Just for the Birds Page 4

  “Oh, hell,” I groaned. “Just the thought of a cross-desert horseback ride makes my butt hurt and thighs ache. Craig was along the last time I rode a horse. It didn’t turn out well.”

  “For her, or the horse,” Craig said, and launched into what he considered a hilarious recount of me accidentally taking a horse tranquilizer for the ensuing pain from a day in the saddle.

  My opinion of horseback riding is you should either do it all the time, or never.

  Anything in between leads to excruciating misery for a gal.

  My pickup, with its rear passenger jump seat, is not the most suitable vehicle for picking up two elderly, wealthy doctors from Atherton, California. Craig hired Rafael Taxi, who has a van and hangs out at Marina de la Paz.

  While I fetched the “surprise” visitors, Jan and Craig got bird duty, and Roger was saddled with Po Thang.

  Craig’s mother and father arrived dressed in natty vacation duds, something I’d never seen her wear. She was rarely dressed casually except for golf, which in Atherton, is a Ralph Lauren venue. Most of the time they were both attired in suits: she in Chanel and pearls, Armani for him.

  I’d put on clean shorts and a tee shirt that wasn’t stained or holey.

  “Don’t you look…relaxed, Hetta,” Doctor Mother cooed. “Mexico must suit you.”

  Translation: All you need is some gull shit on that dreadful hairdo.

  “Thanks, Doctor Washington. You’re both looking spiffy.”

  Translation: For a couple of old snobs.

  It was gonna be a looong week.

  Once in the van, Doctor Mom said, “We were quite pleased to hear our son was coming to visit you. We’ve long since given up on grandchildren, but at least if you two….”

  Translation: I know you’re far too old to have children, but you’re better than nothing…

  She let that hang.

  Oh, dear God! Call me up, now.

  Unfortunately, the big man on high didn’t get that mental text, so I was stuck. Not that I expected any favors from someone whose rules I break all too often.

  Since this parental visit was supposed to be a big coup de théâtre for Craig, I delivered his parents straight to Hotel La Perla on the malecón —La Paz’s waterfront promenade. We conspired to have Craig and me meet them at the El Molokan restaurant at five. The owners are friends of mine; their son, Chef Roberto, got himself embroiled in a kidnapping scheme in Cannes, and I sorta bailed him out when we all got back to La Paz.

  Okay, so I sorta shot a knife that was headed straight for his heart from the hand of a double-crossing woman he thought loved him. Her hand was a bit of a mess and required extensive reconstruction, but I considered her breakup method a tad on the harsh side, as well.

  It is downright amazing how far I’ll go to make friends with those who have first class food.

  Thinking things might get a bit tense at this Craig/Roger/Mom/Dad dinner, I figured having friendly faces on the staff certainly wouldn’t hurt.

  Craig, Jan, Roger and I were cleverly seated boy, girl, boy, girl, at a round table set for six when the Doctors Washington, senior, arrived. We’d left two empty seats so the docs were sandwiched between Craig and Jan.

  “Craig, here they come. Get ready to be surprised and delighted,” Jan whispered.

  He gave an academy-award-worthy double take when his folks entered, we all jumped to our feet, and he rushed to meet them. “Mother! Father! What on earth are you doing here?”

  “We’re here to see our only son, and his friends, dear boy. And Hetta helped set up our little surprise,” his mother crowed.

  “Well, I certainly am surprised and delighted. Come sit down. I wondered who the two extra chairs were for.”

  His mother headed straight for Jan and gave her an air kiss. “You look lovely, as always, Jan. I wasn’t aware you were here in La Paz. An added pleasure.” She then turned her attention to Roger. “And you must be the famous Doctor Yee?”

  “Oh, no,” Jan said. “Doctor Yee, uh, Chino, couldn’t be here this time of year…whales, you know. Actually, this is …”

  Roger was already on his feet with his hand out. “Howdy. I’m Roger, Craig’s partner.”

  I sucked in my cheeks.

  Jan looked at Craig, eyes wide.

  Craig opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment, Chef Roberto rushed from the kitchen, arms wide open. “Hetta! Jan! We are so pleased you could join us tonight!”

