Just Add Trouble Page 10

  “Hetta, you’re famous!” Jan shrieked, then began reading aloud. “‘Sierra Vista Dispatch reporter, Hetta Coffey, has uncovered a secret deal being forged between Arizona and the state of Sonora, Mexico—’”.

  “Secret deal? What in the hell are they talking about? I only took the studies done by others, as well as, I might add, published newspaper articles written about the project, and compiled them. This lead-in makes it seem like I’ve uncovered some sinister plot to overthrow California.”

  We read the rest of the article together, which consisted of my byline and the piece just as I wrote it, but then, with dramatic flare, ended with, Ms. Coffey could not be reached for further comment.

  The phone rang again, and this time it was Jenks.

  “Hetta, you’re on CNN.”

  “What?”

  “They just had a camera crew and reporter on site, in Guaymas, interviewing the port captain. And looking for you. Where are you?”

  “Er, on the boat.”

  “I called the marina when you didn’t answer your cell phone. You, and the boat, are not there.”

  Jeez, did the marina office have to blab to everyone I know? “Well, we—”

  “Hold on, they are saying something about…you’re in Santa Rosalia?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Port Captain just said so, on TV.”

  “Good grief, who in the world gives a damn where I am?”

  “Me, for one, and CNN. They make it sound like you’ve uncovered some big secret scheme. Is your satellite TV working?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never used it.”

  “Go online, CNN’s site, and you can see the report on video. We’ll talk about this Santa Rosalia thing later. I’m just glad you’re safe. Love you.”

  “Love you, too. Bye.”

  An hour later, Jan and I were giggling, reveling in the brouhaha we’d stirred up. By now I was an “investigative reporter for the award-winning Sierra Vista Dispatch,” and Jan was an “internationally acclaimed photog.” We’d broken the story after months of undercover work in both Mexico and Arizona.

  “To our fifteen minutes of fame!” I toasted.

  “Think we should write something else? Maybe how you single-handedly uncovered the wreck of the Spanish galleon, San Carlos?”

  I guffawed. “Along with my fellow researcher, that renowned marine archeologist, Doctor Jan Sims?”

  Laughter tears rolled as we conjured up wilder and wilder scenarios, until we noticed other boaters eyeing us warily. “Sorry,” I waved at them, “we’re just…being silly. Hey, do you know if they have TV in this town?”

  A tall sailboater, fiftyish, without the prerequisite beard so many sported, sauntered over and leaned on the rail. Peeking shyly from behind him was a sweet-faced white West Highland terrier. Her ears were on alert, and her tail wagged hesitantly. She turned her head quizzically, as if trying to decide whether we were friendly, or just plain nuts. And whether the bird on my head was edible.

  The sailor patted the dog’s silky back, and she leaned into his leg for reassurance. He gave her ears a rub and said, “Seems to me like you two are having way too much fun. Can we get in on it?”

  This sent us into another spate of laughter. The dog looked worried, so when I could control myself I said, “Sorry, you had to be there.” We introduced ourselves.

  “Nice boat. I’m Smith, and this is Maggie. Our boat is Taiwan On.”

  “Clever. Well, hello Smith and Maggie. Come on aboard and have a cool one.”

  Jan shot me a frown, which I ignored. She never understands my lack of discrimination when it comes to meeting new people, and even accuses me of lax judgment on occasion. This time though, my friend fell for the charms of Maggie after the dog scampered onto the boat, jumped right into her lap and demanded a tummy rub.

  Trouble went airborne and for one horrible instant I thought he was on the attack, but no, he landed daintily on Maggie’s head. This gave me a momentary fright as well, for a dog, even one so small , can do grave bodily damage with a single chomp, but the two became instant friends.

  Smith’s easy, guileless manner soon convinced Jan he was simply a guy who, when he had a chance, loaded up his dog and set sail. The Sea of Cortez is full of folks who follow their dream of getting down to the twos: two pairs of shorts, two swim suits and two pairs of flip-flops, in case one pair has a blowout. One of my favorite things about the cruisers is their lack of interest over what is happening back home. Except for the occasional case of boat envy, there are no Joneses to keep up with. The main topic of conversation is food, and where to get it. My kind of place.

