Just Add Water (1) (27 page)

We moved a lot, from country to
country, state to state, so Daddy could build dams. But we took Texas with us.
From campsite to campsite, from Haiti to Thailand, we were likely to have the
same next door neighbors. Not only that, many of them were relatives. At one
time, both of my grandmothers lived in camp with us. Not only did one
grandmother live with us much of the time, I sometimes lived with her back in
Texas, where we were surrounded by her sisters, my great aunts. Then, from time
to time, I stayed with relatives on my father’s side, namely a grandmother,
grandfather, great grandmother, and great aunt.

I learned some very useful stuff.
Not only can I speak French and a smattering of Thai, I can make lye soap and
buttermilk. I’m probably the only woman of my generation in Oakland who can
make her own marshmallows, shoe a mule, or skin a deer and tan the hide. I can
bake or fry almost anything, even if I have to kill it first. Dad taught me to
drive a car with a stick shift when I was eight and a D-8 ‘dozer a year later.
Yessiree, I was well equipped by all those folks to face the world, right up
until I reached the age of consent and my emotional maturity went into cardiac
arrest.

While one faction of the greats and
grands were striving to produce a proper young lady with all the basic skills
of a pioneer, the others were hell-bent on toughening me up for adulthood. Of
course, hardly any of their sage advice penetrated my stubborn psyche, but they
even had a Texas-ism to cover that.
Good
judgment comes from experience, and a lot of that comes from bad judgment.
I’d had oodles of experience and bad judgment, so when does the good judgment
kick in?

I was really bummed I had so
misjudged Jenks but, as they say, that’s water under the keel. I had a new life
to plan. I pulled out my LIST OF THINGS TO DO AS AN INFINITELY
 
UNATTACHED PERSON and my eyes lit on TAKE MY
OWN BOAT TO MEXICO. Good idea maybe, but how far was it by water? I’d always
made the trip in a very large airplane. Did I have the boat for the job? A
couple of hours on the Internet and I knew the possibility was solid, if no
Sunday sail in a pond.

Getting further into my fantasy
voyage, I continued to Net cruise, locating Ecomundo, the kayak folks Jan and I
had rented from years before. They were alive and well in Conception Bay. I
could tell from various other websites that the population and services
available in Conception and the area were expanding, but the bay still had no
electricity or running water. A good thing in my book.

While I was dreaming, I might as
well go for broke. I pictured myself down to the two’s. Two pairs of shorts,
two tee shirts and two pairs of flip-flops in case one has a blowout. I’d spend
my life waltzing to the tide and wind, but not become one of the many
derelicts, mostly gringo male singlehanders, like Jan and I had met in Mexico.

The barnacle fleet, as I named
them, were like their vessels, unkempt and unloved. While others reveled in the
beauties of Mexican waters, these guys only viewed life through the reverse
telescopic lens of the thick glass bottom of a Pacifico beer bottle. Nope, not
for me. Not any more. Besides, I drink Tecate.

Sighing, I brought myself back to
reality and did a little more cyber snoopery that ended up costing me some
money. I ordered a copy of John Steinbeck’s
Log
from the Sea of Cortez
, cruising guides for the west coast of Mexico and
the Sea of Cortez by Capts. John and Pat Rains,
King of the Moon
, Gene Kira’s novel about a Mexican fishing
village,
Into A Desert Place,
Graham
Macintosh’s trek down the entire Baja peninsula in the company of a donkey, and
Troubled Sea
, an adventure novel by
some Schwartz dame.

When I finally got to the Baja, I’d
be ready.

Then, as I was about to log off, I
decided to check out something else: the Key Note Club in Tokyo. I had only
typed K-E into the search engine when the browser recall popped up the words,
Key Note Club. And I’d never checked it out before.

Puzzled, I stared at the screen for
a minute, then clicked on the website address. Sure enough, The Key Note Club
had a jazzy site listing their coming attractions. Photos of this month’s stars
showed a faded blonde trying to torch a mike and a natty, sixtyish black man at
the ivories. The club served light meals and still maintained personal liquor
lockups. So, Hudson’s bottle might still be there after all these years. I
wondered how many other dead people still had a drink waiting.

More importantly, who had accessed
this website on my computer? And when? Only Jan, Jenks, and I used my computer
and Jan had left for Florida weeks ago. I clicked on the browser’s HISTORY and
was given a choice of either TODAY or previous hits. I knew about today, so I
clicked on previous searches and there it was. I checked the date. It was
Jenks. Right after I told him about Hudson and the key.

