Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series (Book 4))

by Schwartz, Jinx

  “So, we have that in common. Maybe that’s why we get along so well. One thing, though, your parents seem to accept you for the rebel you are. I’m still in the closet, parent-wise.”

  “Surely your folks know you’re gay by now.”

  “Nope, or at least we’re in a don’t ask, don’t tell mode. I think they suspect, because they never, ever, drop by my house uninvited, and I don’t invite them if someone is there.”

  “That must be so hard on you.”

  “Not really. Not yet. But if I ever meet someone really important to me, I don’t know what I’ll do. As they say, we’ll cross that bridge if we have to.”

  I tilted my head back toward the clubhouse. “So, what do you figure those two bow-tied types are doing down here in the Arizona desert?”

  He glowered in that direction. “I have no damned idea, but I’d bet it ain’t to take a tour of Tombstone, watch the shootout at the OK Corral.”

  Chapter 13

  In his first full day in town, Craig and I drove into Historic Bisbee so he could check out what a national organization named one of the quirkiest places to retire in the United States.

  “Quirky is a pretty good description, but those retirees better have some serious legs on them,” I chuffed when I finally caught up with Craig on the top step of a tier of the famed Bisbee stairs. Craig was mounting two at a time and then jogging in place with the faked nonchalance of an exercise nut. I bade scourges upon him as I labored upward in the five thousand foot altitude.

  Already light-headed, gasping like a guppy who’d escaped his bowl, I ultimately made it up the first one hundred and fifty steps of the one thousand he wanted to climb and shooed him on, wheezing I’d meet him at the car. Oddly enough, though, I pushed through, got a second wind, and made it to step five hundred before packing it in. Afraid my wobbly legs might trip me up should I try descending via the stairs, I slowly walked the winding road down to town, stopping often to inspect charming old miner’s shacks.

  Or what used to be old miner’s shacks. Some looked to be completely renovated, others new, but built to look old. I’d been told that the town hit on tough times in 1975, when the mine closed. At that time, you could buy almost any house in town for a few hundred dollars. Of course, once word of cheap housing in a scenic setting got out, artists, mostly from California, flocked in. Little by little, Bisbee became a tourist attraction. Its cool temperatures in summer months draw folks from Phoenix and Tucson, and the mountainside perches are being snapped up and restored as fast as the historical society can approve plans. Even now, some are still only accessible by those dastardly stairs. Quaint, and when I was younger and feeling artsy, I’d have bought one. No more. Been there, done that.

  Craig was smitten, however, and was already checking out real estate listings when I met him at the car. While I headed to the Bisbee Coffee Bar for a latte, he hit several more offices and returned with a handful of flyers touting possibilities, all of which I deemed way overpriced and much too much work. I gave him three words of advice: foundations, plumbing, and electrical. I’d renovated a 1906 Italianate in the Oakland Hills and knew well the pitfalls of a money-sucking real estate black hole. But then, I own a boat, so who am I to talk?

  We drank our coffee while he read up on Bisbee’s history, marveling that, in the early 1900’s, it was the largest city between St. Louis and San Francisco. Then came 1975, and the bustling city turned ghost town, albeit one with appeal. Miners shacks sold for a song, more and more people were drawn to the town, renovations began, and the rest is new history.

  Meanwhile, the stairs the miners built to access their hillside abodes fell into disrepair, so a group named Save our Stairs was born. The Bisbee 1000 Stair Climb has grown from two hundred intrepids in 1991 to over nearly fifteen hundred climbers from all over the world who attend the yearly October event.

  “No more talk of stairs,” I groaned. “I need an aspirin and a nap.”

  “Wimp.”

  We bundled up and sat on the verandah that afternoon, despite a growing chill. Watching the sun sink beneath ominous clouds, I filled him in on the romantic saga of my friend, Jan, and Craig’s old schoolmate Doctor Brigido Yee, also known as Chino. It was Craig who first put me in touch with the acclaimed marine biologist, whom I’d hired for his expertise in whales when I needed one for a project on the Pacific side of the Baja peninsula. Now Jan and the doc were an item, even though Jan had serious reservations about their age difference. When they met she had no idea she was twelve years older than he. After all, he had all those degrees.

