Just Add Water (1) (20 page)

37

Sunday morning, bright and early,
my friend Brian from London Imports, Ltd., showed up with a crew of three. By
ten, Garrison’s British racing green Morgan’s tires were plumped and shiny. She
was washed, waxed, and her top let down to expose a newly detailed interior.
Parked in full view of the yacht club, she shone like a jewel in the Queen’s
crown.

Sunday brunch is a big day at the
Jack London Yacht Club. More members show up for eggs Benedict than for monthly
meetings. And this particular day, a dinghy race and barbecue slated for the
afternoon promised a record turnout.

From ten until twelve, club members
munched and sipped and watched while I removed everything of Garrison’s from
Sea Cock
and packed it neatly into his
Morgan. Several yachties made comments like, “Cleaning out the bilges, Hetta?”
I only smiled my Mona Lisa best and nodded.

I was eating eggs Florentine with
Jan, Lars, and Jenks when Garrison, all grins and pomp, arrived at the club.
He’d obviously spotted the Morgan and figured out what was happening, for I
overheard heard him tell a few folks who teased him about being evicted that,
to the contrary, he had decided to seek greener pastures.

“Hi, Hetta,” he gushed, pulling a
chair up to our table. “Welcome back from Seattle. You must have gotten back
early yesterday. Looks like you’ve been busy.” He craned his neck for a better
look at his car. “My Morgan’s never looked better. And thanks for loading my
stuff for me,” he said loudly for the benefit of curious club members.

I had to hand it to the guy, he
definitely had some balls on him. I was going to enjoy handing them to him.

Jan listened to Garrison’s bluff and
stared at me in dismay, raising her eyebrows in a “Are you really going to let
the SOB get away with this crap?” gesture.

“It was nothing, Garrison,” I
cooed. “My way of thanking you for all you’ve done to, I mean,
for
me.”

“Hetta, you are one grand old
broad,” Garrison said, and swaggered to the bar to order himself a drink, which
he most likely put on my tab.

“Grand old
broad?” Jan hissed, “Hetta, are you…”

I held her fury at bay with a
“standby” finger. Picking up my cell phone, I poked in a number, whispered to
Jan, “Observe and learn,” then hit the SEND button.

After three rings I said, softly,
into the phone, “This grand old broad says it’s show time,” and hung up.

Seconds later, the repeated OOOOGAHHHHH
of an air horn caught the attention of everyone in the club. Those who didn’t
have a window seat stood for a look. Then, in a squeal of tires, a battered
pickup charged across the lot, squarely rammed the Morgan’s rear bumper, shoved
it over the curb into the Oakland estuary. The pickup then reversed full
throttle around the back of a building and disappeared. The Morgan floated for
a long minute, then nosed straight down into twenty feet of murky saltwater.

Jan breathed an “Ooooh” of
approval. Lars looked at me in disbelief. Jenks squeezed my hand and smiled. I
noticed his eyes were really blue.

A moment of stunned silence was
broken by Garrison’s bellow. “My stuff! My car! Shit, did anyone get that
asshole’s license plate number?”

Tearing down the stairs, he began
fishing for his clothes with the club’s boat hook. He was clutching an armload
of soggy underwear when, in a burp of bubbles, a large, silver, heart-shaped
balloon surfaced and floated skyward on a gentle breeze. The message on the
balloon sparkled brightly in the afternoon sun. “Have a Real Nice Day, Y’all.”

* * *

“I’m innothent, I tell you, innothent. They’ll never pin
it on me, no thir,” I lisped à la Daffy Duck. If I remember that particular
cartoon correctly though, the next scene had old Daffers in stripes and chains.

Detective Martinez’s dour face eked
a sneering smile. “I doubt it seriously, Hetta, but what are you talking
about?”

“Aren’t you here because of
Garrison?” I asked.

“Garrison, who?”

“Never mind. Come aboard,
Detective, and take a load off.”

“You’re in uncommonly good spirits
today, Miss Coffey. I have to assume someone has paid dearly for them.”

“Why, sir, I do believe you are
getting to know me all too well. I hope you aren’t here to burst my spiritual
balloon.” Thoughts of the Mylar message floating from Garrison’s sunken Morgan
sent me into a fit of giggles. I caught my breath and said, “Sorry, Martinez.
You had to be there.”

Martinez eyed my coffee cup,
sniffed the air and said, “Evidently.” He looked around the boat. “You don’t
have an alarm on here, do you?”

“Oh, I’ve got all kinds of alarms.
I’ve got low oil pressure, overflowing toilets, smoke and low fuel alarms. I
got one for high water, but not Hell. However, no security system.”

“Hmmm.”

“Hmmm? What does that mean?”
Martinez can be annoyingly cryptic.

“Nothing. It might be a good idea
to get one.”

“Is that why you came to see me? To
see if I had an alarm system?”

