Jenks turned the flashlight on me and, after I gave him a thumbs up, moved the beam onto the anchor chain, gauging the right time to begin raising the hook. Standing with my legs wide apart for balance and holding onto the ship’s wheel for dear life, I watched wave after wave break over Jenks. I kept a death grip on the ship’s wheel and freed one hand for the controls as I waited for the signal to move the boat forward.
A combination of fear and fatigue had turned my knees to jelly. I fought off panic for control of both my body and emotions. Captain Coffey, my ass! I mentally demoted myself from captain to deck ape when I glanced at the anemometer readout and I saw it peg forty knots. Merde, alors! How readily we are willing to hand off the reins of command when the caca hits the prop.
When I looked back to the bow, Jenks was gone.
My heart literally tripped and my already wobbly legs threatened to melt. My nose went numb. The nose thing is a big danger signal. It usually does that right before I faint. And this was no time to be coming down with the vapors, Miss Scarlet. What to do? What to do?
Thankfully, nothing. The foredeck suddenly blazed with light as the jillion candlepower spotlight over the flying bridge sprang to life. Jenks reappeared on the spotlit foredeck. He gave me a wave.
I waved back, although I knew he couldn’t see me because he was blinded by all that light. That’s why he’d waited to turn it on. He wanted to be sure I was ready. I began to breathe again and waited for the signal to proceed. I hoped I didn’t proceed to screw up.
We had, praise the Lord, practiced so many times under more benign conditions that I began to calm down once we started the drill. Thanks to the spotlight, I was now able to clearly see Jenks’s first signal to inch Sea Cock forward until he had enough slack to release the snubber line. I eased the boat into gear and pushed the throttle gently forward until Jenks gave me the “cut” sign. I put her into neutral.
Daring a quick look away while he coiled the line, I saw the clusterfuck happening around us. Boats doing the same drill, but with much yelling and cursing. Spreader lights and flashlights blinked to life all over the anchorage, illuminating confused crews. There were more bare butts on deck than a good Las Vegas review. If I hadn’t been so damned scared, I would have enjoyed the show. The keystone cop scenario on other boats boosted my confidence in Jenks.
As he’d taught me, I followed Jenks’s signals, moving the boat forward again, then into neutral, then forward again, until the anchor chain hung straight down. Now came the tricky part, raising the anchor from a pitching deck without ripping out the bow pulpit, losing the anchor to a broken chain link, or worse, losing Jenks overboard. Breaking anchor at night in a pounding sea, even with the aid of twin screws, a spotlight and an electric windlass, is downright dangerous. But not as hazardous as staying. The waves and wind were building. It was time to boogie.
Five foot whitecaps slammed the bow up and down, engulfing Jenks, but he held his footing, and soon the anchor was free and secured. I held the boat in place with the engines until Jenks could join me on the flying bridge and interpret what, to me, looked like measles on the radar screen. Every boat on our end of the harbor, it seemed, was underway, headed for the safety of either the southern anchorage or the Half Moon Bay marina.
Most were small sailboats with outboards, so I knew we could outrun them, but Jenks, overriding my hysterical suggestion to run them down like dogs in a mad dash for a dock, held us in place and let the panicked pack leave. He then found us a protected spot near the breakwater and re-anchored.
The anchor dug in and held fast. Jenks switched off the engines and I had his clothes off in about two seconds. Nothing like a little adrenaline rush to bring out the worst in me.
After a hot shower, we sat on the enclosed sundeck in the now almost empty harbor, listening to the wind howl and the lesser rabble babble on the radio. Most were still jockeying for dock space or moorings.
“Want something to drink?” I asked Jenks, hoping he didn’t ask for his usual iced tea. Reformed drinking habits aside, I needed something a little more formidable than Mr. Lipton. Unless of course, it was spiked with Mr. Slivovitz.
“I think we’ve earned a bracer, don’t you? How about a brandy?”