The key! I had given it to Jenks to
give to Martinez. I logged off and dialed the PO-lice.

“Martinez here,” he answered in his
bored monotone.

“Hetta here,” I said, mimicking
him.

“Very amusing, Ms. Coffey. What can
I do for you today? You shoot somebody? Body in the bilge? Boat stolen?”

“Also amusing. I need to ask you a
question and you have to promise not to get all mad.”

“Oh, brother. Okay, I promise.”

“Has a Mr. Jenkins called you
lately?”

“You mean the guy you’re dating?”

“How did you know about him?”

“I keep my ears open.”

I didn’t know whether I was pissed
off with the knowledge that Martinez was spying on me, or relieved that he
cared. “And such big ears. Well, did he? Have you seen him?”

“What, you finally found a
boyfriend and you’ve already misplaced him?”

“Sort of.”

“Hetta, just tell me what you
want.”

“I gave him a key to give to you.
Did he?” I was still worried how Martinez was going to react when he heard I’d
been withholding information from him. Information relative to a murder that
some still thought I had something to do with.

“No. I’ve been on vacation. Went
down to look at retirement property in Mexico.”

“Oh.”

Martinez sighed. “Hetta, what key?
I’m kinda busy.”

I decided to tell all. And I did.

Martinez exploded. I had no idea
the man had so much emotion in his being. For several minutes he raged at me,
telling me how stupid it was not to level with him, especially since he had
only my protection in mind. I let him give vent to all my idiocies, then, as
quickly as he blew, he cooled. “Hetta, are you still there?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, but I’m several inches
shorter.”

“Sorry. Call Jenkins and have him
get right over here with the key.”

“Uh, I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? Where
are you? I know you have a phone, because we’re talking on it.”

“Detective Martinez, I can’t call
Jenks because he’s sort of disappeared.”

Long pause. Ragged sigh. “I’m
coming over.”

“Do you have a boat?”

46

Martinez did have a boat. Or
rather, the San Francisco Sheriff’s department did. Two hours after we talked,
a blinking blue light on the horizon announced the detective’s arrival. I made
coffee and awaited my flogging before the mast.

And my groceries.

Martinez climbed aboard, handed up
two large brown bags and groused, “This certainly gives new meaning to the term
public servant. You know, I’ve gotten kittens from trees, taken traumatized
teens home with me for a hot meal and a good night’s sleep, fixed flats for
little old ladies, and even given bums my clothes, but grocery shopping for a
potential felon is a first.”

“Thanks for the grub, kind cop. My
lawyer, Allison, brought out some vittles a few days ago, but I was getting low
on the fresh stuff.”

“Maybe your doctor can bring a
load? Then maybe your mechanic? Perhaps you can make an arrangement with the
navy?”

“Cute. You know, this isn’t your
jurisdiction. Did you come out here to cheer me up?”

“No, I came out here to try to talk
some sense into you. Probably a waste of time, since good sense somehow seems
to stay out of your way. And, of course, to record your statement about the key
for Interpol.”

“Oh, okay. Uh, Martinez, your boat
is leaving. Do you also plan to stay here indefinitely? Not that I mind,
really, it’s getting a little lonely.”

“He’ll come back if I call him,”
Martinez said, “but I was hoping I could talk you into returning to your slip
so we can keep an eye on you.”

“I feel perfectly safe out here,
thank you.”

“All alone?”

“I’m not alone. I have a duck.
Anyhow, you, Allison and Jan are the only ones who know that I’ve lost my last
mate. Everyone else thinks Jenks is here with me.” I didn’t add that that was
what I
hoped
everyone still thought.
Keeping a secret in the Oakland Estuary was well nigh impossible. The best way
to spread gossip, other than telling
me,
was a new twist on an old sexist joke, telegraph, telephone, or tell a yachtie.

“Hetta, you have no idea where your
Mr. Jenkins has gotten to?”

“Nope. Even his brother doesn’t
know. I understand he’s prone to wild assed flights off to parts unknown via
Uncle Sam airways.”

“Uncle Sam?”

“Yeah, he’s retired military and
can fly for free all over the world. He told me once that on a flight from
Denver to Florida he fell asleep on a transport aircraft and ended up in South
Africa. Maybe that’s where he is, Johannesburg.”

“More like Tokyo.”

Merde
,
I hadn’t thought of that. “The bastard! I trusted him. He took off with the
key, didn’t he? I never should have told him about Hudson or that I think
something valuable might be stashed in the booze box at the Key Note. Jesus, I
never learn, do I?”