“Could be. Maybe I came to see if
you would finally care to share with me what your Hudson Williams was looking
for. Or are you going to keep jackin’ me around?”

“I hope that was an unintended
segue, from security alarm to the deceased. And so you know, I think I’ll just
jack you around. Is it good for you? It’s good for me.”

 
“Cute, Hetta. I think I like you better in lower spirits. But
remember, I can’t help you if you won’t help me help you.”

“You think I need help?”

He looked at me under his eyebrows.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. Hudson’s
killer is still on the loose. Pepsi?” I asked, trying to change the subject,
but to no avail. Martinez, as tenacious as a hound in chase, is not so easily
diverted.

“Would it help change your mind,”
he said, “if I reminded you that your Hudson was listed by Interpol as a menace
to society? Armed and dangerous? He was known to consort with some very nasty
characters. If you didn’t kill him, someone else did. And that there was a
reward for information leading to his arrest?”

I was about to chide the man for
calling that rat
my
Hudson when what
he said sank in. “Reward? How much?”

“Twenty thou.”

“Who wants him? Or rather wanted
him, now that he’s past tense?”

“I did.”

“No Martinez, I mean who was
willing to
pay
for him?”

“The feds.”

“As in, F B eye?”

“As in United States Government
versus one Hudson O. Williams for postal fraud, racketeering, kidnapping, and
possibly murder. Amongst other things. Nice fellow, your ex-and-dead fiancé.”

“Who’d he off?”

“Allegedly off. Some American guy
in Singapore. Evidently the Malaysians had Williams in custody for a few
months, then he escaped, turned up in Thailand, got tagged there, but slithered
loose again. Slippery, your boyfriend.”

“Dead and ex-boyfriend,” I
corrected him, mainly to buy a little thinking time. If I finally gave up the
key, maybe they’d get Hudson’s killer. Maybe not. Why open a can of dead worms,
so to speak. Besides, maybe one day I’d hop a plane to Tokyo, drink free on
Hudson if a bottle was still in the lockup, and see what else was in the Crown
Royal bag. Maybe the fifteen hundred he stiffed me, no pun intended.

“I only have three questions,
Detective Martinez.”

“Yeah?” He looked hopeful, or as
hopeful as he could look.

“Dead or alive?”

“What?”

“Was that twenty grand for Hudson
dead or alive?”

“Either, I guess.”

“Does it count that he was found in
my hot tub? I mean, he did still owe me money.”

“Somehow, I don’t think the fact
that he turned up in your tub qualifies you for any reward money. Next
question? By the way, that was three already, but I’m easy.”

“What does the O. stand for?”

Martinez broke into an honest to
God belly laugh. It looked painful. “Oh, Coffey,” he said when he’d almost
split a gut, “you slay me. You were engaged to a guy named Othello and didn’t
know it?”

He had me there. I never knew
Hudson’s middle name. An odd middle name at that. I shrugged and said, “Maybe
his mom was a fan of the bard.”

“Possibly. She did some
off-Broadway stuff.”

“You found Hudson’s mother? Where?
Who is she?”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me
yours.”

Rats.

38

Jenks was dockside early Monday
morning, carting a basket full of boat parts, oil and distilled water. And
probably a big fat bill, but I was so thrilled someone I could trust was
finally taking control of
Sea Cock
I
didn’t care what he charged me. After all, I had a charter on Wednesday.

While Jenks worked, I walked over
to Ancient Mariner Yacht Charters at Jack London Square to meet with Molly. She
looked like her voice: confident, friendly, and a little salty. My kind of gal.

When I introduced myself and
explained the situation, she was nonplussed to learn that Garrison didn’t own
Sea Cock
. After apologizing profusely
for the mix-up, she pulled a folder from her file cabinet and showed me what
Garrison had been doing with the boat while both Morris and I owned her.

“Well, well, looks like ole
Garrison-poo has been running quite a little scam for himself,” I said.

Molly looked worried and I quickly
added, “But not your fault, of course. How were you to know?”

“I usually check the documentation.
I know Garrison from the yacht club and it never occurred to me he didn’t own
the boat. Speaking of, do you have a copy?”

“Of what?”

“Your documentation. You are
documented, aren’t you?”

“Uh, sure I am. I think. Okay, to
tell you the truth, I don’t have a clue. I’ve been relying on Garrison for
everything, obviously a grandiose mistake on my part. I haven’t even gotten
around to changing the name of my boat.”

“Oh, please let me help you get
that
done. Let me tell you, I get some
raised eyebrows from potential clients. A few, all of them men, liked it, but I
think a name change is definitely in order. What are you going to name her?”

“Damned if I know. Any ideas?”

“No wine.”

“Wine?”

“You know,
Chardonnay
,
Chablis
,
Champagne
, stuff like that. I got a guy
who’ll paint the new name for you for a couple of hundred bucks. You do want to
keep chartering, don’t you?”