I poured us both a snifter, but before I could take a glug, Jenks reached over and took my brandy hand.
“First, a toast,” he said, “to a full fledged, certified sea wench. Hetta, you handled yourself like a pro. I’ve been with seasoned sailors who didn’t do as well as you did tonight.”
“Gee, Jenks, I’ve heard tales about those navy showers, but didn’t think you were the type.”
He grinned. “I meant the anchor drill. You did better than most experienced sailors.”
I actually blushed. “Yeah,” I said, “but did they scream and cuss as good as me?”
“Not even close. I’d take you anywhere, under any conditions.”
I was speechless. Never, in my career, life, whatever, was I so moved by a compliment. Nor had I ever, with the exception of my father, felt I could trust a man so implicitly as I did Jenks Jenkins.
Which is why, when he dumped me, I came close to meltdown. Or murder. Whichever came first.
43
Samurai seagulls invaded Seattle.
Every six months the big boys of Japan, Inc., my client’s client, did their seagull act. They’d fly in, squawk loudly over some garbage, crap all over our plans, and fly back out. It was my job to deal with them. I excelled at Nihon-dazzle.
The Japanese clients, I knew, thrived on marathon meetings, followed by copious wining and dining. I stopped short of hustling up blondes for them, but that wasn’t necessary because they always stayed in overpriced Japanese-owned hotels where such “amenities” were available. And for some unfathomable reason, not one of the men ever asked me to walk on his back.
Between chairing meetings and making sure our yen factories weren’t insulted by our Barbarian ways, it wasn’t until Wednesday afternoon that I realized I hadn’t talked to Jenks since I left the boat on Monday. We usually talked every evening, so not hearing from him was odd, but didn’t ruffle my trust in him. I just figured he’d called while I was tied up with late night dinner meetings.
By Thursday, however, I was beginning to feel a soupçon of unease. Especially after leaving three or four calls on Jenks’s machine and getting no reply.
I got a break when one of the big boys called in drunk and a meeting was postponed. Rushing back to my room, and still getting only Jenks’s answering machine, I decided to log on to his website, thinking maybe he left me a message there. No message. Merde.
Maybe something was wrong with the boat and Molly had to cancel the charter and Jenks was working on Sea Cock? I logged off, called Sea Cock and got my own machine. Fooey.
I sat at my laptop, thrumming my fingers. Now what? I logged back on, got the security site and punched in my code. The phone rang, but nothing happened. Sea Cock was not at the dock. I felt a little panic attack rising but talked myself down. What to do? Then a little light went off in my skull. I had another option. My mobile security setup.
So that the system would work when the boat was away from the dock, Jenks had installed cell phone access onboard. If I was at anchor and needed help, I could activate the PANIC button by putting in a special code. He also rigged it so I could call my onboard cell phone and activate the cameras. I’d never used it before, but decided there was no time like the present.
I went back to Jenks’s Internet site, brought up my system, punched in my ID and password and then clicked on the MOBILE mode. A series of dings, dongs and buzzes were followed by a delay when I feared my screen was frozen up, but the little blinking hourglass told me to just hold my horses. I went to the minibar and pulled out a diet Coke. A robotic version of “Anchors Aweigh” emanating from my speakers pulled me back to the computer. I hit another key, et voila! I was looking at the back of someone’s head.
I felt a little voyeuristic and vaguely gu
ilty. I had never told Molly about my covert cameras, mainly because Jenks had been so adamant in insisting that no one know about them. The key word here is security, he’d said. Telling anyone anything in the yacht club was like posting it on the club’s bulletin board.
The head the camera was on didn’t belong to Molly, but it was vaguely familiar. Maybe one of her staff? I squinted at the screen, mentally willing the person to turn around. When he did, a curse escaped my pursed lips. Alan Whitcombe, the smarmy Brit and royal pain in the ass, was on my boat. What the hell was he doing there?