  Dressed in full chef’s garb, toque and all, he introduced himself to the older couple first, then there was a round of hellos, happy to meet yous, nice to meet y’alls and mucho gustos. “Please, please, sit. I must return to the kitchen to prepare you a special meal.”

  But first,” he clapped his hands and a waiter materialized with menus. Roberto waved the menus aside, telling the waiter he was making the choices for the evening, and ordered our wine. As soon as he disappeared through the swinging doors we heard him shouting orders as pans and dishes clattered.

  “My heavens,” Doc Dad whispered, “I must say, I’ve never had the chef order my dinner before. I think I like it.”

  Mother Doctor looked skeptical. “I didn’t realize Mexico had actual chefs.”

  Jan, never one to be out-snobbed, flicked her hair. “Oh, yes. He was chef on our yacht in Cannes last month. We trust him implicitly. He is excellent, right Hetta?”

  Roger, who was just taking a sip of Margarita, choked and shot some out his nose. Three doctors stood to assist, but he waved them off. “I’m fine. Got something down the wrong tube.”

  Doc Mom gave him a look. “I’m sorry,” she said, “exactly who did you say you were, again?”

  “Mother, I’ve told you about Roger. We’re partners in our ranch and large animal practice on both sides of the Arizona and Mexican border.”

  “You’re a veterinarian, as well?” she asked Roger.

  “No, ma’am. I’m just a rancher. I raise ‘em, your son takes care of ‘em.”

  “Roger is hardly just a rancher,” I interjected. “His family has owned a huge spread on the Arizona border for five generations. His parents retired to Scottsdale and turned it all over to him a few years back.”

  Roger gave me an aww-shucks-ma’am grin. Craig visibly relaxed for the first time that evening after I steered, you should excuse the pun, the conversation toward ranching, Craig’s innovations for tracking herds by GPS, and always a table winner: golf. Doc Father is an avid golfer, as is Roger, so they hit it right off and made a date to play.

  We were running through wine like water, so by the time the steaming bowls of Moules a la Roberto arrived, we were all pretty uninhibited.

  Chef Roberto’s mussels steamed in white wine and hearty shrimp broth and enhanced with heavy cream, tequila, and small bits of spicy chorizo, was way up on my to-die-for list. And served in crockery bowls topped with thick slabs of toasted sourdough garlic bread for dunking? OMG! The plump shellfish, creamy and slightly spicy rich broth, and crunchy bread, helped soak up some of the alcohol we’d consumed.

  “My goodness!” Mother Doc exclaimed, forgetting not to talk with her mouth full. “This is one of the best dishes I’ve ever tasted!”

  That vote of approval alone made the whole evening worthwhile.

  All we had to do now was get through another week without letting the eight-hundred- pound skeleton out of the armoire.

  I know, mixed idioms.

  Chapter Six

  ON THE OFF-chance I’d been dead wrong about a problem at Rancho Los Pajaros, I tried calling Humberto again the next morning. His phone was, according to the message in Spanish, no longer in servicio.

  That called for a war conference. When we were gathered on my aft deck, taking in the comings and goings of boats, dock workers polishing already shining yachts, and the occasional seal cruising the marina, I took a sip of much needed coffee and said, “Now I’m more worried about Humberto and Anna than ever. Their phone is no longer in service.”

  Ja
n shrugged. “You know that’s not unusual in Mexico. If you are one day late paying your bill, they zap you. From the bird sanctuary it’d be an entire day spent driving into Loreto and paying their bill at the bank. And the lines at the bank can be incredibly time consuming.”

  “I know, but I don’t believe in coincidence. I call, then the phone goes off line? Zorillo all over it.”

  “Ack! Zorillo!”

  Jan grinned and gave Trouble a head scratch. “Hey, pretty bird, do you know what happens when a skunk walks into a courtroom?”

  Trouble shook his head, and Roger rolled his eyes. “I guess you’re gonna tell us?”

  “Odor! Odor in the court!”

  Groans all around.

  “Hadda do it. Anyhow, this phone thing does have a strong odor. I think you may be right. Hey, it happens.”

  “Getting your phone cut off for being only one day late?” Craig asked.

  “Naw, Hetta being right.”