  In that vein, Smith invited us for an Exquisito hot dog dinner at a small stand in town. The hot dog vendor’s cart is in front of a church designed by the famous French designer, Gustav Eiffel, no less. The Santa Barbara “Cathedral,” pre-constructed over a period of two years for display at the World Exposition in Paris in 1889, was later deconstructed and shipped to Santa Rosalia. In 1895 it was erected by the French miners who worked here during the town’s heyday as a mining center. Both the church and the hot dogs are truly exquisito.

  Since Smith had been in town for a week, he was thereby a local expert. He pointed out the quaint mining houses, a bakery that actually makes French baguettes to this day, and the Mahatma Gandhi—go figure—Library. I noticed that many of the people living here had fair skin and blue eyes, no doubt a direct result of former imported miners and sailors.

  “Cute town,” Jan said as we prepared to hit the sack. While I closed all hatches and doors, she shut down lights, radios, and the like.

  “Cute guy.”

  “One word. Jenks.”

  “Jeez, Jan, I was just making an observation, not a life changing decision. And don’t tell me you weren’t entranced by that silky hair and beautiful brown eyes.”

  “Nope. Nor did I take note of that amazingly rounded, taut butt.”

  “I was talking about the dog.”

  “Sure you were.”

  We chuckled together.

  “Want a nightcap?”

  I burped a little Exquisito con relish, mayonaisa y salsa Mexicana. “Sure.”

  We settled on the back deck where we had protection from the wind that still howled, and watched fishing pangas buzz in and out of port, their occupants decked out in yellow slickers against the salt spray and chilly air. “What do you think they’re catching?”

  “Someone said squid.” I sniffed the air. “I detect the stench of a packing plant north of us. Luckily this wind is blowing the stink right past us. When this storm is over, pray for a southerly.”

  “I’m surprised they’re going out fishing on such an ugly night, but I guess they have to earn a living. Tough life, but Chino says many would rather fish than work on someone’s payroll and time clock.”

  “I can relate to that. Speaking of work, ya think we should hire a publicity agent? I mean, now that we’re world famous and all.”

  “Naw, I think our fifteen minutes is up, what with fame being the fickle thing it is.”

  “I sure hope so. Well, kiddo, I’m plumb tuckered.” I stood and stretched. “See you mañana.”

  “I’m turning in, too. Oh, look, the ferry is still trying to dock. Man, oh, man, am I glad I’m not on that sucker. Even with last night’s little fire drill, I’m so glad you brought me over.”

  “Wait’ll you get my bill, then see how grateful you are.”

  “Yeah, well, we can trade invoices. I think I can work up quite a jerky tab for your critter you’re dumping on me.”

  Touché. We watched as the ferry boat captain gave up on entering the harbor. He went a little offshore, outside the breakwater and either dropped the hook or continued motoring to hold position into the seas. I took one last look out my porthole before drifting off, and could still see his running lights out there, as he waited for the wind to die down. Sometime during the night I was half awakened by loud speakers, so I figured they made it
in.

  Snuggling my pillow in my warm bed, in the safety of a marina, the windstorm outside didn’t seem quite so bad. I stretched and smiled, thinking, Somewhat like the stupid news storm Jan and I stirred up.

  No wonder no one takes the news seriously these days if we can make the CNN headlines! What a joke.

  Chapter 15

  “You’ve got to be joking.” Jan’s voice, especially the slightly hysterical timbre, half-woke me from a fantasy dream where Jenks, RJ and I were swimming with dolphins. Spending time frolicking with my deceased dog was so special that I fought to recapture the dream, not wake up. But then Jan was bellowing through my open bedroom door—the one I should have locked—“Hetta, dammit! You get up here right this minute. We have company.”

  My eyes flew open and RJ and the dolphins dissolved. The sun was fairly high in the sky, and the wind had picked up again. I’d slept in my favorite foul weather warmies, a red oversized tee shirt with white stripes on its long sleeves, and even though it covered my knees, I grabbed a pair of sweats from the closet.

