I did call Molly the charter lady and tell her I wasn’t dead or sunk, but that I was using the boat full time for now. She said she understood and she was really happy for Jenks and me. I bit my lip and mumbled something inane, but when I hung up I’d at least learned the Jack London Square scuttlebutt hadn’t picked up on the demise of our romance. Or whatever we’d had.
Mail was becoming a concern until I solved it by having one of the WOEies from the yacht club drop it off on their weekend sail. To keep the barstool gossipmongers at bay, I used the “we” word when talking to yacht club members. When the WOEies dropped off my mail I let them think Jenks was taking a nap. Oh, the dreaded web.
Once in a while I’d get restless, tempted to up anchor and find a waterfront ginmill with a guest dock. Use Sea Cock for my original dark intentions. But somehow without Jan, my Sancho Panza, tilting at triceps had lost its appeal. Besides, even though I’d originally conjured up the concept of a yacht as a mantrap, it was my home now.
Of course, there was that Jenks thing.
Furious and hurt though I was, I couldn’t quite get up any zeal to find solace in a singles bar. Besides, it had been my experience that the only thing most men in singles bars have in common is they’re married. Some of them to each other.
When the urge to prowl arose, I diverted my energy into more productive activities. I tried fishing, an almost counterproductive activity since, even though foraging for extra provisions seemed like a good idea, there was no way in hell I’d eat seafood from San Francisco Bay. At least once a day I put on a Richard Simmons tape, sweated with the oldies, then did some commercial cleaning: watching television, cleaning during commercials.
I read all the books on board I’d been meaning to read forever and even began writing a few self-serving memoirs. The fictionalized version of my life was beginning to look suspiciously like a cross between Mother Teresa and Dirk Pitt, but the writing was fun and therapeutic. The more I recaptured memories of being raised by a passel of adults (I could count at least ten grownups who, like Bill Cosby’s family, all had the right to wallop me) the more I realized what a rich, albeit internationally fractured, childhood I’d had.
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.
47
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 b
reaking 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.
Just Add Water (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 1)) Page 28