“Oh, why not? Day charters only,
though. The only problem is I live and work aboard. If I’m in town, I’m on the
boat. Might be a scheduling conflict, ‘cause my planned trips don’t always pan
out.”

“What do you need? For work, I
mean?”

“Just a phone and my computer. I
could actually do what I do anywhere. Come to think of it, I could probably
work from the yacht club.”

She shook her head. “Too
distracting. I have an extra cubicle in back, maybe we can work something out
when we need to.”

“
Chic, alors!
”

Ain’t it something the difference a
day or two makes? Last week I was getting fleeced by Garrison, and now I had a
sudden new source of income.
Anyone
contemplating suicide should think about those things. Not that I ever did. My
job is to cause suicidal thoughts, not get ‘em.

“ So, bring it in and I’ll help,” Molly
was saying when I dragged my reverie back to real time.

“Sorry Molly, I was daydreaming.
What did you say?”

“I said I’d help you make sure your
ducks are in a row. Bring in all your paperwork on
Sea Cock—
bill of sale, survey, whatever—and I’ll look it over and
tell you what you need to stay legal.”

“Would you? That’s great, thanks.”
A wash of relief ran through me and it must have showed, for Molly put her hand
on my shoulder.

“You know,” she said, “I admire you
for taking on such a large boat without any prior experience. Men do it all the
time, but few women.”

I rolled my eyes. “Most women have
better sense. I must have been having a hot flash.”

“Real women don’t have hot flashes,
they have power surges.” Molly, I could tell, was going be my new, next to best
friend. And in the nick of time too, because Lars was stealing my old very
 
best friend.

When I got back to
Sea Cock
, the friend stealer had joined
his brother in the nether reaches of my boat. I peeked in the engine room. Both
of the Jenkins men were splattered with unidentifiable stinky substances and
seemed to be in hog heaven. Boys will be boys.

“Ah, the bilge brothers, I presume.
What’s the verdict, men? Will she sink or float?”

“Nothing wrong with this tub that
money won’t fix,” Lars said.

“So I’m learning. Jenks, will
Sea Cock
be ready for a charter
Wednesday morning? Molly Haynes needs her by ten.”

“No problem. Are you still going to
Los Angeles?”

“Yep, first thing tomorrow,” I told
him. “In fact, I have some work to do, so you two have fun down here, okay?”
They waved, returned to whatever they were dissecting and I butted out. Never
stop a working man.

I pulled out my laptop, but I
couldn’t get into work. Niggling at the back of my mind was Detective
Martinez’s warning about the vulnerability of my situation. Was Hudson’s
murderer skulking around the Bay Area, still looking for the key? I fingered
the key, twirling the chain. Damn that Hudson. Even dead he could piss me off.

When Lars left an hour later, I
joined Jenks in the engine room.

“Almost done here, Hetta. Let me
show you a couple of things.” Jenks moved expertly around the relatively
cramped space. I couldn’t help notice, for all his height, how limber he was.
He could squat like the Marlboro man.

“It’s a good thing you don’t wear
spurs,” I quipped, striving to be glib while oofing and grunting as I crawled
around the huge engines. Jenks didn’t get my joke. Yankees. “What’re you
doing?”

“Tightening hose clamps. Now look
here, see how this one is loose? You need to check these at least once a week.
Certainly before you leave the dock.” And so it went, my introduction to Diesel
101. After an hour I was cramping up, so we quit. Jenks washed up and joined me
on deck for sun tea and tuna sandwiches.

“I got everything on the list
done,” he said. “Want to take her out for a quick sea trial? Never hurts to
double check everything while under way.”

“Out? You mean leave the dock? What
a concept.”

“Are you telling me you’ve had this
boat almost two months and haven’t taken her out?”

“I’ve been very busy,” I said, a
bit defensively.

“Okay, then, start her up and let’s
go. You do know how to start the engines, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” I said, and tromped
to the steering console in the main saloon.

I turned the key on the port
engine. Nothing happened. I tried the starboard. Nada.

Jenks walked up behind me—real
close behind me, I might add—and looked over my shoulder.

“Here’s the problem,” he said, turning
a switch to ON. “Try again.”

Both engines fired. “Your engines
are on a special battery bank, and that’s good. Now that they’ve started, turn
the switch back to OFF. That way, your engine starting batteries will always be
isolated from your house batteries. Now, let’s get going.”

I sighed and shut down the engines.
Jenks cocked his head at me and waited for an explanation.

I bit my lip and stalled, until he
asked, “What’s the problem? Don’t you want to take her out?”

It was true confessions time. “Jenks,
I do, more than anything. But I don’t have the slightest idea what I’m doing.
Can you please teach me? I’ll pay you.”

“You can pay me for the work I do,
but I’ll throw in driving lessons for free. Now, let’s start from scratch.” He
steered me out onto the bow and grinned. “This, my dear, is the pointy end.”