  Company? That called for a splash of cold water on the face, and a smear of Harlot Red across my lips. I slipped on my red plastic clogs, noted the clash with the yellow sweats, didn’t really give a damn, and stomped up into the main saloon. It was full of people. People with cameras.

  Jan cringed in the galley as flash bulbs blinded me. “What the hell?” was all I could manage. I spun around and headed for the safety of my cabin, but Jan was too fast for me.

  She death-gripped my arm and bleated, “Oh, no, you don’t. You are not leaving me with these…these…people.”

  “Who are these, these, people? And what are they doing on my boat?” And as I said it, I realized, wait a minute, this is my boat. I stepped around Jan and commanded, “Okay, everybody off. Now!”

  Bright camera lights flooded the cabin as a tangle of questions were thrown our way. With everyone talking at once, it was impossible to make out a single question, but one thing was clear; they were from CNNI and they wanted info on the Tucson Corridor.

  “Uh, Hetta,” Jan yelled above the questioning, “I sort of told them they could come aboard, but I didn’t realize who they were. Sorry.”

  “Well, then, you can entertain them. Cook them breakfast or something. I’m going back to bed.”

  “Wait for me.”

  We scrambled into my master stateroom and slammed and locked the door. Trapped like rats, we were trying to figure out what to do next when there was a loud screech, a bunch of screaming and yelling, and the stomp of feet exiting the boat, fast. When things quieted down, Trouble broke into a hearty rendition of “Hetta, Hetta, she’s our gal. If she can’t do it, no one shall.”

  We returned to the emptied main saloon and peered out.

  On the dock, what had seemed an army of reporters was really only four. One female talking head and three crew. A couple of them plucked feathers from their hair, while the reporter babe from, where else? CNNI, dabbed bird poop from her blouse.

  I tickled Trouble’s neck feathers and gave him a piece of apple. “What a sweet little press agent you are,” I cooed. He blushed and ducked his head for more scratching. I have to admit, I was growing quite fond of him.

  He flew back outside, where the press dudes and dudette, for lack of anything better to do, filmed him as he loudly demanded, “Oh, Boy! Oberto.”

  With no clever ideas of my own as to what to do next, I called the Trob and told him we had the press on our tails. I thought he’d blow a fuse, or what passes for anger with him, but he sounded pleased.

  “You mean you’re not upset with me for outing the project?”

  “No. Baxters like it.”

  I’ve known the Trob many a year, so I knew what he meant. Scary. “I haven’t blown the project? I’m not fired? I thought the brothers Baxter would be royally pissed since it seemed they wanted to wrap up my study on the QT before it was universally known this was gonna be a go.”

  “No.”

  Jan, who could see I was struggling for aplomb, shoved a cup of coffee in my hand. I shoved it back and she added a splash of Irish Whisky. I took a deep breath and a big glug. “No?”

  “Not upset. Glad. Now the politicians are all behind the idea, saying, quote, ‘Splendid example of international cooperation in light of our other differences.’”

  “Let me guess, those are Republican politicians. What’s the other side saying?”

  “They’re afraid to say anything. Check out the Internet.”

  “I will. What should I tell these news hounds?”

  “The truth"

  “What a novel idea. I will. Thanks, I guess. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I fired up the computer and read today’s headlines. All I wanted to be was yesterday’s headlines, but it was not in the cards.

  “Oooh, Jan. As of twenty minutes ago, this is what we looked like.” And sure enough, there we were, white faced, hair askew. Caption: Reporter Hetta Coffey and Photog Jan Sims, tracked down on Ms. Coffey’s yacht in Santa Rosalia, Mexico, minutes before attacking reporters. CNNI 20 minutes ago.

  “Oh, boy,” Jan said, “What’s CNNI?”

  “It’s CNN International. I get it on cable at home. This is going out all over the world.”

  “I wish I’d had my hair done. And Hetta,” she giggled, “is that you, or Ronald McDonald?”

  The resemblance was uncanny. With my red striped tee shirt, yellow sweats, fuchsia hair, red clogs, and crimson lips, all I required to complete my Ronald McDonald look was a Big Mac in my hand. We were still howling with glee when Mother called.

  “Hetta Honey, stripes? You know they make you look, uh, shorter.”