  “Hey, watch it. Anyone need more coffee? I’m going down for a refill. All that rich food and wine last night left mega cobwebs in my skull. Anyhow, I’m for driving up there tomorrow and taking a look at the sanctuary.”

  Roger shook his head. “You do need more head-clearing, Hetta. That might be a really bad idea.”

  “She’s full of them,” Jan quipped.

  I gave her a cut-it-out glare.

  “Roger,” I insisted, “I have to know if Anna and Humberto are in danger. And how Trouble got into the shape he’s in.”

  “I’ve been working on it,” Roger said as he pulled out my map book, turned to the right page, and tapped on a location. “The ranch and bird sanctuary are about four miles past this here Mission San Javier, in the mountains west of Loreto, that right?”

  “Yes, the road is paved as far as the mission, but after that, it’s a crap shoot.”

  Jan nodded. “Hetta’s right again. After hurricane season, it’s taken us a good hour or more to make that four miles, but usually it’s a twenty minute drive, max. So from here to the ranch is a minimum of seven hours driving time, if we’re lucky and don’t get stuck behind too many slow trucks. We gonna pull an overnighter? I vote against it. Driving at night is a no-no.”

  Roger grinned. “You’re pretty fast with the numbers, ain’t ya, Blondie?”

  I sucked in my breath. Jan hates being called Blondie and has a violent nature on occasion. I jumped in to prevent bloodshed. “She’s a CPA, for cryin’ out loud.”

  Evidently she didn’t take offense at his nickname for her. I guess because it didn’t come from a straight guy? “Yes, I’m a CPA, but old Blondie here has driven just about every godforsaken goat trail in Baja on Chino’s so-called shortcuts. Hetta and I’ve weathered that last four miles from San Javier to visit Trouble many times, with varying results. We had a bad storm up there this year, so Lord only knows what we’ll find. I vote we spend a night in Loreto and start out fresh the next morning.”

  I held up my index finger. “What she said.”

  Roger studied the map and shoved it over to me. “Okay then, I’ll come up with a plan. When do you want to leave for Loreto?”

  “Sooner the better. Hey, Craig, do we have to wait until the parents leave, or take them with us?”

  Craig, who was returning from the galley with a fresh cup of coffee, evidently caught only the last part of the question. “Take who with us, and where?”

  We laid out our plans for the run to Loreto and the trek into the mountains. He mulled over the map for a minute, then tapped it with his finger. “Is that a resort I see?”

  Jan and I exchanged a glance. “Uh, well, that might not be our best choice,” Jan said. “Hetta is, like, persona non grata with those folks.”

  “Me? You’re the one who dragged me there for a luau and beheading. And, by the way, signed into the hotel with my name.”

  “How was I to know Ishi was gonna lose his head?”

  “Maybe not, but next time you sell yourself, you might consider getting the money up front. Who knows—”

  “Ladies, ladies, please!” Roger held up his hands.

  Jan and I whirled on him and yelled, in unison, “Don’t call us ladies!”

  That, of course, sent us into fits of laughter.

  “Okay, okay, I can hardly wait to hear that whole story, but let’s get back to the business at hand,” Craig said. “You too, Trouble. Stop that giggling.”

  I swear, the bird sounded just like Jan and me when we got the giggles.

  “As I was about to say, before you two got into a row, resorts appeal to Mother and Father.”

  Jan and I exchanged an eye roll at a grown man referring to his parents in such a formal manner, but then again, I’m a forty-year-old who still calls her father Daddy.

  “I have a better suggestion. One that Hetta has not, to date, gotten us eighty-sixed out of, and it’s closer to our ultimate destination. And, it’s a resort, as well.”

  “Golf course?”

  “Yep. It’s just a tad south of Loreto, at a place called Nopolo. It’s got swank, so your parents will love it. Think we’d be able to leave tomorrow? I have a bad feeling about what’s going on at Rancho Los Pajaros.”

  Everyone agreed.

  Jan headed for her computer, “I’ll get on Airbnb’s website. There are some spiffy digs at Loreto Bay Shores, and if we rent a really big house, the parents should be tolerable for two nights. Hey Rog, you and Craig want the bridal suite?”

  There it was; Jan’s revenge for the Blondie thing. I knew she couldn’t let it slide.

