Just Follow the Money

by Jinx Schwartz

  I rolled my eyes at Jan and mouthed, “This woman will be the death of me.” Or me the death of her, more than likely. I knocked my head with my fist, turned my eyes up for divine guidance and said, “You know, you could be right, Rhonda,” I cajoled. But then the devil took over, along with a goodly amount of sarcasm. “I just might have imagined that passionate French kiss and boob massage. The lighting was a little dim.”

  Despite herself, Jan let go with a loud guffaw.

  The door suddenly opened and a red-eyed Rhonda leaned out. “But they’re cousins! This is just so wrong.”

  “Yep. They bring a whole new meaning to that old phrase, vice is nice but incest is best.”

  Rhonda garnered a crooked smile before she remembered her misery. “I am such a fool. I thought he really liked me.”

  “He’s the fool. You have lots of money, and she’s a failed nanny who managed to get her cousin kidnapped. Okay, so she’s drop-dead gorgeous, but still a loser.”

  Jan fixed me with a frown of disapproval. “Hetta, couldn’t you just shut up when you’re ahead for once in your life? Rhonda, go throw water in your face and let’s go shopping while Hetta sits in yon corner for a time out.”

  As soon as they left, I called Jenks, needing a friendly voice and contact with someone, besides Po Thang, who didn’t think I was the wicked witch of the west. Even Po Thang was shooting me dirty looks, but that was probably because I wouldn’t let him tag along with Jan and Rhonda.

  “Hey, Red. How’s the boat?”

  “Fine.”

  “Uh, you don’t sound so fine.”

  “Jan gave me a time out.”

  “You’ve been a bad girl?” His voice went down a couple of octaves, which set up a tingle in my nether parts.

  “Very bad. You should be here. I’d show you just how bad I can be.”

  “Don’t I wish. Too much work. I know it’s only been a week since we were in Lille, but it seems longer.”

  “Yes, it sure does. I have gossip.”

  “Tell me. These guys here in Dubai never have anything good.”

  I laughed and told him about going to El Molokan the night before, then my walk when I saw Roberto and Sascha in a lip-lock.

  “Whoa! That sounds so…wrong. Roberto told his parents he wanted the night off for a meeting with a possible backer for his Puerto Vallarta restaurant, and you catch him playing kissy face with his cousin, who is supposed to be in Mexico City? Love is strange.”

  “That’s what they all say about you and me.”

  “I like us.”

  That brought both a song to my heart and a tear to my eye.

  Jenks always knows just the right thing to say.

  After my upbeat chat with Jenks, I forgave myself for being mean to Rhonda—after all, she really needs a pair of big girl panties, n'est-ce pas? But to placate what should have been a guilty conscience, I did a little internet research on that yacht of hers so that when she and Jan returned, I could redeem myself.

  I perused YachtingWorld, the ultimate internet site for nautical dreamers the world over, and came up with a couple of possibilities, but my mind kept wandering back to the smokin’-hot alley scene from the night before. Just when did that romance spark? Those two certainly didn’t give anyone an inkling they had a sexual relationship when we were on Odyssey Forty.

  Of course, we were focused on a common goal: get Juanita back safely, and out of France. Mission accomplished. It still irked me that we actually paid the ransom, but, oh well, not my money. Darn it.

  I switched gears and Googled El Jefe, a.k.a. Juan Tomato, to see if there was even a hint of news that his granddaughter had been kidnapped and rescued, but found nada. Same result from a peek at Juanita’s Facebook page; just a few photos of her in front of French tourist attractions. No, OMG! I was kidnapped! kind of stuff.

  As a rule, when I finish a project or a caper, I feel…vindicated? Not sure that’s the right term, but I really hate the word “closure.” It has a psycho-babble ring to it. Hearing one say they need closure makes me want to lock them in an airless vault and slam the door. Now, that’s closure.

  Before I worked myself into another crappy mood, I told Po Thang to get his leash. “Let us go find food, dawg. And perhaps a Bloody Mary?”

  Maybe it was my guilty imagination at work, but I swear he looked at the clock when I mentioned booze so early in the day.

  “Ya know what Benjamin Franklin said? ‘Wine is constant proof that God loves us and loves to see us happy.’ And I want to be happy, so there.”