Martinez gave me a look that said
it all. After his boat picked him up, I went into a deep blue funk. Once again
I been too swift to trust, too willing to believe I had found someone I could
count on. And been sold down the tubes.

In not so olden times I would have
thrown myself into the seductive arms of Mr. Johnnie Walker or
Messieurs
Neiman
et
Marcus, but I girded my loins—I always wanted to say that—and
threw myself into boat work instead.

I oiled all the interior teak.

Varnished the exterior teak.

Changed oil in the generator.

Hydrometered the batteries.

Cleaned the oven.

Inventoried spare parts.

Polished windows.

Shined stainless rails.

That killed the best part of two
days. Then I trimmed and colored my hair, using a three day ration of water in
the process, shaved my legs, and gave myself a facial. I ironed what clean
underwear I had left.

Accomplishment should lead to
contentment, but the truth of the matter was that I was desperately lonely. Had
I been on land, I’m sure I would have headed for the dog pound. I polished RJ’s
urn, reminiscing of fun days with my pooch. I thumbed through a photo album,
taking a dog trot down a memorable lane that, except for fond moments with my
hound, was for the most part a rocky road. Taking out pictures of both Jenks
and RJ, I succumbed to a deep sense of loss before dragging my emotionally and
physically exhausted bod to bed at eight p.m. on a Saturday night. Which was
something I’d only done on that rare occasion when a day of bacchanalia caught
up with me early.

At oh-dark-thirty,
I sat straight up in bed, straining to hear...what? Had I dreamed a noise?

I could tell the wind had picked up
slightly by the rocking of the boat. Boats, even fairly new ones, creak when
they sway and
Sea Cock
was no
exception. But had I been awakened by something, some sound or movement, out of
the ordinary?

After
a full minute, which seemed like an hour, of straining to hear through pounding
eardrums, I began to calm down a little. I actually took a breath.
Probably just Eco doing his little
web-footed shamble on the dive platform.
The only thing between my pillow
and the dive platform was the fiberglass hull, and two window hatches. Even
though I kept the drapes closed, Eco must have sensed I was close, for he took
up the annoying habit of nesting there. More than one night I’d had to run him
off. Give a duck an inch and he’ll take a mile.

It
was chilly, even with the portholes closed and curtains drawn. I was reluctant
to leave my nice warm bed to wash a pesky duck from his chosen roost. Pulling
the comforter up to my chin, I snuggled deep under the covers. I was almost
asleep again when I heard another scrape.

“Hey,
Eco. Does orange sauce mean anything at all to you?” I growled, and rolled onto
my knees. I parted the curtains and peered out the aft portholes, but it was
too dark to see anything outside. Next to the bed was a switch for activating
the lights on my dive platform, so I flipped them on and my entire body went
stone-cold. Unable to move, I stared in pure terror out the porthole.

Illuminated
in the eerie light reflecting off the water, a rubber dinghy was tied to my
dive platform. It damned sure wasn’t mine. Then I heard the unmistakable sound
of feet—un-webbed feet—scrunching across fiberglass. Frightened as I was, a
sudden rush of heat unfroze me as it occurred to me that I was getting really
tired of this crap. But first I had to find out what crap this was. Leaping
from the bed, I realized that only my anger had warmed. My legs, ice cold with
fear and practically paralyzed, buckled under me when I hit the floor.

I
rolled onto the carpet, crawled to where I’d dumped my sweats the night before,
shimmied into them, and pushed myself up onto wobbly legs. As I was slipping on
my boat shoes, I heard more scuffing topsides and cursed the day I decided not
to install an extra VHF radio in my cabin. Cheap will up and bite you in the
ass every time.

Reluctant
to open the door, I made myself do it anyway. I crept up the dark companionway
stairs to the main saloon, pausing between steps to listen. Although I was
certain there was someone outside the boat, I was relatively safe inside. I
knew that all outside doors and hatches were locked and bolted. Without
breaking a window or smashing in a very heavy teak door or hatch, the intruder
could not gain entry. And breaking in was no easy feat, for my windows and
hatches were built to withstand tons of water pressure in the event of getting
whapped up alongside by a wave.

Dropping to my knees, I crawled across
the carpet to my desk. What to do? Call the cops? Radio a mayday call to the
Coast Guard? Push the PANIC button on my security system? Or lock and load?

I opted for lock and load.

Back down the stairs I went, where I
quickly unlocked the specially built gun cabinet in my cabin, pulled out Granny
Stockman’s shotgun, loaded 12-gauge shells into the magazine, and pumped one
into the chamber.

