He allowed me a small smile and put down his cup. “Neither alternator is working, your running lights are out and your wiring needs attention. I found wires held together with alligator clips.”
He was getting my attention. “Go on.”
“My guess is your injectors need cleaning, if not rebuilding, and there’s a suspicious leak around your port manifold.”
“Jenks, in the South a gentleman never mentions injectors in polite company,” I quipped, earning a real grin. “Look, I didn’t even know I had an injector, much less a manifold. I was counting on Garrison to take care of all that stuff.”
“Do you have a list of his projects?”
I went to my desk, shuffled through a drawer and pulled out a notebook and a batch of receipts. Shoving them across the table to Jenks, I said, “Here’s what I have. Sorry I haven’t had time to sort through them. Oh, and here’s the maintenance log I set up. I copied it from a powerboat magazine article. As you can see, Garrison’s signed off on most items.”
He carefully read the receipts, sorting them into stacks and checking them against the log. I poured more coffee and waited. Finally he sighed and looked up. “The receipts for materials and log items match.”
“That’s good. I was beginning to think I’d been had. And heck, I didn’t even get kissed.”
Jenks didn’t smile this time. “Hetta, I think we should review everything together.”
So we did, starting from the day I took possession of the boat. When we’d finished, Jenks blew an exasperated breath.
“Look, maybe you need to discuss all this with Garrison because, quite frankly, I’m confused. He’s either fiddled the records or I’m missing something. Why don’t I take care of the fluids for you right now, then you can get the other stuff done later. Where’s your oil?”
“Uh, in the engine room?”
“Nope.”
“In the storage unit on the back deck?”
“Not in the lazarette. I checked.”
“Merde.”
“According to this,” Jenks said, picking up a receipt, “you bought twelve gallons of Delo 400 a week ago.”
“I know. Maybe Garrison used it?”
“Not on this boat, he didn’t,” Jenks said. “Tell you what, I’ll make a list of what you need, put together an estimate of cost, and get back with you tomorrow. Will you be at the club for brunch?”
“Is there a cow in Texas?”
Jenks finally let out a laugh, pulled on his jacket, and pointed to a control panel by the steering console. “Oh, and Hetta, a suggestion? When you leave the boat, it’s a good idea to turn off the water pump and the shower sump pump switches.”
I stared at the panel, then at him. “Switches?”
“Yeah, avoids the possibility of a fire. Only turn them on when you need them.”
“When I need them?”
“You can’t pump water or drain your shower when they’re not activated, of course, but when not in use, switch them off. Just good policy.”
A little light went off in my head.
“So what you’re saying is, if my shower is overflowing all I have to do is turn on a switch?” I asked, remembering my first few days aboard, when Garrison took full credit for “repairing” my shower. As badly as I hated to admit it, Jenks’s brother, Lars, was right. I’d been gas lighted. Lit. Whatever.
“Yep. Flip the switch, it turns on the pump. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. I’ve got a little gas problem.”
Jenks looked at me strangely and said, “O-kay. See you tomorrow then?” He walked to the door, then turned back. “I have to say, Hetta, you’re taking all this bad news very well. Most women would have been, well, really unhappy.”
“You mean to say most women would have been whining, wailing, and bitching? That, Jenks, is not my way. I don’t just get mad, I also get even.”
“I can believe it,” he said, as he waved and left the boat.
Being hornswoggled by the likes of Garrison didn’t set well at all. I went to work finding out how badly I’d been had.
According to Jenks, my fuel tanks were half empty. I had owned the boat for six weeks and had topped off the tanks, like Daddy told me to, on day one. Since then, Sea Cock, to my knowledge, had not left the dock. Except now I knew it had, at least twice, according to the yacht club bartender.
I pulled out the bill of sale from Morris and looked at the engine hours: nine hundred eighty on the date of sale. Moving back to the control panel I’d paid little heed to in the past, I checked the engine hours now: one thousand ten. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Sea Cock had been on the move, thirty engine hour’s worth of move.
I knew, from what Morris had told me, that I could use a mile per gallon as a rule of thumb. Sometime in the past six weeks, my boat had traveled around three hundred miles and burned three hundred gallons of fuel!
I was tabulating the scope of how much Garrison had pocketed in the way of un-bought goods with money I’d given him, when the phone rang. Engrossed in my calculations, I absentmindedly picked it up. Dial tone. It continued to ring. I followed the ring and found a phone in Garrison’s quarters. The dirty thieving rat had had his own line installed! As I was leaving the cabin, the ringing stopped and his answering machine picked up. Needless to say, I stayed to listen.
“Oh, hi, Garrison,” a female voice said to the machine. “Guess you’re not home. This is Molly from Ancient Mariner Charters. I need to confirm that our charter is still on for this Wednesday. Call me back at 577-3899. Thanks.”
Charter?
I dialed 577-3899.