  Drawn like a fly to a bull turd, I headed straight for El Molokan, even though they didn’t open for lunch for another hour.

  I didn’t know what I was going to do there, besides eat lunch, but I had an inexplicable urge to see Roberto. Not that I planned to confront him. After all, if he and Sascha were getting it on, far be it from me to judge; I was just miffed that I could have been hornswoggled so easily back in Cannes.

  Walking to the rear of the restaurant via a driveway, I found a door wide open and heard the clatter of kitchen work underway. I tied Po Thang to a post and stuck my head inside. “Yoo-hoo! Roberto, are you here? It’s Hetta.”

  Wiping flour-caked hands onto a dish towel, Roberto rushed out to meet me. “Hetta! My mother and father told me you were back in town. Come in! Come in! We can talk while I work.” He glanced at his watch and sighed. “No matter how early I start, there never seems to be time enough before our first guests arrive.”

  “I won’t stay but a minute. I know you’re busy. I actually planned to be one of those guests, but I have Po Thang with me, so I guess I didn’t think it through. Too much time in France?”

  “Perhaps on the patio. If,” he grinned from ear to ear, “you can keep that ‘foreign canine with questionable table manners’ under control,” he said, quoting Le Parisien.

  “Pure slander,” I protested. “He was innocent.”

  “Why do I doubt that, when he stole so much from my galley on Odyssey?” As he talked, Roberto whisked shaved ground dark Mexican chocolate—70% cacao according to the Ibarra package nearby—into a divine-smelling mole sauce already simmering over a double boiler. I could already detect garlic, oregano, cumin, cinnamon, and chili powder steeping in a nearby pot of chicken broth. There was no doubt what I was having for lunch: whatever he planned to put the sauce on.

  Much like Po Thang, food has a way of making me forget original intent; after one whiff of that mole I didn’t give a hoot who Roberto was screwing, or for how long.

  But, evidently there were others who did. Po Thang and I were seated in the patio area before the doors opened for business, and the first ones to arrive were Jan and Rhonda.

  What a couple of quidnuncs!

  That’s Latin for busybodies.

  “Well, lookee here,” Jan said to Rhonda when they were ushered onto the patio. “Who told you your time out was over, Hetta?”

  I was hanging on to Po Thang’s leash so he didn’t upset any tables, but that tail of his was going bonkers, threatening to throw glasses and cutlery asunder.

  “Get over here and plant your nosy rears,” I told my friends, “so he’ll settle down.”

  Jan pointed her finger at him. “Sit!”

  And he did.

  “We’ve been doing a little re-training while you were messin’ around in France and Texas. He was getting out of hand.”

  “Now there’s an understatement,” I said, as Rhonda and Jan pulled up chairs. My lunch had just arrived, and Rhonda stared at my plate. “What is that? It smells divine, but looks like a pile of, well, crap.”

  “Chocolate chicken.”

  Her eyes grew large. “Chocolate chicken? Ewww, gross.”

  Just as she said it, Roberto came out of the kitchen, bringing Po Thang a plate of tidbits much more suitable to his constitution than a dish laden with garlic and hot peppers. Not to mention chocolate.

  “Bonjour, mes amis! All together again! And, Rhonda, perhaps mole dishes ar
e not the most eye-appealing in the world. There is a legend that it came about when some nuns were serving a bishop and used everything they had at the time to come up with this sauce.”

  “Looks to me like what happened to the bishop after he ate it,” Rhonda growled.

  Roberto’s face fell. It was so out of character for Rhonda to be rude; that was usually left to me.

  Jan stood, hugged Roberto, and said, “Well I, for one, can’t wait to try your mole. What ingredients do you use?” While they discussed his recipe, I ate my fiery chicken dish before it got cold.

  Po Thang had already inhaled his saucer of plain diced chicken breast and was eyeing my plate while inching forward, hoping we wouldn’t notice. Jan gave him the evil eye, pointed that finger of doom at him and he backed off. Turning back to Roberto, she said, “I know you’re busy right now, but let’s get together, maybe on Hetta’s boat, when you have time off? Are you working tonight?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. My parents need my help this time of year. How about breakfast? I can come tomorrow.”

  “Great,” I said. “Jan’ll cook. You know of anyone else in town from our little French adventure?” I hoped I looked and sounded innocent.

