Just Add Trouble Read online

  Jenks walked by, raised my drink in the air and pointed at the bow, where we’d sit in the late afternoon sun and watch the mountains turn red. He was soon out of hearing distance.

  Jan sounded justifiably perplexed. “Muscle truck? What on earth are you talking about, Hetta?”

  “We pulled into Agua Fria briefly, but there were a few mean-eyed dudes with souped-up pangas about, and you know what I think about them after our little Mag Bay catastrophe. We also saw several fancy-assed trucks and Jeeps, lifted three feet off the ground. Maybe the road is out and that’s the only way these folks can get in and out, but I smell a drug rat.” I left out a possible murder on the beach, for obvious reasons.

  “Oh, dear. I hope she’s all right. Now I don’t know what to tell Chino. He’s anxious to make wedding plans, but not without Granny Yee’s consent.”

  A picture flashed in my mind of a vacant-eyed and wan Jan, grossly pregnant, with a toddler on her hip and several others, dressed in rags, hanging onto her tattered skirt hem. She was bent over a fifty-five gallon fire barrel, making tortillas with one hand while Chino, fat and dirty, lounged nearby, chugging beer with his friends. “Tell him you have to visit me. Now!”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I think I might have cancer.”

  “Oh, no. Does Jenks know? What kind of cancer?”

  “Uh, brain?”

  “Oh, my God. Of course I’ll come. Where do I fly into?”

  “Guaymas. You can fly or take the ferry from Santa Rosalia to Guaymas and I’ll meet you. No word of any of this to anyone except Chino, got that? Not a soul. I haven’t even told Jenks, since the doctors aren’t certain as yet. No reason alarming anyone. Come next week, okay? Jenks is leaving for Kuwait and,” I wailed, “I don’t want to be alone at a time like this.”

  “I’ll be there. And Hetta, be brave.”

  I was whizzing down a fast track to hell and damnation.

  There was no way this whopper would qualify as a small white lie, a prevarication, or a fib. Fibrication, maybe? Nope, this was a doozy of epic proportions, and one Jan might never forgive me for. The voice of reason, before I could whack her away, whispered, “Hetta, why can’t you mind your own business and let Jan make her own mistakes? She never gets in the way of yours.”

  I reached for the phone to fess up, when I realized my head hurt.

  Heck, it could be a brain tumor.

  Chapter 7

  I was popping aspirin when Jenks called down from the bridge, reminded me my drink waited topsides. This brain tumor was already affecting my mental capacities; I never, ever, forget a drink. My poison is a Cuba Libre made with diet Coke, because I figure the diet and lime part cancels the booze-distilled-from-pure-sugar part.

  Handing me my glass he asked, “Everything okay with Jan and Chino?”

  “Yep, they’ve moved aboard the former Tanuki Maru, now dubbed the Research Vessel Nao del Chino.” I explained the historical significance and clever wordplay of the name.

  “When do they start the search for the sunken galleon?”

  “Immediately. They even received partial funding from NUMA, Clive Cussler’s outfit. I remember when NUMA was searching for the Zavala, one of the Republic of Texas Navy fleet that sank, or was mothballed, when we were in our glory.”

  Jenks’s eyes glazed over. A member in good standing of the Daughters of the Republic of Texas, I have a history of proselytizing when it comes to my home state. This time I gave him a break. “Anyhow, Jan’s coming over here next week.”

  “Really? How come? I thought she and Chino were inseparable.”

  Oh, that tangled web I incessantly weave. “I guess she misses me?”

  “I will, too, you know.”

  “I hope to shout, you will.” I reached over and took his hand. “We can’t seem to stay on the same continent. Or, for that matter, even on the same side of the world, can we? Maybe we can meet in Oakland soon? I still have that quicky project I signed onto for before I left, unless I can think of a way of wiggling out of it.”

  “You’re a pretty good wiggler. Oh, before I forget, if you need my car while you’re up there, I’ll leave a set of keys.”

  “Maybe my VW will be all fixed up. I should be getting an estimate soon.”

  “Do they charge extra for barnacle and body removal?”

