Just Add Trouble Read online

  JUST ADD TROUBLE (Book 3)

  Hetta Coffey Mystery Series

  Hetta Coffey is a woman with a yacht and she's not afraid to use it.

  A globe-trotting engineer with adventure in her soul, Hetta is determined to solidify her relationship with her long-distance boyfriend, Jenks Jenkins. What better place for a romantic interlude than aboard her yacht in Mexico's hauntingly beautiful and solitary Sea of Cortez?

  But where Hetta goes, trouble follows, and chaos is sure to ensue. After a run-in with a couple of sea serpents that threaten to rock the boat, she nevertheless decides to take on a project in the port city of Guaymas. After all, Jenks is headed back to Kuwait, so why not cash in on the best of both worlds by making picking up a few pesos while living aboard her boat in Mexico?

  Once again Hetta's indomitable spirit, stubborn independence and penchant for deceit will keep the reader in stitches as she launches herself and her best friend, Jan, into a sea of trouble. A pesky parrot, a drunken aunt and a shadowy figure who is handsome in a "criminal sort of way" lead to murder, mayhem, kidnapping, and run-ins with several federal agencies on both sides of the border.

  What people are saying about Just Add Trouble

  and Jinx Schwartz

  Schwartz is a twinkling, bright star on the mystery genre horizon with her witty and sometimes irreverent heroine, Hetta Coffey. —Fictionaddiction.net, reviewer B. Bramblett, author of Sliding Stop

  Schwartz’s writing is caustically funny in a politically incorrect wicked way.—GRINGO GAZETTE Review by Alisabeth Dobesh

  Hetta Coffey’s hilarious string of misadventures after being suddenly plunged into the “yachtie world” is a great page- turner for the quarter berth!—Capt. Pat Rains

  We loved this book. I read it out loud to my husband since we live in Mulege part time and we are familiar with the areas, we like to discuss them. We could hardly wait for the next chapter and sometimes we would have to wait so we could sleep. I hope she writes more stories like this By mcvega "mcquerryvega" (Somerset, CA United States)

  BOOKS BY JINX SCHWARTZ

  www.jinxschwartz.com

  The Hetta Coffey Series

  Just Add Water (Book1)

  Just Add Salt (Book 2)

  Just Add Trouble (Book 3)

  Just Deserts (Book4)

  Other Books

  The Texicans

  Troubled Sea

  Land of Mountains

  Just Add Trouble Book 3 Hetta Coffey Mystery Series

  Copyright © 2007 Jinx Schwartz

  All rights reserved.

  First edition e-book first published 2007

  Second e-book edition published 2011 by Jinx Schwartz

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to persons, whether living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning to a computer disk, or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without express permission in writing from the publisher.

  Acknowledgements

  As always, Holly Whitman is my first line of defense. Holly not only edits my work for the usual stuff, like misspelled words, she also puts me back on the road when I’ve written myself into a ditch. Thank you, thank you, Holly.

  I’d like to thank Dorothy and Art Oberto for the use of their brand name, Oh Boy! Oberto. Their generous contribution to a charitable cause in exchange for using their name in my book was greatly appreciated by the community.

  Many ideas in my books come from tales told by friends. I have blatantly stolen tall tales from: David Gray, Geary Ritchie, Jane Stris, Garth Jones, and others who shall remain anonymous, as they are still incarcerated.

  And many heartfelt thanks to my very supportive hubby, Robert (Mad Dog) Schwartz.

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to Russ “Chingo” Madden, my numero uno fan, and to my wonderful husband, Robert “Mad Dog” Schwartz.

  Chingo and Mad Dog, a pair to draw to.

  JUST ADD TROUBLE

  by

  Jinx Schwartz

  Trouble comes from too much talk

  —Chinese proverb

  Prologue

  Paco itched.

  Checking to make sure Nacho watched the scenery instead of him, he shifted forward on the hard bench seat of the panga and squirmed. What he really wanted was to let go of the outboard’s steering arm and claw at the thousands of spiders racing under his skin. They had names, he knew. Meth mites, crank bugs. He also feared he was on the verge of tweaking like some lowlife crankhead.