“Hi, Molly. Garrison asked me to contact you about Sea Cock’s Wednesday charter.” Call me clairvoyant.
“Oh, yes. We’re scheduled to board a foursome from Texas at Pier 39 right before noon, so we’ll have to leave Jack London around ten. Oh, could you ask him to leave the Texas flag out again? The last couple from Texas was thrilled when we flew it.”
“I’ll bet they were. How thoughtful of Garrison,” I said, my voice barely civil.
Molly continued, but sounded a little confused by my obvious sarcasm. “Uh, anyway, please tell him we should have her back by five, because these folks only want a trip under the Golden Gate, around the bay, and lunch on board. So that’ll be seven hours at our usual rate. Since I know Garrison doesn’t take checks, I’ll leave the seven hundred in an envelope under an ice tray like I always do. We will, of course, leave the boat clean and a bottle of champagne in the fridge. It’s a real pleasure doing business with Garrison. His boat is really beautiful.”
“Ain’t it though,” I said, then hung up. Then I got really, really mad; the bastard had been getting free champagne and not sharing.
Garrison was lucky he was in Sacramento, for I’d surely have plugged him full of holes and planted him in his dust-encrusted Morgan—the one that sat in the parking lot where it had been for at least a year. The top was ripped in several places and it had two flat tires, but the vintage car was Garrison’s pride and joy. His big dream was to get her fixed up and take her on one of those Tour d’ Elegance things.
I spent the rest of Saturday trying to get my blood below boiling and making a few calls. With each call I felt a little better.
37
Sunday morning, bright and early, my friend Brian from London Imports, Ltd., showed up with a crew of three. By ten, Garrison’s British racing green Morgan’s tires were plumped and shiny. She was washed, waxed, and her top let down to expose a newly detailed interior. Parked in full view of the yacht club, she shone like a jewel in the Queen’s crown.
Sunday brunch is a big day at the Jack London Yacht Club. More members show up for eggs Benedict than for monthly meetings. And this particular day, a dinghy race and barbecue slated for the afternoon promised a record turnout.
From ten until twelve, club members munched and sipped and watched while I removed everything of Garrison’s from Sea Cock and packed it neatly into his Morgan. Several
yachties made comments like, “Cleaning out the bilges, Hetta?” I only smiled my Mona Lisa best and nodded.
I was eating eggs Florentine with Jan, Lars, and Jenks when Garrison, all grins and pomp, arrived at the club. He’d obviously spotted the Morgan and figured out what was happening, for I overheard heard him tell a few folks who teased him about being evicted that, to the contrary, he had decided to seek greener pastures.
“Hi, Hetta,” he gushed, pulling a chair up to our table. “Welcome back from Seattle. You must have gotten back early yesterday. Looks like you’ve been busy.” He craned his neck for a better look at his car. “My Morgan’s never looked better. And thanks for loading my stuff for me,” he said loudly for the benefit of curious club members.
I had to hand it to the guy, he definitely had some balls on him. I was going to enjoy handing them to him.
Jan listened to Garrison’s bluff and stared at me in dismay, raising her eyebrows in a “Are you really going to let the SOB get away with this crap?” gesture.
“It was nothing, Garrison,” I cooed. “My way of thanking you for all you’ve done to, I mean, for me.”
“Hetta, you are one grand old broad,” Garrison said, and swaggered to the bar to order himself a drink, which he most likely put on my tab.
“Grand old broad?” Jan hissed, “Hetta, are you…”
I held her fury at bay with a “standby” finger. Picking up my cell phone, I poked in a number, whispered to Jan, “Observe and learn,” then hit the SEND button.
After three rings I said, softly, into the phone, “This grand old broad says it’s show time,” and hung up.
Seconds later, the repeated OOOOGAHHHHH of an air horn caught the attention of everyone in the club. Those who didn’t have a window seat stood for a look. Then, in a squeal of tires, a battered pickup charged across the lot, squarely rammed the Morgan’s rear bumper, shoved it over the curb into the Oakland estuary. The pickup then reversed full throttle around the back of a building and disappeared. The Morgan floated for a long minute, then nosed straight down into twenty feet of murky saltwater.
Jan breathed an “Ooooh” of approval. Lars looked at me in disbelief. Jenks squeezed my hand and smiled. I noticed his eyes were really blue.
A moment of stunned silence was broken by Garrison’s bellow. “My stuff! My car! Shit, did anyone get that asshole’s license plate number?”
Tearing down the stairs, he began fishing for his clothes with the club’s boat hook. He was clutching an armload of soggy underwear when, in a burp of bubbles, a large, silver, heart-shaped balloon surfaced and floated skyward on a gentle breeze. The message on the balloon sparkled brightly in the afternoon sun. “Have a Real Nice Day, Y’all.”
* * *
“I’m innothent, I tell you, innothent. They’ll never pin it on me, no thir,” I lisped à la Daffy Duck. If I remember that particular cartoon correctly though, the next scene had old Daffers in stripes and chains.