  “Hey, what’s a girl to do when her beloved car takes a dive into the estuary, and happens to have a body inside.” The body turned out to be just that, a stiff stolen from a mortuary where Garrison, a sworn enemy of mine, worked. He’d also attached another corpse to my anchor before I left for Mexico. That guy has absolutely no sense of humor, as well as a warped sense of vengeance. I hate it when someone emulates me.

  I took a glug of my drink and asked, “What time of day does your plane leave?”

  “Depends. If I catch a flight from Hermosillo to Mexico City, I can get a non-stop to Paris, then to Kuwait.”

  “Paris? Can I go?”

  “You know you can. You also know you won’t. Jan’s coming, remember? And you are working here.”

  “Merde. Wanna hear something ironic?”

  He nodded.

  “Chino’s grandmother, Abuela Yee, lives in Agua Fria, and hasn’t been heard from in a month. Chino found out there was a landslide blocking the road, and that the only phone in town doesn’t work.”

  Jenks frowned. “Didn’t we see someone talking into a cell phone on the beach?”

  I shrugged. “Coulda been a handheld radio.”

  “A CB, maybe, or a walkie-talkie, because we had our VHF on SCAN and we didn’t hear them talking. Is Chino worried?”

  “Not really,” I said, not wanting Jenks in on the Granny approval deal, or that I was dead set on delaying, if not killing, any hurried nuptials. No use him thinking I meddle.

  Changing the subject, sort of, I said, “I think you’re right about the phone thing. I’ll sign up for Mexican cell service soon. Now that I don’t have a client to bilk with my Satfone bills any longer, I need a cheaper mode of communication. I’ll do it right after you leave.”

  “Good. Call me with the number and I promise I’ll call back often so you don’t use cell time leaving messages for me. I do have a client to bilk, as you put it. And let’s use e-mail more, now that you’re in a marina with wireless.”

  “Jenks, you’re not visiting Baghdad again, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good.” I gave him an evil grin. “And if you do, send Lars.”

  “I will. You make me a promise, as well, that you and Jan stay out of mischief.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “I mean it, Hetta. Keep your nose clean down here. You’ve already made an enemy or two in Mexico, and this study you’re working on now can turn into a cesspool of graft and kickbacks.”

  “Aye, aye, captain. I shall keep my nose above the crapper. Besides, I can take care of myself.”

  As soon as I said it, he broke out in a hearty guffaw. I tried feigning indignity, but since he’d saved my ass twice in less than a year, I am forced to confess perhaps I ain’t all that handy at taking care of myself.

  I’d like to contend that everything that happens to me is someone else’s fault, but there is only one common denominator in each disastrous scenario: moi.

  Due to unseasonably balmy weather, we anchored out on Jenks’s last night in San Carlos. We dined alfresco, then decided to sleep on deck. Dragging mattresses from the guest bunks, we fashioned a pallet under the stars, finished off our wine, then made the kind of bittersweet love of two people who are already parting emotionally while in physical denial.

  As Jenks softly snored, I lay awake under the diamond sprinkled sky, my thigh against his. I was already in tangible pain, a deep, wrenching ache that would intensify when he was actually gone. I, like a dog I once owned, suffer from acute separation anxiety, and would most likely chew up his boat shoes unless I threw myself into work or something else. It was the somethi
ng else that worried me, since my predisposition toward perturbation has a way of manifesting impropriety when I’m emotionally maltreated. That’s psychobabble for, when Hetta’s pissed off, she drinks too much and has a tendency to go on a man prowl, preferably in low life bars.

  On the way to Hermosillo the next day, Jenks reassured me that everything would be fine, he’d miss me terribly, and we’d be together again soon. All the banalities people tell others when trying to save their shoes.

  I watched him walk out of the terminal, board his plane for Mexico City, knowing I’d be in a misery of anxiety until I heard he was safe and sound in Kuwait. As safe and sound as any American can be in the Middle East these days.

  Back at the empty boat, my melancholy only intensified, which of course pissed me off no end. I’ve been single, like, forever and am not amused when my happiness is so dependent on another. Now Jenks was not only gone, I faced both Christmas and New Year’s Eve solo. The New Year thing bothered me the most. For many years I have been alone on that night, and accepted it as my fate. Okay, so maybe not alone, alone, but I never had anyone super special, as in male type, to celebrate with. After meeting Jenks, I thought enduring lonely holidays, and especially New Year’s Eve, were at an end. I really must learn to lower my expectations.