  How many times had he and his homeboys busted a gut over the twitchy, skinny-assed suckers who bought their stuff? With their rotten teeth and scabby sores, his customers might as well wear signs reading, Kick Me, I’m a Methhead.

  He’d been careful, didn‘t smoke or shoot it, like some stupid loser. Smoking meth leaves your teeth black, and no way he’d shoot, he hated needles. All he’d done was parachute a small amount wrapped in a torn corner off a paper napkin when he was really dragging ass. Was it his fault the boss drove him past exhaustion on that killer schedule of his? Okay, so he’d added a little more to the ’chute now and then, but only when he really needed it. He’d lost some weight, but hell, with everyone in the gang working long hours, they all looked like hell. Up until today, though, he’d never, ever felt the bugs. Until today, he thought he was golden.

  When the boss sent him to pick up a new man in La Paz, he hadn’t given it much thought, but something about this guy set him on edge. Maybe it was the way Nacho raised his eyebrows when he spotted two liters of Mountain Dew in the panga. Paco meant to buy bottled water, but meth craved the heavy sweetness of the Dew. He should have been more careful. Was it too late? Was the boss on to him? Sent this guy as a spy? Or was this Nacho just another LA type, down here checking out their operation?

  Whatever, Paco decided he was finished with ice. Done. Termino. Wasn’t worth it. He just wished he felt as good as he had a few hours ago.

  Racing northward, he steered the fiberglass fishing boat over a glassy Sea of Cortez, speculating why Nacho was here, and why he didn’t fly Alaska Airlines into Loreto, or on one of their runner planes. Why La Paz and a long boat ride that would take hours—Oh, shit! He looked at the needle pegged at HALF on the fuel tank. How could he have forgotten to top it off? Slowing the engine, he glided to a stop.

  Nacho turned around. “¿Que paso, hermano?”

  Paco felt like screaming, “I’m friggin’ on fire here, that’s waatsappenin’, and I ain’t your stinkin’ brother,” but he didn’t. Instead he whined, “Fuggin’ guy at the fuel dock. I jes’ realized he didn’t fill up the fuggin’ tank.”

  Nacho seemed to buy it. “So, what do we do? How far to the next gas station?”

  Paco snorted. “Ain’t none.”

  “No? So what are we gonna do? Turn around?”

  Paco wanted to off the cabrón right here and now for asking so many questions when he was, literally, itching out of his skin. Reaching deep into what little self-control he had left, stuffing the flash of white-hot anger, Paco answered Nacho in what he believed to be a casual tone, but actually held an edge of panic. “We’ll get some somewhere. All these fishermen, they got gas.” That we can steal.

  Nacho nodded slowly and turned back toward the bow, a frisson of unease running up his spine. Was this Paco character sampling the goods? If so, the boss sure as hell wouldn’t be happy to hear it. Using their own product broke a cardinal rule, and guys who broke code met a violent end.

  All Paco could think of was putting the boat on a beach, somehow getting away from Nacho long enough
for a fix. His last. There was enough stuff in his pocket to get him through this day, and back to camp, then he’d quit for good. Shifting the engine into gear, he sped northward until, as they neared an island, he changed direction so suddenly he nearly launched Nacho overboard.

  Nacho, catching himself before flying ass over teakettle into the sea, or worse, cracking a rib against the side of the boat, shot a dark look backward that wiped the smirk from Paco’s face.

  Paco gulped, and yelled, “Sorry, man. Gotta piss.”

  Recognizing all the signs now, realizing he had a tweaking cranker on his hands, Nacho didn’t challenge Paco. Not here, not now. He knew from experience how to handle a tweaker. He’d keep his distance, slow his speech, keep Paco talking, and for God’s sake not piss him off. “Okay by me,” he yelled over the engine noise, “then you can show me how to drive this boat. I’d like to try it out, if you don’t mind.”

  Paco’s eyes narrowed, then he shrugged. “Chur. No problem, hermano.” Looking past Nacho, at the looming anchorage ahead, his blood raced with a burst of murderous exhilaration. Glancing into the fish well behind him, making certain his razor sharp machete was handy, he repressed an hysterical giggle, and thought, Now I’ll show homeboy how it’s done down here. Jes’ like your friendly neighborhood am/pm Mini Mart, hermano. One stop shopping. A hit, a piss, and a full gas tank, all for the taking.