Alan had taken to dropping by whenever I was alone on Sea Cock. It was as if he watched from the club, waiting for Jenks to leave. The Brit was always polite, but flirty in a slimy kind of way. And now here he was, lounging on my settee like he belonged there. Why?
I sat, frustrated and angry, and watched as he got up, took a furtive look around the main saloon, and then headed for my cabin door, the one clearly marked, “Off Limits. Owner’s cabin.” He opened the door and went inside, shutting it behind him. Crap! Jenks hadn’t installed a camera in my cabin, possibly in deference to my privacy. I’d have him fix that, but what to do now?
I used my cell to call Molly’s cell. Ain’t communication in this century grand? Too bad Jenks wasn’t better at it.
“Ancient Mariner Charters, Molly speaking.”
“Hi, Molly. It’s Hetta.”
“Hi, girl. I’m on Sea Cock’s flying bridge right now. We’re on our way back to your dock. What’s up?”
“Uh, nothing. Just curious, who chartered the boat today?”
“Oh, I thought you knew. Your friend, Alan Whitcombe. He took some of his friends for lunch at Pier 39. Nice bunch. Mostly foreign.”
“Oh. Okay. Uh, Molly, I....” Merde. How do I let her know Alan is where he’s not supposed to be without telling her about the cameras?
“Hetta, you still there?” Molly said.
“Yes. Uh, hey would you go down to my stateroom and make sure I put my shampoo away this morning. I would hate to lose twenty bucks worth down the drain if it tipped over.”
“Sure. It’s been a real smooth run, though. I don’t think you have to worry.”
“Well, then. I guess I’ll get back to work. Thanks, Molly.”
“Thank you, Hetta. Sea Cock is one of my best charter vessels, even with that name you keep saying you’re gonna change. Hey, how about Sea Change?”
“Sorry, doesn’t grab me. Uh, Molly? Have you….” I wanted to ask her if she’d seen Jenks at the marina or yacht club, but my pride wouldn’t let me. “Uh, have a nice cruise. See you soon.”
I stared at my cabin door. Just as Molly entered the main saloon, Alan oozed out of my cabin and slid the door behind him. When he turned around and spotted Molly, a fast fury passed over his face, followed by that unctuous grin.
Over the roar of the diesels and the water sounds, I heard Molly say, “Oh, hi, Alan. Sorry, that stateroom is not part of the cruise.”
“Oh, I wasn’t going in. The door swung open and I was shutting it. My, Molly, don’t you look glowing today. Must be the salt air. Positively glowing.”
Molly looked a little uncertain, murmured something I couldn’t understand and brushed past Alan to check on my shampoo. Alan looked very pleased with himself as he walked out of camera range. I cursed myself for not learning how to switch cameras faster.
After turning off my computer, I sat on the bed for a few minutes, trying to massage a faint headache away from my temples. This Alan was really starting to piss me off. I had seen him last week and there was no mention of his chartering my boat. Odd, but nothing I could really fault the man for. Besides, other than being a nosy body and probably snooping into my underwear, he was just a minor annoyance. My big problems—my missing boyfriend and a demanding client—loomed larger. I sighed, freshened up for the next round of meetings, and prepared for battle with my modern day weapons: laptop, briefcase, palm pilot, and charge card.
Almost out the door, I had a bright idea. I returned to the desk, brought up Jenks’s site and turned on the video recorders on my boat cameras, a practice I planned to follow for all charters from now on. Since I had to leave for a meeting and wouldn’t be back for several hours, my cell phone bill would be astronomical, but the rest of Alan’s cruise would be on videotape.
* * *
I got back to Oakland Friday morning. I’d left several messages for Jenks, telling him what time I’d be home, suggesting maybe we’d have a later than usual cocktail cruise to Treasure Island so I’d have time to provision. No answers.
It wasn’t until I boarded Sea Cock that I instantly and truly knew something was wrong. There was no bologna in the fridge. No bologna, no Jenks. The two went together like, well, bologna and Wonder Bread.
