Just Add Salt (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 2))

by Jinx Schwartz

  “Mr. Ishikawa, this permit? Is it for the pipeline and the factory?”

  “Yes, both. Of course, we wish to lay the underwater portion of the pipe immediately, before the whales come. Next, we install the factory, while the rest of the pipeline is completed. Since a fresh water pipeline is in the interests of the Mexican people, we do not think they will object, so the factory is most important.”

  “And if you get an okay on the factory, then someone objects to the pipe you have, shall we say, prematurely installed?”

  “The factory is essential.”

  I suddenly got the not-so pretty picture. “You mean fresh water is really just a by-product? What you are really after is the salt?”

  “So,” he said, using the Japanese equivalent of, “yep.”

  “Just so I completely understand, you’re saying that Tanuki, if for some reason anyone tries to stop the pipeline, is prepared to abandon that deal completely and just dump fresh water into the sea?”

  Ishikawa sucked his teeth. “I was told you were, uh, clever. Yes, you have grasped our intentions, should they become necessary, which we hope will not happen.”

  “That might pose a different environmental problem. As an environment expert,” Jan rolled her eyes, “I can tell you that fresh water generally has a bad effect on sea life.” Okay, so I’m really no expert, but I was in the Sea of Cortez once a couple of months after a major hurricane and the rainwater runoff alone had killed off all the clams and scallops for the first fifty feet from the beach. And I knew when I left San Francisco Bay and went up the Sacramento River, all the slimy little critters croaked and fell off the bottom of my boat.

  “Miss Coffey, please, just ensure the factory permit is in place, then let us know and we will send the ship.”

  I had just been very politely told to mind my own damned bidness.

  “No problem. Oh, Mr. Ishikawa, are your ships aware there is not one, but two hurricanes headed their way?”

  I heard a clearly not-so-inscrutable gulp. Touché.

  Chapter 19

  As we raised the anchor for a site visit, Fabio called the Capitanía and informed them we were leaving port for a few nights in the bay. We checked on the hurricanes again and, as predicted, Russell was running up Monika’s backside and they were both headed west.

  On the trip out to Punta Entrada, the entrance to Mag Bay as well as the proposed site for the pipeline and desal operation, I sat on the back deck, watching hopeful seagulls dog our wake, and pondering Jan’s badly timed revelation about Jenks’s future plans.

  Lars said they had a life plan that did not include any long-term commitments to others, namely Jan and Hetta. But was Lars being truthful, or just manipulative? I scoured my memory banks. Had Jenks ever, even once, used the C-word? No, but neither had I. Had he ever indicated I was permanent in his future plans? No, but neither had I. I guess we hadn’t planned much past a boat trip to Mexico. One he hadn’t shown up for. Tears stung my eyes, disappointment ached in my heart. I had made assumptions. I had made yet another mistake.

  “Why so glum, chum?” Jan asked when she found me staring out to sea.

  I wheezed a ragged sigh. “Just thinking about what you told me yesterday. I guess I thought Jenks and I, well, I thought that just maybe, finally…. My voice drifted off. Finally, what? I’d met my soul mate? Or whatever the psychobabble was for it these days? Someone to grow old with? Who I could trust with my very life? Evidently not.

  “Hetta, Jenks does like you. Maybe even loves you. Look, I’m really, really sorry I even told you what Lars said.”

  “I’m glad you did. This way I can get on with my life instead of waiting around for a man who may or may not want to spend it with me. You’d think, after all these years and the crap I’ve been through in the name of love, I’d have learned to lower my expectations. What an idiot I was to let down my guard. I gotta admit, though, this is the worst. I am really hurt. Damn him. How dare he treat me so ?”

  Jan broke out laughing. “That’s my Hetta. Why don’t you just wait till you see him again to write him off? Who knows, maybe it’s Lars he’s gonna dump and he just hasn’t gotten around to telling him.”

  “Blood is thicker than lust.”

  “Blood and lust. Greed and malice. Gee, what a life we lead. And speaking of lust, look who’s baaaack.”