  I eyed his boat shoes, but decided on busy work. I washed out the morning’s coffee cups, instead of chewing on shoe leather. As I dried the dishes, though, the realization that tomorrow I’d only need one coffee cup made me miss Jenks even more. As a distraction, I made a list of stuff I wanted to accomplish within the next couple of days, before Jan showed up.

  I knew she’d want a thick steak or two, so a carniceria visit was in order. Also a trip to a farmacia, where I was told I could buy hair stuff. Salt water and sun had faded my locks to something approaching brassy blond instead of my signature copper. Chastising myself for not stocking enough of my old standby, Red Penny, I added hair color to my shopping list.

  Finally, exhausted from the drive and self-pity, and still facing a few more hours of daylight, I considered getting drunk, vetoed that, and crawled onto Jenks’s side of the bed, wallowed in his lingering scent, hugged his pillow, and went comatose.

  “¡Day Hache Elle!” someone yelled while pounding on the side of Raymond Johnson.

  I willed myself into what passed for consciousness and staggered on deck, primed to kill. Two beaming men in red and yellow shirts stood on the dock. One held a yellow clipboard.

  “Buenas tardes, señora. Day Hache Elle.”

  “What do you want? Uh, que quieres?”

  “¿Usted es señora Café?”

  “Si, soy Hetta Coffey.” I’d long since given up telling folks I was señorita Coffey. Evidently all Mexican women are married before they are, uh, thirtysomething.

  He thrust the clipboard at me and indicated I sign by the X. It was then I saw who they were, DHL. Figuring that Wontrobski messengered some project paperwork, I signed and held out my hand for a package, but received the Mexican thumb and forefinger hand signal that means anything from, Wait a minute, to I’ll be right back. It was the latter, for they left.

  Thirsty, I went inside for a glass of water, and when I returned, the men were lugging a large box down the dock. Actually, not a box, a crate. Actually, not a crate, a cage. From it emanated an unearthly screech, followed by earsplitting, recognizable, lyrics, “Oh, ya got trouble, folks, right here in River City…”

  Trouble was on my doorstep. Starts with a T, ends with an E.

  Flummoxed, I bribed the DHL guys with a beer, and slugged one down myself, all the while trying to figure out how to get rid of Trouble. Several Tecates later, between my Spanish and their almost non-existent English, I finally obtained a phone number in Hermosillo. Since getting a Mexican cell phone was on my list for the next day, I was forced to fire up my million peso a minute satelitte phone.

  “Day Hache Elle,” a woman answered.

  “Do you speak English?”

  “Si.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal. I’ve received a shipment I don’t want. I want to send it back.”

  “Back?”

  “Si.”

  “Momentito, por favor.”

  Very expensive dead air ensued. I ticked off the ka-chings while watching the delivery guys raid my refrigerator for more Tecate. I signaled for them to get me another. It was half gone when there was a click. I thought maybe the connection was cut and was poised to hang up when a hearty, unaccented voice boomed, “Can I help you?”

  “Oh, thank God. Yes, you can. I just received a shipment that I don’t want. I want to send it back from whence it came.”

  “Bill of Lading number?”

  I grabbed my copy and read off the numbers.

  “Can you hold?” he asked, but didn’t wait for my answer. Kaching! More expensive Satfone time, with the added insult of elevator music.

  One of my new best friends in yellow popped another top and handed me the bottle.

  What seemed an eternity later, I heard, “Miss Coffey?”

  “That would be me.”

  “You are in Mexico?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why is it that you don’t want the box of jerky?”

  “Jerky? I didn’t get jerky, I received a parrot.”

  “A parrot? I don’t understand. We have suspended bird shipments temporarily, what with the bird flu thing.”

  “Look, buster, I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to pull off here. These two guys showed up with a damned parrot and I don’t want the little bugger.”

  “Miss Coffey, there’s no need to get upset. What does your manifest say you received?”