  He increased their speed.

  Chapter 1

  “John Steinbeck was a sissy.”

  Jenks gave me a look from under his golf cap brim, smiled a tolerant smile at this outrageous challenge of the legendary author’s manliness, and went back to varnishing my rails. Well, not my rails, my boat’s rails.

  Not one to accept mere tolerance, I shook my book at him. “He writes here, in his Log From the Sea of Cortez, that the Sea of Cortez is 'a dangerous body of water and is prone to sudden and violent storms.' ” Waggling my fingers at the calm cove we were anchored in, I vamped, “Ooooh, I’m skeered. Save me, my hero!”

  “Sorry, Hetta, I have to finish this varnish. It’s drying as fast as it hits the teak. I’ll save you later. For the record, though, we’ve only been here three weeks, and I’m sure Steinbeck wrote from experience. A totally different experience than we’ve had so far.”

  “Ya think?” I launched myself from the step I was perched on, and padded through a side door leading into the main saloon and galley. I made us both an iced tea, and returned to the sundeck. The fiberglass was a tad toasty on my bare soles, so I did a tiptoed quickstep into the shade.

  Jenks noticed and teased, “Cool moves, Red. The Texas tenderfoot two-step?”

  “Watch it, Yankee boy.”

  He ignored my warning and went back to his bright work—that’s nautical-speak for making wood bright with varnish—thereby ignoring my precious self, so I rose and threw back over my shoulder, “I shall retire to the verandah, and I’m taking your tea with me as hostage. Make you work faster.”

  I sashayed up three steps to the covered aft deck, and sank into the soft cushions of a patio chair. Taking a sip of tea I let loose with a deep, contented sigh. The air and water temperatures matched at seventy-five and Jenks was here, with me, on this nearly perfect fall day in paradise. I was as happy as a puppy in tall grass.

  Anchored at San Francisco Island, an uninhabited piece of nirvana north of La Paz, we were suspended on glassy, colorless water that was also, mysteriously, a stunning turquoise. Behind us lay a pearly crescent of beach, bordered with lava rock and cactus. Beyond that, barren hills jutted into an almost impossibly blue backdrop. A true-to-life painting of the scene would look artificial, garish. In reality, the diorama was simply stunning.

  Off in the distance, I spotted what looked like a small boat streaking north and felt an unwelcome clench of tension. We’d had the anchorage to ourselves for days, and I liked it that way. Except for the occasional distant buzz of a panga racing by, or a shrimp boat chugging along, we could have been boating on the moon. And while I tried not tensing up when I heard or spotted other vessels, it hadn’t been all that long ago when every passing boat posed a possible threat. Get a grip, Hetta, I told myself. Water under the keel.

  Determined to relax and relish this special spot of heaven on earth, I took a deep, cleansing breath. Good air in, bad guys out, good air….

  Jenks stuck his head through the open door. “Hetta, are you hyperventilating?”

  “No, I’m practicing breathing.”

  “Most of us learn that at birth.”

  “Wise ass.”

  He grinned and went back to his varnishing. I followed him, sat down on the top step again, watched for awhile, bit back my natural tendency to supervise. When the urge to comment grew too strong, I returned to my chair, laid my head back on the soft cushion, and closed my eyes.

  Lulled by the slight rock of the boat, and gulls chatting on the beach, I’d almost drifted off when the drone of a distant engine sat me up. I instinctively grabbed for the binoculars, but Jenks already had them in his hand. I hadn’t even heard him sit down in the other chair.

  “Shrimp boat,” he said. “You know, if you’re gonna be so jumpy, maybe we should head back into the safety of a marina.”

  “You mean a safe, noisy marina? No thanks, this is too idyllic. And I’m not jumpy.”

  “Could have fooled me.” He handed me the binoculars, which I casually set aside, even though I was dying to take a gander at that shrimper for myself.

  He took a test sip of tea to see if I’d added enough sugar and lime and declared it, “Perfect.”