  “You mean fatter, don’t you? Jan thinks I look like Ronald McDonald.”

  Mother hiccuped a little chuckle, told Daddy what I’d said, then asked, “What on earth are you doin’ on the morning news in your PJ’s? You and your father may think it’s funny, but knowing you, there is a lot more to this story than they are telling on CNN. Are you in trouble, again?”

  “No, Mama, you know how the media blow everything out of proportion. By tomorrow, the world will forget I was ever on the screen. Believe me, there is no secret plot and once these folks do their homework, they’ll find out for themselves. This project proposal I’m working on has already been in the works for years. This CNN thing is a tempest in a teapot.”

  “Well, if you say so. Seems to me you could have put on a dress or somethin’,” she drawled. Mother doesn’t even leave the bedroom in the morning without combed hair and complete makeup, and she dons Liz Claiborne for breakfast. “Who did you attack?”

  “Didn’t. It was Aunt Lil's bird. Trouble cleared those reporters from my boat in a jiffy. I’m gonna miss him when Jan takes him home with her tomorrow.”

  “Jan’s coming to Texas and bringing the parrot?”

  I always forget that “home” means Texas to a Texan. “Her new home, here in Mexico. She’ll keep him until we come up with a more permanent solution. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything more from Aunt Lil?”

  “I thought maybe you’d found her by now.”

  “Mama, she’s in Mazatlan and I’m in Santa Rosalia.”

  “You told me you were in San Carlos.”

  Uh-oh. It’s times like this that require creative prevarication. Mother would pitch a Texas hissy fit if she found out Jan and I had crossed an entire sea by ourselves, so I crossed my fingers. “Not far from there.” Not a bald faced lie, as we were located somewhere between both San Carloses. Mexico is in dire need of some new saints to name their towns after.

  “Well, it sounds like everything is all right. I’ll call Jan’s mother and tell her that, if you like.”

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  “You girls have a good time. We miss you.”

  “We miss you too. Love you.”

  “Love you, too. Bye now.”

  “Bye.”

  “Not far from where?”
Jan asked.

  “San Carlos. Technically, that’s true.”

  “Technically. Hetta, we’re all over the news. What if she tries to find us on a map?”

  “She won’t. They’re on the road. She’s calling your mom to let her know this whole thing is bogus.”

  “Good. Now, what are you going to do about those reporters out there?”

  “Hose ‘em down?”

  “That’ll look good on the five o’clock report.”

  “Okay, okay. Let’s get dolled up and hold a press conference. Mother thinks I should wear a dress, but I don’t have one on the boat.”

  “What are we going to say?”

  “The truth.”

  Jan fell on the floor, convulsed with glee. What a cynic.

  Chapter 16

  It’s amazing how, if you tell the truth, people lose interest, especially when the truth is really boring. So I gave the reporters a very long, tedious, and technical version of the truth, and my part in it. One of the cameramen practically fell asleep, and the poor reporter babe did her best to get in a provocative question or two, but I droned on, and on, and on.

  Boring or not, I thought Jan and I presented yachtily intellectual personas for what I hoped was our last interview. Dressed in white slacks, turtlenecks and navy blazers, donning drugstore cheaters for effect, our last fifteen minutes of fame fizzled the second the camera lights went out. Once the reporters learned that I had written the newspaper article based on well-known, documented research that they could check for themselves, their interest dried up, but they couldn’t figure out a way to politely shut me up. The fact that the Guaymas/Tucson port deal had been in the making for years was, well, old news. Boring engineering stuff. No scandal. No hanky panky. In effect, no news at all.

  The rather disheveled reporter gal did comment on the fact that we were two women alone on a yacht, thinking perhaps there was a story there, but we intimated that our husbands were out fishing. I think she at least hoped we were lesbians.

  In desperate search of a news lead, she asked to interview Trouble. As I felt a little sorry for this woman who had obviously spent the night on a tossing ferry in search of her big break, I encouraged Trouble to talk, sing his signature song, then wolf whistle and squawk, “Oh boy! Oberto,” for a finale. After heavy editing in lieu of bleeps, Trouble earned a thirty second spot on CNN. Jan and I were five second has-beens.