A hollow despair scourged the pit of my stomach, a feeling sickeningly reminiscent of that day in Tokyo when I returned from work to find Hudson’s closet empty. Jenks didn’t live with me, but he had a hanging locker where he kept a few clothes. They, too, were gone.
Almost sick with dread, I checked my telephone messages, e-mail, and faxes. Nothing from Jenks. I called his apartment and got his machine. A nasty little voice kept rasping in my ears, saying, Yo Hetta, you’ve been dumped, dumped, dumped. Merde, merde, merde. Déjà vu all over again, again, again.
I shakily poured myself a tumbler of wine. Paced. Had another wine. Paced. Tromped up to the yacht club to see if, by some wild chance, Jenks was playing liar’s dice and forgot the time. Or the day? Or me? He wasn’t there and no one had seen him.
I didn’t stay long at the club for fear of running into that pain in the butt, Alan. In my deteriorating mood, he would be a convenient target, and I couldn’t really lay him low without letting on about the cameras. Besides, the strain of trying to act normal when chatting with other club members proved too much. After fielding several, “Hey, Hetta, where’s Jenks?” queries, I stormed back to the boat.
By nine I was a wreck. A worried wreck. What had become of Jenks? Please, please Lord, don’t let him be dead. Unless, of course, he was dumping me, then please, please Lord, let him be dead.
I remembered the security videos. I hadn’t bid sayonara to my charges until almost midnight the night before, so I had a good twelve hours to view. Even with fast forwarding, it would take a while to check out. I retrieved the tapes from the hidden recorder and headed for my VCR.
I hit REWIND, then PLAY and watched figures on the split screen. As Jenks had told me, the quality was shadowy and the sequences jerky. In order for the tape to last long enough, the shots were actually activated every few seconds. It all looked like an early Japanese monster flick. I watch as Alan seem to lurch to the aft deck where five more men were sitting around my Brown Jordan table. The sound quality was very bad, wiped out by the droning diesels. Three of the men appeared to be Oriental and all seemed to be having a great old time. I actually had a moment of sympathy for Alan. Perhaps he, too, had to woo a demanding client from time to time.
Molly entered the picture, said something to her guests, the timbre of the engines changed and I could tell they were docking. I fast forwarded, watching people move about like ants. Finally, everyone left except Molly and a crewmember. They washed the boat, vacuumed the carpets, gathered their catering equipment, locked the door and all was quiet. Nothing happened again until the tape ended. Certainly not what I wanted to see, which was Jenks coming aboard.
I poured more wine, retrieved some hors d’oeuvres left in the fridge by Molly, and attempted to watch TV. Actually, I was staring down the phone, ordaining it to ring, when I spotted the red PANIC button peeking from under my workstation. This was an emergency situation, wasn’t it? I mean, I was certainly in a panic.
I hit the button.
Nothing happened.
I was getting ready to hit it again, when my phone rang.
“Jenks?” I gasped, “Where are you?”
“Miss Coffey, this is Ed Lu. Do you have an emergency?
”
Ed, one of Jenks’s staffers, was tall, thin, Chinese, and wore his long luxurious locks in a queue. He, like all of Jenks’s employees, was hooked up at home to man the security system. This setup, while not all that lucrative for a guy with a PHD, allowed Ed time to pen his great Chinese-American novel, a existential ‘90’s account à la Easy Rider, but without benefit of booze, recreational drugs, or weapons, of his journey, via motorcycle, from Brazil to New York. Dennis Hopper Lu. But sober and sensitive. The title of his novel in writing? DWO: Driving While Oriental.
“Ed, please call me Hetta. And no, not an emergency. Is Jenks there?”
“No ma’am, uh, Hetta. He’s not.”
“Do you know were he is?”
“Sorry, I don’t. He left town is all I know. Now, according to company protocol, I have to ask. Do you want me to call the police?”
Just Add Water (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 1)) Page 25