  Lonesome surfaced close enough to Raymond Johnson to rock the boat. He blew, we gagged. He turned sideways and gave us the big eye. I swear, he winked.

  Chino rushed up on deck. “Oh, magnífico!”

  “He is a magnificent pain in the ass. Of all the gin joints, he has to pick mine.”

  Chino looked puzzled. Not a Bogart fan, I guess. I went to join Fabio at the helm.

  “Señorita Café, is that where you wish to anchor?” He pointed to a spot near the entrance to Mag Bay.

  “How about over there?” I asked, indicating another area, nearer the point.

  He studied the chart. “Protección is good from el norte, but is a leetle shallow.”

  “Good, maybe Lonesome won’t follow us in that close. Just between you and me, I’d just as soon not be awakened in the middle of the night by a big ole wet whale smooch.”

  Fabio laughed. I noticed he had dimples. I probably wouldn’t mind a big old wet smooch from him in the middle of the night. Bad, bad girl.

  “Uh, what I mean is, it makes me a tad nervous that something the size of a small sub with a pea-size brain is hell-bent on cuddling.”

  Chino, who joined us, looked indignant and huffed. “Whales are very intelligent.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well then, how come Lonesome doesn’t know the difference between Raymond Johnson and a female whale?”

  “Love is blind.”

  Fabio decided maybe I was right and, after conferring with Chino, maneuvered us into shallow water, away from Lonesome. The whale stayed away, but on patrol, lest his beloved tried to escape.

  I was reminded of Pepi Le Pew cartoons, and said so. Then, as I was on galley duty, Jan had to spend an hour explaining to the two men about the amorous cartoon skunk and his misadventures with a cat who somehow always ended up with a white stripe painted down her back. Culture gaps can be very time consuming.

  “Come and get your first course,” I yelled up the stairs, “the maitre d’ called in sick.” Once again we set an elegant table to enjoy the balmy weather in style. I’d even added bougainvillea sprigs purloined from a bush back in San Carlos. We sat down with lobster cocktails.

  “Oh, no, lobster again,” Jan mock-groaned.

  “We could be eating the Spam we traded for these babies, you know. Suffer through it. The main course is lobster Alfredo.”

  “Followed by lobster pudding?”

  “Haven’t found a recipe yet. My god, look at that sky.” Sunset that evening was one of the most magnificent I’d ever seen. Wave after wave of red, peach, pink, apricot and fuchsia blazed in the western sky. As I was waxing poetic about the show, I noticed Fabio frowning. “What’s up with you, Fabio, seen one too many sunsets?”

  “It is indeed beautiful, but the clouds are from the hurricanes and I do not like tormentas.”

  “Tormenta? What a great name for a storm.”

  “Or a boyfriend,” Jan mumbled under her breath.

  “But, it is still fantástico!” Chino breathed.

  “Oh, yes,” Jan agreed, making eyes at Chino as she popped a piece of lobster in her mouth. “Delicioso.”

  I turned to Jan and poked my forefinger down my throat, then swiveled back to the others. “Fabio, what’s that saying about red skies? Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in morning, sailor’s warning? Is that right?”

  “I think you are correcto, but in Baja, it is not so.”

  “Why not?”

  “The weather, she moves from the west to the east most of the time. If clouds are in the west, they will move to the east. Except, of course, with tormentas.”

  “And you do not like tormentas. Do they
always move west?” Jan asked. The talk of hurricanes had loosened her lustful eye-grip on Chino.

  “Not all of them. Some turn.”

  That was true. Somewhere on the boat I had a record of every hurricane in the Baja for the past fifty years. Once in awhile, the hurricanes head west at first, then switch back and either hit the mainland of Mexico, go up the Sea of Cortez or cross over the Baja and head for Arizona.

  Jan didn’t like that turn comment. “But not these hurricanes, right?

  Fabio didn’t say anything, so I answered for him. “I sure as sh…uh, heck, hope not. I’ll check NOAA’s predicted paths before we turn in tonight. I’m not worried. Those guys are a couple of hundred miles south and west of us. Anyhow, enough hurricane talk.” I raised my balloon glass. “Fondos para arriba.”