“Right on, Detective Martinez,” I
whispered, thankful for his advice , which he swore he would deny giving to me
should it ever come up, like in court, to stock real ammo. No bacon rind and
rock salt for whatever pirate was on my ship. He or she was in for the real
deal. In case the SOB was really tough, I grabbed my .38 and loaded it with
hollow points. For good measure I slung a canister of pepper spray around my
neck. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Bristling with firepower, and therefore
confidence, I returned to the main saloon and aimed my world renowned auditory
senses towards ferreting out my uninvited boarder’s whereabouts. Only small
wind waves slapping
Sea Cock’s
hull
and the whine of tires on the Bay Bridge disturbed the night air. If I hadn’t
seen that dinghy tied to the back of my boat, I probably would have concluded I
was imagining things, but the evidence was all too clear.

Finally, something moved. I zeroed
in on a scratching noise that sounded like it came from overhead, on the flying
bridge. Was it a thief intent on stealing my radio and GPS unit from up there?
What else had I left out for some jerk to rip off? My wine selection from the
sundeck bar? I think not, I was going to be out here a while.

Another piece of Martinez’s sage
advice from a few months before suddenly popped into my brain. Make sure, he’d
told me, that if you absolutely have to shoot someone they’re already inside
the house. Or boat. Maybe the detective could wait while some maniac broke down
his door, but I, for one, planned to shoot
through
my door. The beautiful teak door that I’d spent half a day sanding and
varnishing. On second thought, maybe I’d call for help.

I stood up and was reaching for my
PANIC button when a voice called out.

“Hetta dear, open up. It’s
frightfully cold out here,” it said.

In a British accent.

We should never have allowed them
back into our country.

* * *

Alan, after apologizing for scaring
the crap out of me, sat in the main saloon, sipping at a glass of Jenks’s
scotch. No ice, of course. Not the Brits.

Annoyed as I was, I had to
grudgingly admit he made an attractive, if short, addition to any girl’s living
room. Casually dressed in tan from head to toe, he was GQ all the way in a
cashmere sweater, chinos and boat shoes. No socks. His perpetual suntan and
color coordinated ensemble set off dark brown eyes and shiny, wavy, black hair.
He looked for all the world like a vertically challenged updated version of
Lawrence Harvey, that debonair star of the 40’s and 50’s silver screen. I also
wondered, as I had many times before, if I didn’t detect a hint of perm and
L’Oreal on those raven ringlets. When I’d lived in Tokyo, Hudson—before he so
rudely took a powder and turned up dead several years later—and I attended a
weekend film festival featuring Lawrence Harvey flicks. And even though the
films were dated, the English actor’s charm transcended the generations, still
able to tickle a gal’s fancy. Look alike or no, the tickle I felt now was more
of an irritating twinge, one of annoyance and the slight uneasiness that I
invariably felt in Alan’s company.

With his uncanny knack for
surfacing when Jenks wasn’t around, Alan had a way of setting my teeth on edge,
whether he was at the club, on my boat or around the docks. He was always
friendly, always slightly flirty. Nothing overtly slimy, just charming in a
smarmy sort of way.
 
I was also still
annoyed about the charter incident, especially since I didn’t buy the story
he’d told Molly about my cabin door popping open. I’d seen him with my own eyes
as he opened the door and slimed in. If he didn’t leave soon, I was pretty sure
my anger would force me into confronting him, but how could I without letting
him know I had spy cameras?
 
I took a
sip of wine and wondered how to get the bastard off
Sea Cock
without being too rude. Not that I mind being rude, but he
was,
after all
,
a fellow yacht club member.

“So, Alan, what brings you to
Clipper Cove, and onto my boat, in the middle of the night?” I said, straining
to sound civil. Why, I don’t know. All that Southern upbringing, I guess.

“Shakedown cruise on my new vessel.
Too dark to see her right now. Tomorrow you must come for brunch on board.”

“It’s already tomorrow, Alan,” I
said, a nasty edge on my voice.

“So it is,” he said with a smile.

His insouciance finally frayed my
last nerve. “And now that you have your own boat you won’t have to charter
mine, huh?” I said sharply, and was rewarded with a startled look.

Alan recovered quickly, though.
“Oh, yes. It was a rather spur of the moment thing, that. Clients in town. You
worked in the Orient, you know how it is. We enjoyed ourselves thoroughly.
Sea Cock
really has improved with a
woman’s touch, I might add.”

“I think so. Did you like my color
scheme in the master cabin?” I was through playing softball.

“Molly mentioned that, did she? My
dear girl, why so huffy? I was merely looking about. I have long since given up
being invited into your boudoir.”