  I told Craig of Jan’s shock when she found out she was cradle-robbing and asked, “Hey, since you are my age, how is it that you and Chino were in school together? He’s at least a decade younger than any of us.”

  “Guy’s a genius of some kind. Finished college at sixteen. I met him at UC Davis Vet School while he was taking on a second doctorate.”

  “That ‘splains it, but he seems so…normal.”

  “He’s a great guy, and was way mature for his age when I met him. He wasn’t raised rich, that’s for sure. He told me that when he was a kid, he was hired to drive a boat for some British marine biologists doing a study at Magadalena Bay. Chino was an autodidact, self-taught in English, French, and German, and had read every book available to him on whales. Hell, he knew about as much as the scientists did, plus some, because he’d lived with the whales all his life.”

  “So they mentored him?”

  “I’d say. They sent him to special schools in the UK, then on to Imperial College, near Hyde Park in the heart of London, which focuses on science, engineering, and medicine.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know it well. Not that I could have gotten in. Great school.”

  “After graduating with an education equal to that of a British royal, he returned to Mexico and was back to running whale tour boats when UC Davis Vet school got wind of him and brought him up here.”

  “And now he’s back in the Baja, once again communing with whales.”

  “He prefers the simple life, so how did he end up with Miss Jan? Or rather, she with him? I always considered her high maintenance.”

  “Love conquers all?”

  “I guess so. Maybe I’ll go down for a visit. I haven’t seen Chino in years. Tell me about Mexico. I’ve never been there.”

  I had to think for a minute. How does one describe Mexico? “Everything south of the border is more, and less,” I told him.

  “What does that mean?”

  “More rules than you can shake a stick at, but no one seems to really know what they are, and are not inclined to enforce them, except when you don’t expect them to. Everything takes more time, but generally costs less money, except when you don’t expect it to. Stuff like that.”

  “So, Hetta, what do you like most?”

  “The excitement, I guess. It’s like living in a casino. Every move you make, there’s a chance you’ll win, or lose. The Mexicans seem to make a game of everything. For instance, they set up speed traps, but when a friend of mine was caught in one, and then inadvertently backed his van into the cop’s car, they only shrugged and let him go. Didn’t even give him a speeding ticket.

  “Another friend was taking a lit-tle more goods across the border than Mexican law allows, and by the way, we never know exactly what that is, and got stopped for inspection. They glanced inside the van, and waved him on, but his car wouldn’t start. Thinking he was royally screwed when a customs pickup with two big guys rolled up, he figured on a big fine for smuggling, but what did they do? Helped him jumpstart his van. And on another day, other people have had their boats, cars and everything in them confiscated for not having the proper paperwork, even though other officials told them they didn’t need it. It’s a crap shoot.”

  “I don’t think most Americans want to live with that kind of uncertainty. We hear horror stories.”

  I shrugged a fairly good Mexican shrug. “Oh, ca-ca occurs. Cops looking for payoffs, or mordi
da, the bite. There’s much less of that now, but the escalating cartel wars and human smuggling are far more dangerous. Many Americans won’t cross the border. Folks in Nogales, Arizona, used to walk over to the Mexican side for dinner, but no more. Drug thugs peppering your enchiladas with automatic weapons fire is crappy for tourism. Here, at this border though, no problem. So far.”

  “Except that you’ve already seen armed smugglers. As for random gunfire, people have been shot at in Oakland restaurants. And speaking of, those bow tie dudes at the golf course this morning? The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that they are up to something, and it ain’t good. Stay away from them.”

  “Gee, and here I was, thinking of asking them over for cocktails.”

  He grinned. “Muslims don’t drink, and by the way, after you finish that glass of wine, neither do you. Cocktails are curtailed for at least ten days.”

  “Ten days? Are you nuts?”

