet rouge
when Martinez called. A
passing patrol car had seen lights in the house.

“So, anything new on your jewelry?”
Jan asked when I hung up.

I shrugged. “Martinez said it could
have been some punk that took advantage of the situation and stole the jewelry
box. I mean, the place did look a little deserted. And the alarm
was
off.”

“You should have told him the alarm
was off, again, Hetta. And this time I am absolutely sure we set it when we
left. And last time, too. I distinctly remember, right after Craig took RJ’s,
uh, RJ away. We left and we set it on the way out.”

“God, I’m glad this joint is sold.
Let us retire to the hot tub for one final boiling, drink a lot of really good
wine, and bid adieu to Chez RJ.”

We iced down my last bottle of 1998
Chassagne Montcharet, grabbed towels, and went up the steps to the hot tub
deck. I was gratified to see steam billowing out from under the cover of the
tub. We stood at the deck rail and took in the panorama. The Bay Area sparkled
below us as Oakland's city sounds rose on a light breeze: A siren's wail, a
waft of music from the Coliseum, and the occasion report of a gunshot.

“I will miss this view,” I said.

“Yeah, I remember the first time we
sat up here. Before you left for Tokyo. I sure did miss you while you were
gone.”

“I should never have gone. I knew I would
hate it. I mean, I’m single. All the women over there are short and cute and
all the men short and ugly. What was my first clue? And then the unkindest cut
of all: Hudson. To paraphrase W.C. Fields, the bastard drove me to drink and I
forgot to thank him. It was a piss poor time, my worst. At least that’s what I
thought then. What with losing RJ, I now know things can get worse.”

“It’ll get better. I’m sure of it.
Heck, it already has. Let’s get wet.”

We clinked glasses, toasted the
night. I walked a few steps, grabbed the hot tub cover and threw it open as I
smiled back over my shoulder at Jan. “You’re right. Things are getting better.
I mean, what else can go wrong?”

Evidently, from the horrified look
on Jan’s face, a great deal. I reluctantly turned my head and saw, floating in
the steaming water, two things: my jewelry box and Hudson Williams.

I
was really glad to see my jewelry box.

* * *

“
Maybe you really should rent me a room,” Detective Martinez
grumped.

“You can have the whole damned
house.” I was sitting next to Jan in the living room. We’d sunk to tapping a
boxed wine. No flowery, pear-y bouquet like the Montcharet, but by now our
taste buds were as dead as Hudson Williams.

Cops crawled all over the place, a
helicopter whomped the night air above, dogs howled, and neighbors lined up
outside a yellow police tape in the yard. The new owners would probably get
letters from the NFL, ABL,
and
the
NBA.
 

 
“Oh, hell,” I whined, “I wonder if the buyer
will try to back out now? Do we have to tell them about the, uh, body?”

“I believe,” Martinez said dryly,
“there’s some law about disclosure.”

“Great. Just great. Hudson wasn’t
content to mess up my life once, he has to do it again. Inconsiderate bastard.”

“Ms. Coffey, I need to ask you some
questions,” Martinez said, suddenly sounding all formal and officious. “Perhaps
you’d prefer to have a lawyer present?”

“I don’t need no stinkin’ lawyer.
Wait a minute. You don’t think
I
killed Hudson, do you?”

“I am a detective, you know. And I
detect a certain lack of remorse over the demise of your old boyfriend. Let me
read something to you.
‘Dead would be
good. But as you can see, Detective Martinez, even if he is alive, I don’t
think Hudson, wherever the dirty rat bastard may be, would be looking to harm
me. As a matter of fact, if I ever see him again, he’s the one who’s going to
get harmed. Some folks, like old granny used to say, just need killing
.’
Sound familiar?”

Oops.

“Just big talk. Besides, I was in
Texas,” I protested, thanking my lucky lone star that Hudson got himself done
in when I had an alibi.

Martinez nodded, then said, “But,
by your own admission, you have friends in low places.”
 

Jan said, “Uh, Hetta, maybe we
should call Allison?”

“Is she your lawyer?” Martinez
asked.

“Sort of. Yes.” I didn’t think he
needed to know that Allison wasn’t in private practice. Or that she was
actually a prosecutor for another county. Who better than Allison to determine
if he had any kind of case?

“I can meet you downtown, unless
you want to call her and have her come over here right now.”

“Look Martinez, you know damned
well I didn’t drown Hudson Williams in my hot tub. I might’a shot him if I’d
had a chance, but I damned sure wouldn’t pollute my own tub.”

“I believe you. I just got to do my
job.”

“How do we even know he was
murdered?” Jan said hopefully.

“Oh, sure,” I scoffed. “Maybe he
was in for a quick dip and fell asleep after closing the cover?” Jan gave me
her look.

Martinez rolled his eyes. “We don’t
know anything yet. I should have the coroner’s first take in a few … ” The
front door swung open and a tiny Oriental man walked in. “Speak of the devil.”

Martinez
introduced the coroner, and they went upstairs. An hour later, we watched as
Hudson’s drippy, parboiled body was hauled out the front door and carted away.
I’d have to have the rugs cleaned. Once again Hudson had rained on my parade.

After for
ever
, Martinez and the coroner came down the stairs talking
quietly. My extrasensory hearing picked up only one word: icepick. Either we
were gonna have a cocktail party, or it was going to be a very long night.

It was a very long night.

Allison came over within an hour,
did her lawyerly magic, and got us cleared to go to Jan’s for what was left of
the night. Allison left, Martinez followed, and then the last of the Homicide
squad. Yep, Homicide. They suspected Hudson was offed when someone shoved an
icepick in his ear. Someone with great taste, I might add. A quick trip to the
kitchen with the detective on my tail revealed that my Georg Jensen icepick was
missing.
Zut, alors!
It was part of a
set.

Only a rookie remained. His job, it
seemed, was to make sure Jan and I didn’t tamper with evidence. We left for the
City, our flight fueled by a burning desire to be shut of my haunted house. It
was a sad farewell to what had been a happy home for so many years.

Trying to cheer me up, Jan said,
“Look on the bright side, Hetta. Hudson won’t be messing with you anymore.”

“All too true. One slight problem,
Sherlock. Someone killed him at my house. Or at least left him in my tub.
Doesn’t that sound like someone’s trying to scare me? Or threaten me? Or both?”

“Well, yes.” She chewed her lip, a
signal that she had more to say, but was reluctant to do so.

“Well, yes but
what
?”

“You won’t get upset?”

“I’m too tired.”

“Okay, then. How about this. Hudson
came to your house, found you gone, decided to stay until you got back, went
into the hot tub and someone, seeing him out there in the dark, thought it was
you and killed him by mistake.”

“Gosh, Jan, I feel sooo much better
now. Thanks oodles.”