  I squinted at the blurry writing, rummaged for a pair of reading glasses and finally made it out. “Caso de la machaca.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Hold on, I’ll get my Spanish to English dictionary.”

  I did. Machaca: dried meat. “I found it. A machaca is a rare Mexican parrot.”

  “Miss Coffey, I don’t think so. However, you only have to refuse the shipment.”

  Now, why didn’t I think of that? “So if I do, will these guys take the, uh, machaca back to Hermosillo? I mean, they won’t just put it in a warehouse somewhere, will they?” I conjured a vision of Trouble dying a slow horrible death by starvation, and starvation is something I cannot abide.

  “How would I know? I’m in New Jersey.”

  No amount of beer would convince the guys to reload Trouble into their truck.

  After all, they pointed out, I had signed for the shipment and they must go, now that I was out of Tecate.

  Chapter 8

  “Mother, what on earth were you thinking? That…that…bird is here.”

  “That’s nice, Hetta Honey. Did he have a good flight?” She giggled at her own lame joke. I, on the other hand, was unamused and my feelings were hurt. The manifest wasn’t completely wrong, for along with the bird, Mama sent an entire case of Oh Boy! Oberto Habañero Jerky, my favorite, with a note telling me to keep my paws off, the jerky was for Trouble.

  “How could you do this to me?” I wasn’t sure whether I was talking about the bird, or her callous disregard for my own Jerky fetish.

  “Well, dear, we couldn’t very well ship Trouble to you when you get back to California. Monk parrots are illegal as pets there. Sooo, what with you being in Mexico, and on a boat, your father and I think you two are a perfect match. Parrots sort of belong on boats.”

  “I meant the jerky. You are kidding aren’t you? None for me?”

  “Ask Trouble, maybe he’ll share. After all, you are shipmates.”

  “This is not a pirate ship, and it doesn’t need a parrot. What am I supposed to do with him?”

  “Oh, he likes a banana for breakfast with his jerky and lots of sunflower seeds, in the shell. He prefers shelling them himself, and he doesn’t throw the husks too far from his perch. Loves jalapeño peppers. Once a day, take him for a drive. H
e flies, you drive. If you want him back, just whistle, which you might want to do if he gets near any Mexican men.”

  “I didn’t want his schedule and culinary preferences and you know it. I have to go back to Oakland and, by the way, Mommy, that is in California. What will I do with him when I leave?”

  “Take him with you?”

  “Are you kidding? Even if he wasn’t illegal in California, it would be easier to get Osama Bin Laden with a suitcase nuke strapped across his chest past the border guardians than a bird. No way in hell will they let him back in, even if they believed he came from the US.”

  “Oh, dear, we didn’t think of that.”

  “And speaking of, how did you ship him here? I don’t know for sure, but I’ll bet the Mexicans aren’t wild about importing birds either.”

  “Well, you remember Pancho, who’s doing our patio tile? He took Trouble with him when he drove south to visit his sister in Piedras Negras, then shipped him. I think Pedro was glad to get rid of Trouble. They don’t get along, you know.” “No, I don’t know. Was it something I did as a child?

  Why didn’t you send Trouble to my sister?”

  “Your sister lives in Colorado. He’d be cold. So nice of you to call, dearest. Your father and I are leaving in the RV tomorrow, so I guess we won’t be talking for awhile.”

  “Why can’t you two get a cell phone, like the rest of the world? Or, here’s an idea, get on the Internet? Do e-mail?”

  “We don’t care for such things.”

  That’s the truth. It is a miracle they learned how to switch channels on the satellite system I talked them into only a year ago. Until then, they were living with a roof antenna, rabbit ears and five whole channels of snowy TV. Now they are hooked on the BBC. Dad is especially fond of Antiques Roadshow and Absolutely Fabulous.

  I sighed in resignation. I know when I’ve been nailed by the velvet hammer. “No word from Aunt Lil, I presume?”

  “I received a postcard from Mexico.”

  At first I was dismayed to be in the same country as my least favorite auntie, but then I perked up, thinking I might dump the winged varmint back into his rightful owner’s lap. “Where in Mexico?”