  “Nope. Ten days, then you can have a glass now and again.”

  I mulled that over, changed the subject back to Mexico. “I hope the Mexicans get this drug war thing under control soon. I’ll be driving back and forth to San Carlos and, when I can, the mine. I have to admit that I’m a little on edge, and you know I ain’t no scaredy cat. If I can get spooked, it is no wonder tourists are staying away in droves.”

  “America is a country of laws, even if we do grouse about too much government interference. We know what is expected of us, and what the consequences are when we decide to break the rules. Unfortunately, the bad guys use those very laws to get away with just about everything. What do they care if they get a few days in the clink, make bail, get a sleazy lawyer and return to the streets to break more laws? Other than a little speeding or tax evasion, most of us manage to stay out of jail, and like to know where we stand at all times.”

  “True, but Gringos who live in Mexico are different. For starters, they’ve taken a step away from the ordinary by moving to another country. Some do it for economic reasons, some for romance, others for the beaches and culture. Expats are a breed unto their own.”

  Craig looked thoughtful. “You think I’d like it there?”

  “Absotively. You’d be a natural. Well, except for the fact that Mexicans hate Blacks and Gays, you’ll fit right in.”

  Craig brayed just as Blue, who for some reason hadn’t shown up the night before, trotted up for a treat. The coyote, startled by the laugh, skittered away, then returned and sat, waiting. Now that they’d met, my two buddies engaged in a stare-down, Craig’s a look of curiosity, Blue’s wily, as he carefully checked out the large black human on my porch.

  Craig whistled softly. “Whoa, Hetta, you weren’t justa wolfin’, that is one big old handsome coyote. Gimme a biscuit.”

  I grabbed a handful of dog treats from the kitchen and Craig lobbed them, each one a little closer. Blue seemed to have no qualms about moving near, and got within two feet of the pony wall. He now snagged his biscuits in mid-air, and with each catch, Craig’s grin widened. “I, of all people, should know better than to mess with wild animals, but I gotta admit this is a kick in the ass. I’m having trouble building up guilt here. This guy is a hoot.”

  “I enjoy him. He is a little hairy, but he’s all I got in the here and now. Pitiful, ain’t it?”

  Craig’s smile vanished. “Beats having nothing.”

  “Wanna go cry together over spilt beer?”

  “We can’t have beer.”

  “We’ll give it up tomorrow.”

  “Oh, what the hell. Where?”

  “St. Elmo, where we’re sure to find trouble.”

  “Super.”

  St. Elmo bar, in Bisbee’s famed Brewery Gulch, shows every year of its hundred, and is my kind of joint. Dive, actually.

  When we bellied up to the bar, it was still early, so we were not the only tourists. A few locals were about, looking as though they’d been there since their first breakfast beer. The famed jukebox played at a decibel level a tad lower than that of a sonic boom. We could barely hear each other as I recounted the adventures of Hetta and Jan on our trip down the Baja, and the messes we got into.

  “I knew you two were headed for trouble when you left with that dishy Mexican boat captain.”

  “Fabio. Yep, he’s a looker, all right. A happily married looker, so no trouble there, darn it.”

  “You talk a good game, but I don’t think Jenks has a thing to worry about with you. And now Jan has hooked up with Chino. You know,” he turned up his beer bottle, finished it off and signaled for another. “I think I will go to the Baja for a visit with them.” The Craig I know and love rarely drinks more than one beer, and he sure as hell doesn’t take off on trips on a whim, like I do. I fixed him with the evil eye. “Okay, that’s it. What happened?”

  “Like I said, I had an epiphany. I want to change my life, and I’m starting with actual free time. I’ve worked my ass off ever since I started my business, and now it is time to smell the roses.”

  “Oh, God, you’re not going to take off for Nepal to contemplate your navel, are you?”

  That got a grin. “Nope, but I am doing a lot of thinking while I’m out on those walks and runs. Losing weight has to be for the right reason: me. If I do it just to attract a partner, I have failed myself.”