  “So’s this part of the world. I want to live here. For ever and ever.”

  “Sounds nice, all right.”

  I let that hang. I’d just handed Jenks a huge opportunity to say something like, “Let’s do that.” Or even, “We should.”

  But nooo, what he said was, “Sounds nice, all right.” Followed by, “But you have to go back to work soon.” He didn’t even work a “we” into that sentence.

  I was tempted to empty my glass over his head, but was running low on Splenda and it was a good half-day cruise to a supermarket. Besides, the setting was much too beautiful to let my insecurity demons spoil it with a fit of temper that would be totally lost on Jenks. After all, he was here, we were together for now, and he had flown halfway around the world, for the second time since we started dating, to bail my substantial rear end out of a mess of my own making. Only a month before, he saved me, my boat, and my best friend, Jan Sims, from some unsavory and heavily armed characters on the outside of the Baja who took a distinctly hostile attitude toward us.

  For his valor, Jenks deserved temporary amnesty from my own naturally truculent attitude. I left his blondish-gray buzz cut tea-free and said, “Spoilsport. You used the W word. Okay, let’s do the math. It’s the end of November now, we can stay here in the sea until Christmas, at least, head back to Cabo, celebrate New Year’s Eve there, and then cruise on up to California. If I get back to W by the end of January, I’m good.” Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “And Jenks, it is very important to me that we have this New Year’s Eve together.”

  Dammit, did I say that? How sappy and clingy did that come out? I shrugged and backpedaled, adding, “It’s a silly gal thing, New Year’s Eve.” I strove for nonchalance while still sending the subliminal message, I need to be with you when "Auld Lang Syne" is sung. We women, for some unfathomable reason, insist on beaming the subliminal to the sublimely imperceptive. Why, is a mystery to me, and yet we persist, in vain, as his answer proved.

  “I can live with that schedule. Barely. Lars is already grumbling about being stuck on his own in Kuwait City while I’m yachting on the Sea of Cortez.”

  “Your brother will live. And speaking of Lars, does he even acknowledge that his lusterless, or shall I say, lust-less attitude and lack of commitment drove Jan into another guy’s camp?” I meant this literally, for Jan had moved to a Mexican bio-nerd encampment and was living in a little grass s
hack with a marine biologist by the name of Doctor Brigido Comacho Yee, a.k.a. Chino. Chino specializes in whales. Jan specializes in serial monogamy, and Jenks’s brother and business partner, Lars, was her latest ex-monogamous partner. This time she’d come darned close to committing polygamy, but managed a very long distance “Dear Lars” phone call before jumping Chino’s bones about three seconds after hanging up. I didn’t feel one bit sorry for Lars, though, because it was his indifference that dumped their romance into a ditch.

  If Jenks noticed my not-so-subtle allusion that he might be steering us for that same disastrous ditch, he sure didn’t show it. “I don’t think Lars would tell me, even if he was upset over getting dumped. He plays his cards pretty close to his vest.”

  Must be genetic. Dense, these Norse. Handsome, but obtuse. I gave up trying to have a meaningful conversation. Men hate those anyhow. I sighed. “So, wanna go snorkeling?”

  “Nope.”

  “Nope?”

  “Nope, let’s go skinny dipping. Last one in makes lunch.” He began peeling off his clothes, then mine. For a guy who can’t commit, he sure makes the time we spend together mighty worthwhile.

  We didn’t quite make it into the water.

  I stretched out full length, basking in the sun’s sting on body parts rarely seen in the light of day. Freckles be damned. “I think I’ve died and gone to Shangri-la, or whatever place represents perfection on earth.”

  Jenks, one arm under my head, teased, “And here I thought that was Texas, the way you talk about it. However, I notice you don’t live there anymore.”

  That’s true. Although I love my native state, I moved to San Francisco years before and put down roots. I have a one-woman consulting firm: Hetta Coffey, LLC, SI, PI. Just kidding about the PI part, but even though I am not a private investigator, my snoopery does seem to land me in dustups far beyond the pale of your average civil engineer. Also kidding about the SI, that’s my little play on phonetics for Civil Engineer.