Detective Martinez’s dour face eked a sneering smile. “I doubt it seriously, Hetta, but what are you talking about?”
“Aren’t you here because of Garrison?” I asked.
“Garrison, who?”
“Never mind. Come aboard, Detective, and take a load off.”
“You’re in uncommonly good spirits today, Miss Coffey. I have to assume someone has paid dearly for them.”
“Why, sir, I do believe you are getting to know me all too well. I hope you aren’t here to burst my spiritual balloon.” Thoughts of the Mylar message floating from Garrison’s sunken Morgan sent me into a fit of giggles. I caught my breath and said, “Sorry, Martinez. You had to be there.”
Martinez eyed my coffee cup, sniffed the air and said, “Evidently.” He looked around the boat. “You don’t have an alarm on here, do you?”
“Oh, I’ve got all kinds of alarms. I’ve got low oil pressure, overflowing toilets, smoke and low fuel alarms. I got one for high water, but not Hell. However, no security system.”
“Hmmm.”
“Hmmm? What does that mean?” Martinez can be annoyingly cryptic.
“Nothing. It might be a good idea to get one.”
“Is that why you came to see me? To see if I had an alarm system?”
“Could be. Maybe I came to see if you would finally care to share with me what your Hudson Williams was looking for. Or are you going to keep jackin’ me around?”
“I hope that was an unintended segue, from security alarm to the deceased. And so you know, I think I’ll just jack you around. Is it good for you? It’s good for me.”
“Cute, Hetta. I think I like you better in lower spirits. But remember, I can’t help you if you won’t help me help you.”
“You think I need help?”
He looked at me under his eyebrows.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. Hudson’s killer is still on the loose. Pepsi?” I asked, trying to change the subject, but to no avail. Martinez, as tenacious as a hound in chase, is not so easily diverted.
“Would it help change your mind,” he said, “if I reminded you that your Hudson was listed by Interpol as a menace to society? Armed and dangerous? He was known to consort with some very nasty characters. If you didn’t kill him, someone else did. And that there was a reward for information leading to his arrest?”
I was about to chide the man for calling that rat my Hudson when what he said sank in. “Reward? How much?”
“Twenty thou.”
“Who wants him? Or rather wanted him, now that he’s past tense?”
“I did.”
“No Martinez, I mean who was willing to pay for him?”
“The feds.”
“As in, F B eye?”
“As in United States Government versus one Hudson O. Williams for postal fraud, racketeering, kidnapping, and possibly murder. Amongst other things. Nice fellow, your ex-and-dead fiancé.”
“Who’d he off?”
“Allegedly off. Some American guy in Singapore. Evidently the Malaysians had Williams in custody for a few months, then he escaped, turned up in Thailand, got tagged there, but slithered loose again. Slippery, your boyfriend.”
“Dead and ex-boyfriend,” I corrected him, mainly to buy a little thinking time. If I finally gave up the key, maybe they’d get Hudson’s killer. Maybe not. Why open a can of dead worms, so to speak. Besides, maybe one day I’d hop a plane to Tokyo, drink free on Hudson if a bottle was still in the lockup, and see what else was in the Crown Royal bag. Maybe the fifteen hundred he stiffed me, no pun intended.
“I only have three questions, Detective Martinez.”
“Yeah?” He looked hopeful, or as hopeful as he could look.
“Dead or alive?”
“What?”
“Was that twenty grand for Hudson dead or alive?”
“Either, I guess.”
“Does it count that he was found in my hot tub? I mean, he did still owe me money.”
“Somehow, I don’t think the fact that he turned up in your tub qualifies you for any reward money. Next question? By the way, that was three already, but I’m easy.”
“What does the O. stand for?”
Martinez broke into an honest to God belly laugh. It looked painful. “Oh, Coffey,” he said when he’d almost split a gut, “you slay me. You were engaged to a guy named Othello and didn’t know it?”
He had me there. I never knew Hudson’s middle name. An odd middle name at that. I shrugged and said, “Maybe his mom was a fan of the bard.”
“Possibly. She did some off-Broadway stuff.”
“You found Hudson’s mother? Where? Who is she?”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Rats.
38
Jenks was dockside early Monday morning, carting a basket full of boat parts, oil and distilled water. And probably a big fat bill, but I was so thrilled someone I could trust was finally taking control of Sea Cock I didn’t care what he charged me. After all, I had a charter on Wednesd
ay.
While Jenks worked, I walked over to Ancient Mariner Yacht Charters at Jack London Square to meet with Molly. She looked like her voice: confident, friendly, and a little salty. My kind of gal.
When I introduced myself and explained the situation, she was nonplussed to learn that Garrison didn’t own Sea Cock. After apologizing profusely for the mix-up, she pulled a folder from her file cabinet and showed me what Garrison had been doing with the boat while both Morris and I owned her.
Just Add Water (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 1)) Page 20