  “Dang, that’s deep. You know, I set out to change my life a couple of years ago when I bought the boat, and in a way, of course, I have. But what started out as a manhunt ended up with a new life. I did meet Jenks, but only after I let go of some of my own demons. Jenks finds me refreshing, or so he says. I’m so glad I didn’t meet him a few years back. Don’t think he’d have found me refreshing at all. More like a ball breaking feminist hell-bent on self-destruct.”

  “You did have a distinctive chip on your shoulder, and very bad taste in men.”

  “You can talk. However, you’re right about my history, and you know what worries me the most?”

  He shook his head.

  “That if I lose Jenks I’ll revert to type.”

  “No, I don’t think so, Hetta. You’ve mellowed.”

  “Must be the age, because my bad habits still lurk, they just have to go to bed earlier.”

  For some reason, probably the beer, Craig found this hilarious, and our laughter drew the company of one very good looking gay guy and a rugged cowboy, who bought me a beer. Tempted to stay awhile and flirt, we soon parted company with our admirers, lest those past devils messed with our good intentions.

  On the drive home, snowflakes hit the windshield, which I thought was neat because I hadn’t seen snow in years.

  While I was loading the coffee pot, Craig came into the kitchen for a glass of water.

  “Thanks, Craig, for coming. I needed company and yours is just the ticket. I miss Jenks so much, and I’m terrified I’ll lose him if I keep screwing up.”

  “So,” Craig said with a lopsided grin, “here’s a new concept for you. Stop. Screwing. Up.”

  Chapter 14

  Nothing puts a hush over the land like a blanket of snow.

  The golf course was a winter wonderland of white, dotted with yucca stalks standing stark against a brilliant blue sky. Excited, I jumped from bed and into the warmest clothes and shoes I had.

  Set back from neighbors and traffic, the house was normally quiet, but this morning all sound seemed absorbed. The verandah’s half inch of snow was just too tempting to pass up. Scooping up two handfuls, I crept back into the house, over to Craig’s room, eased open the door and nailed him with a snowball.

  Instantly awake, he launched a pillow at me, but not fast enough.

  “You’d better have coffee ready, Hetta,” he yelled from the bedroom, “or prepare for a roll in the snow.”

  I poured him a cup, handed it to him as he grumped into the living room in his Bugs Bunny flannel jammies. I’d already turned on the fireplace, so the lure of steaming coffee and a cheery fire diverted him from his threatened retaliation. “I’ll get the paper,”
I offered, “just in case someone should drive by and witness those pajamas. I do have reputation to uphold, you know.”

  “Yeah, a bad one.”

  I shot him the finger and headed for the front door, threw it open, and my heart and feet stopped at the same time on the threshold. Inside the gated courtyard, footprints led to the front door, then out again. I slammed the door, which brought Craig to his feet.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Pulling up the side window blinds, I pointed. “Look. We’ve had company.”

  He got dressed, then together we reopened the door, crossed the courtyard and opened the gate. The Rottweiler across the road was silent, so we knew whoever had been there was long gone. Loca keeps close, vociferous, track of anyone she doesn’t know, and is the best guard dog I never owned.

  “Did you hear Loca barking during the night?”

  Craig, who sleeps like the dead, contemplated my question. “Maybe, but I’m a veterinarian. Dog barks are like white noise for me.”

  “I think I heard her, but probably figured it was the paper guy punching her buttons.”

  Two sets of tire tracks marred the fluffy snow. I grabbed the newspaper and we went back inside.

  “Okay,” I said as we drank our coffee, “one set of tires belongs to the paper deliverer, but who walked to the door? It wasn’t him, or the paper would have been inside the courtyard.”

  “I agree, Sherlock.”

  “So, someone came to the door, but didn’t ring the bell, and it was after we went to bed because the snow just began falling in earnest when we got home.”

  “Brilliant, my dear Watson.”

  “Oh, hush. You didn’t see the security lights come on?”

  “No, but then I sleep the sleep of the righteous.”

  “Crap. Think I should call the cops?”