  “No. See you tomorrow. Say, nine? I know where your boat is.”

  He took off to prepare for an onslaught of orders as townsfolk in holiday spirits arrived in groups. I knew from experience they’d spend the entire afternoon at their tables, and were not in a hurry to be served. Unlike the States, turnover was neither expected nor encouraged at El Molokan.

  “Big fat liar,” Rhonda hissed.

  “Yes,” I agreed, “he is.” I was in slight awe at his smooth falsifying ability.

  “Jeez, you two,” Jan whispered. “What did you expect him to say? ‘My cousin I’m sticking it to is in town, shall we invite her?’ ”

  Despite herself, Rhonda sniggered. Surrounded by all those holiday revelers, it was hard to stay in a bad mood, even in the face of unrequited love.

  Chapter Thirty

  I sent Nacho an email as soon as I returned to Raymond Johnson after overindulging on Roberto’s chicken mole, and making a breakfast date with him for the next day: Wanna have breakfast with us tomorrow? And is Cholo around? I think we should celebrate our successful mission.

  To my astonishment, he answered right away: What time, and where?

  My boat, nine a.m.

  I will be there.

  “Hey, Jan,” I yelled, “I can’t believe it. I sent Nacho an email and he’s coming to breakfast tomorrow.”

  Both Rhonda and Po Thang perked up when I said Nacho’s name.

  “You know, Rhonda, you really shouldn’t, uh, mess with Nacho. He’s… unpredictable.”

  “You have quite a flair for the understatement, Miz Hetta,” Jan drawled. “But, Rhonda, for once in her very long life, Hetta’s right. Do yourself a favor and don’t even think about getting involved with Nacho, you hear?”

  My boat’s larder was bordering on empty, so we hit several stores in town for breakfast ingredients. We didn’t have the time for a run to Costco in Cabo San Lucas, and on top of that, I knew the place would be a madhouse right after Christmas. Oddly enough, Walmart has the best wine selection in La Paz, so we stocked up on champagne for New Year’s Eve, as well.

  I was so grateful to Jan for staying in La Paz for that night, but she said I had a hell of a lot more to worry about than spending one night alone, and suggested I begin stockpiling cat food.

  We were up early preparing for our breakfast feast and by eight, we were all set. Meanwhile Rhonda changed clothes and re-combed her hair every ten minutes. Jan’s patience was soon tested, and she barked, “Oh, for cripes sake, Rhonda, who are you primping for? Roberto’s in lust with the nanny, and Nacho is like the last person on earth who cares what you look like. Hell, he’s got the hots for Hetta, and look at her.”

  That little reality slap propelled me to my cabin’s full-length mirror. I looked like a bag lady in yoga pants and Jenks’s favorite, but threadbare, sweatshirt. I took a shower, blow-dried my hair all poofy, and put on a little makeup, then chose to slip into one of the silk caftans we bought in Cannes. Since one size fits all, Jan and I had lost track of which one belonged to whom.

  I emerged to find both Nacho and Roberto sitting in the main salon, talking to Jan as she cooked. We’d ditched the eggs Benedict when I was able to score fresh snapper filets, and we were serving them with a savory polenta, creamy béarnaise sauce, and those wonderful pencil-thin asparagus grown in the Baja.

  The wind had all but disappeared, so we retired to the sundeck to take advantage of the perfect morning. We just were sitting down with mimosas when Cholo jogged up the dock. “Sorry, I had to work this morning.”

  “We didn’t know you were coming. What a nice surprise. No problem. Jan always cooks enough for an army, or in your case, a navy.”

  He gave me a look under his eyebrows. “I never said I was in the navy.”

  Ooops, he had, but obviously he didn’t want Nacho to know it. “Oh, that’s right. You are an undercover agent or something. “

  “Hetta,” Nacho said, “you might want to quit while you’re ahead.”

  So, I did.

  Sort of. “Roberto, your mom tells me you’re thinking of opening a French restaurant in Puerto Vallarta.”

  He shook his head in dismay. “My mother cannot keep a secret.”

  Nope, but evidently you can.

  Cholo looked confused. “But, you are in the Mexican Navy.”