“You can take that to the bank,
buster.”

 
“Come now, Hetta, let’s not get testy. I said
I was sorry for frightening you. And to tell you the truth, I lied.”

“About what?”

“The shakedown cruise. I came out
here expressly to see you.”

Merde
.
“Oh? How did you know Jenks and I were out here?”

“Hetta dearest, you do insist on
being difficult. Jenks is nowhere near here.”

 
How did he know that? It was time to bluff. “I guess you’ve got me
there, Alan. You’re right. He had to go to town for supplies, should be back
any minute.” God, that was really, really lame.

Alan rolled his eyes. “Early riser,
is he? Or perhaps late on his return? Since your dinghy resides in her chocks,
I have to presume Jenks swam? A sport I’ve sadly never quite mastered myself.
Stalwart fellow that Jenks.”

That did it. The gloves were off.

“Alan, what in the hell do you
want? You are trying my patience more than the tad you usually do. God, I’m
starting to sound like you. Let me rephrase that. You are royally pissing me
off. I came out here to be alone and as you can readily see I am
not
because
you
are here. And to make matters worse, you boarded my boat
without permission. If you plan to do much yachting, I suggest you learn a
little boating etiquette.”

“Actually, Hetta, boarding without
permission could be construed as a hostile act at best, piracy at worst , and
you would technically be within your rights to shoot me if we weren’t in such a
liberal mecca as San Francisco. You know how these California lawyers are. If I
lived, I could probably sue you for even having a gun. You do still have your
grandmother’s gun, don’t you?”

I caught myself before glancing
towards the locker where I’d stashed the guns when I realized it was Alan on my
deck. “If I do, it’s really none....Wait a minute, how did you know about my
grandmother’s gun?”

“Oh, I know you much better than
you think.” He reached over, picked up RJ’s urn from the coffee table and said,
in a voice and accent meant to mimic mine, “ ‘RJ, my man, what are you doing?
Are you being a good doggy? Yes, I miss you, too. Mommy will be home before you
know it. Get off the couch’.”

My mouth fell open as I recognized my own
recorded message to RJ when I’d left for Seattle. And it was also the day of
the Jeep-jacking. Suddenly, pieces of the puzzle fell into place and it wasn’t
a pretty picture. Shocked, I lost what cool I still had, and blurted, “You! It
was you who let RJ out? It was you who changed my lock? Not Hudson? I don’t
understand.”

“Goodness no, lovey, ‘twasn’t me. Your
dear departed Hudson did those deeds. We were still friends then, he and I.
Partners really.”

I wish people would stop calling Hudson
my
Hudson. “More like jailbird buddies?
Partners in what? International crime?”

Alan
looked surprised, but recovered quickly. “Semantics. Crime is simply a point of
view if you ask me. We had a little business deal. He had what my people want,
or so we thought. He led us to you. And you,” he pulled my Georg Jensen icepick
from his pocket, “will lead me to the key.”

“Erf,” says I, the one seldom at a
loss for words. My mind raced, trying to absorb all this information. I was
finally able to say, “You bastard.”

“Sticks and stones. The key,
Hetta.”

“What key?”

“Oh, spare me the dumb act. It
makes me angry and when I’m angry I can be a very unpleasant fellow.”

“Alan, you are a perpetually
unpleasant fellow.”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, as you
Americans say. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to give me my key, I’ll be off and
out of your life.”

Oh, shit. Now what? “Alan, I wasn’t
kidding, Jenks will be here any minute,” I said, stalling for time, trying to
think. I didn’t have the damned key, but I didn’t think Alan would believe me.
I judged the distance to the guns. He was between me and them. Rats.

Alan wasn’t buying my bluff.
“Jenks, you say? Surely you can’t mean the Jenks who left a note on your boat
last week? A sweet little
mot
telling
us—you actually—that he was going on a trip and would call when he returned?
Not exactly a
billet doux.
” He
pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and tossed it to me.

I unfolded the note and read,
Dear Hetta, I have something I have to do
and am rushing to catch my plane. Sorry about this weekend. I’ll call when I
get back. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I’ll really miss you. Love,
Jenks.

Despite the fact that I was fast
realizing that I was stuck at anchor with a guy who was an internationally
sought-after, homicidal maniac, I temporarily forgot my dire straits.
 
I think I actually smiled as I reread the
note. Jenks had signed “Love.” Wow.

But reality swiftly replaced my
warm and fuzzies. Maybe I’d best concentrate on how to get rid of Alan. Maybe
permanently.