  After a few minutes on the computer, we agreed on a three-story, beachfront villa with three bedrooms. The Craig and Roger thing was easily dealt with; the third floor had a smallish bedroom with two twin beds. Jan and I would share the king on the second floor, and the parents got the master on the first floor. With Dad’s wonky hip and Mom’s fairly new knee replacement, they’d be confined to the downstairs area.

  Craig took off for the hotel to meet his folks for breakfast and to discuss the excursion to Loreto, Roger headed for Rhonda’s condo to arrange the trek to Rancho Los Pajaros, and Jan booked the villa in Loreto.

  It was my job to figure out what to do with Trouble and Po Thang. I was leaning toward locking them in the boat together, and may the best man win.

  Jan reminded me that my boat’s interior could well be the loser.

  We reassembled for a drink before meeting Craig’s parents for dinner. The elder Doctors Washington insisted on eating at El Molokan every night, what with the charming Chef Roberto treating us like royalty.

  I told everyone I’d arranged for my dock mate, Karen, to keep Po Thang again, and she would also drop in on Trouble several times a day to make sure he was eating and drinking. I was reluctant to leave him caged for that long, but Craig reminded me that: one; Trouble is a bird, and two; said bird needed to rest and recover. Hey, he’s the vet.

  Jan showed us photos of the villa she’d rented, and Craig agreed it was perfect and forwarded the info to his dad’s email. He got an answer back almost immediately. They loved the idea of a trip and approved of the villa.

  After Craig reported he’d managed to rent a van so we’d all fit, I said, “Okay, then. Roger, the rest is up to you.”

  “I got it handled. The mules will be ready when we get there on Wednesday morning.”

  “Mules? As in large stubborn beasts of burden?” I asked.

  “Yep. Four of ‘em, saddled and ready to go. Plus a guide. He figures round-trip about four hours once we get on the trail.”

  “That’s quite a trek,” Jan said.

  “Yeah, like to Hell and back,” I grumbled.

  “Now, there’s a place you might wanta warm up to, Hetta,” she drawled. “But I wouldn’t count on a round-trip, if I were you. Just sayin’.”

  I guffawed. I can always count on Jan for a yuk.

  “Seriously, Roger, can’t we just drive all the way?” Craig asked.

  “Nope. I figgered it all ou
t. Google Earth shows the enemy has the high ground. They’ll see us comin’ if we reconnoiter by road. We gotta envelop them from the rear so’s we have the advantage.”

  I hid a smile. “Uh, let me guess, Roger. You were in the military?”

  “You could say that. Border Patrol. Bein’ practically born on horseback, that’s what I did. Trackin’.”

  “I saw plenty of BP on horses when I rented that house near the Arizona border, but never a mule. One of the neighbors had some cute donkeys. I liked to listen to them honk in the morning. Remember them, Jan?”

  “Yep, who could forget the daily wakeup call? However, Hetta, I believe the term is bray.”

  “Whatever. Why mules, Rog?”

  “Border Patrol use rescued mustangs as a rule, but for mountainous areas, I’ll take a mule any old day. Why do you think they use them at the Grand Canyon? Surefooted. And they don’t spook. A horse’ll shy away from somethin’ scary. But a mule? He’ll take it on. Stomp a rattlesnake all to hell. And a coyote, too. Also, mules often inherit the donkey fight response to danger instead of the horse’s flight reaction. If a horse gets spooked, and isn't sure what it was that scared him, he’ll usually run. Which is a danged good way to throw a rider, or get both of ‘em hurt.”

  “Been there, done that,” I said.

  He nodded. “Now you take a mule, he’ll spin to face a perceived enemy. This gives him time to decide whether the threat is real or not. One thing this’ll do is keep other mules or horses behind him from doin’ something stupid. A lead horse who rabbits out of control on a trail ride can cause other animals to panic, as well. On a narrow mountain path, it can turn deadly.”

  “I remember my granddad kept donkeys on the ranch to run off coyotes. Did a fine job of it, too,” I told him.

  “And, Hetta, mules can handle more weight,” Jan added.

  I get no respect.

  Chapter Seven

  ONE OF THE things Roger failed to tell us was that from Loreto to the mule corral, he’d arranged for us to ride quads. I hate quads.