  Nacho grinned. “It helps to have a grandfather in high places. What does he think about you giving up a military career for opening a new restaurant across the Sea?”

  “He is not pleased.”

  “Why not open one here in La Paz?” Jan asked.

  Because he doesn’t want Mommy and Daddy to know he’s humping his cousin?

  “There is not enough tourist money to support a five-star establishment here. The peso is down against the dollar, and La Paz is more of a working person’s town.”

  “Five star, huh? That’s wonderful. Good luck and we’ll have to come over and check it out when you open. Have a name for it yet?” Jan asked.

  “My backer thinks it should be called Chez Cannes, because we will specialize in fresh seafood, and Puerta Vallarta is on the Mexican Riviera.”

  “Seems appropriate.”

  We chatted through our snapper and polenta, enjoying the camaraderie we’d established in Cannes, now that the competition was over. Nacho seemed quite content with the way things turned out, even though we fought him every step of the way.

  Rhonda had turned her full attention on Cholo, who didn’t appear to mind one bit.

  Roberto was the first to leave. “Even though I do not work the lunch crowd today, I apologize for eating and running, but I must prepare tonight’s menu. So good to see everyone again, and please, come down to El Molokan. Jan, that fish was perfecto. I might steal that dish for my new restaurant. I shall name it Huachinango de la Jan.

  Jan actually blushed at the compliment.

  As soon as Roberto left the cabin, I whispered to Jan, “Follow him.”

  She didn’t even hesitate, just grabbed her hat and fanny pack and headed out. Po Thang protested being left behind, but if you’re going to shadow someone, you sure as hell don’t need a pesky pup who associates the shadow-ee with food.

  If Nacho wondered why Jan took off so suddenly, he kept it to himself. To me he said, “Perhaps I could interest you in a short fishing trip? The day is so beautiful, it would be a shame to waste the rest of it. And perhaps we can replenish your fresh snapper supply.”

  I started to say, “No thanks, I have to wash my hair,” but there was something about the way he asked that changed my mind. “Oh, why not? Just give me a minute to change clothes and pack a cooler. And how about we stop on the other side of the Magote and search for nautilus shells? It’s that time of year.”

  Cholo turned to Rhonda. “It seems everyo
ne has somewhere to go. How about I give you a tour of La Paz? Not the tourist part, but where the real people live.”

  Her cheeks flared. “Uh, sure, why not?”

  Dawg House, my smaller but extremely seaworthy nine-foot panga I use as a dinghy, was still in her chocks on top of the aft deck cover, and a pain to get into the water. I was pleased when Nacho said his swanky fishing boat was all ready to go. I mean, Dawg House is fine as a shore boat, but is open to all elements, whereas Nacho’s super-panga has a roof and a toilet. No contest.

  We barreled out of the harbor and, because it was high tide, took the shortcut between the end of the Magote peninsula and a sand bar that has been the demise of many a boater who doesn’t pay close attention to channel markers.

  Once we cleared the tricky cut, I took the helm while Nacho brought out the fishing poles. At the sight of them, Po Thang’s tail went into overdrive. He dearly loves it when a big old slimy fish hits the deck and he gets to chew on it. I had a feeling he was in for a tooth brushing later.

  “Slow down,” Nacho shouted over the whine of the high-powered outboards.

  Once we glided to a stop, he opened a beer and a bag of chips. Po Thang stopped nuzzling a fishing pole and cozied up to the human with food.

  “Hetta, I have a job for you.”

  “What, you want me to fetch you some salsa?”

  “No, I mean a real job.”

  “No problem. Overpay me and give me bigger weapons,” I said, meaning it as a joke.

  He lifted his shirt and removed a small handgun from a belt holster. Handing me my Taurus .380, he said, “With regards from your boyfriend, Jean Luc.”

  “He’s not my…oh, never mind. Taury!” I cooed, petting my little gun. The French government had confiscated it while busting a would-be terrorist on the Canal du Midi, and I thought I’d never see it again. Never mind that I’d planted the gun on that rat, hoping against hope they’d hold him due to some very strict French gun laws. I knew at the time he was up to no good, but had no real idea what kind of no good; only later did we learn he was a dyed-in-the-wool terrorist. Jan and I just thought he was a money-grubbing gigolo out to steal Rhonda’s inheritance before we could.