  Chino and Fabio both looked startled, then broke out in laughter.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Chino wiped his eyes. “I know you meant, ‘bottom’s up,’ but you said, ‘butts to the air.’ ”

  So much for my Spanish. “Well, then, here’s to you.” Over the top of my glass, I locked eyes with Fabio. Bad, bad, bad girl.

  Later, in my stateroom, Jan and I talked about what came next. No, not with the resident men, but with the project and our schedule.

  “Jan, I think it’s high time we tell the rest of the crew exactly what we’re doing here. Now that he’s agreed to stick around, Chino, being a whale hugger he is, won’t like the idea of a pipeline or a desal plant, but we need his input. I know Martinez said not to tell anybody anything, but if we’re gonna get that permit moving so we can leave for Cabo, I think we’ll need both Fabio and Chino in the loop.”

  “I agree. Chino’s probably gonna have a cat over that pipeline, but it seems to me that it’s better than dumping fresh water into the bay. Maybe he can even smooth the skids for the pipeline permit, because I doubt he can stop the factory at this point.”

  “That’s kinda what I was thinking,” I yawned. I looked at my watch. It was eight p.m.—Baja midnight. “God, I’m beat. You know, there is nothing more relaxing than sleeping on a boat at anchor.”

  The boat lurched and heeled over at an alarming angle at five thirty the next morning.

  My first thought was that Lonesome had rammed us. Jan and I scrambled into the main saloon wearing our normal sleeping attire: oversized T-shirts. Fabio and Chino were already dressed, but looked as disoriented as we did. When a powerful gust hit us again, driving salt water bullets against Raymond Johnson’s windows like hail, I dashed up the aft stairwell, determined to save the deck furniture. The others followed, and while Jan and I zipped plastic panels into the aft canvas, the guys brought the dinghy on board and secured it in its chocks.

  “Where in hell did this wind come from?” As if I didn’t know. It didn’t take a genius to figure we were being assailed by gale force winds. Tucked in as we were at the north end of the entrance, the only thing between us and the Pacific Ocean was about a ten-foot spit of rock and sand. And, the wind had shifted overnight and was coming from the south. From the flying bridge, I could see much more than I wanted to; black-green clouds glowered over a gray, angry ocean.

  In the other direction, inside the bay between us and San Carlos, white caps, like a stampeding herd of buffalo, rolled toward and past San Carlos. I ran for the computer and brought up the NOAA site while the others huddled behind me.

  I sucked in my breath. “Oh, shit.”

  “Ditto that shit,” Jan said over my shoulder, negating any debt I owed her.

  “¡Carumba!”

  “Urk.”

  The computer screen told an awful story. Monika and Russell, forever mated in hurricanedom, had taken a sharp left and were cannonballing straight for us, packing one hundred miles per hour winds. Projections showed them on top of us within hours.

  “Fabio, what do we do? Make a run for San Carlos?”

  “Absolutely not. Look at the bahia. But, we cannot stay here. We must move,” he pointed to the chart, “here. To the south.”

  We all looked outside, at the furious waves pounding the bay's entrance between us and where we needed to go. This was gonna be one bumpy ride, but had to be done.

  Following Fabio’s barked orders, we skittered around the boat, top to bottom, stem to stern, stowing, securing, lashing, preparing. Everything that could be was stuffed into lazarettes—lockers whose hatches were flush with the deck—which were then silicone glued shut. All lines were removed, including the one to the top of the mast where we flew the Mexican flag. Before we were able to get the flag down, though, most of the red band on the end was in tatters.

  The plastic curtains we’d just put up had to come down.

  Fabio wanted no extra windage. Anything that could catch the wind, thereby heeling us over. In a big storm, what can tear loose, will, becoming a deadly missile. Raymond Johnson’s decks were soon bare of anything moveable or tied down. The aft sundeck, once the curtains there were removed, was cleared of furniture, as well as my stemware and serving dishes. The flying bridge itself was cleared, instruments were switched off and then locked inside their watertight compartments. By the time we’d stripped the outside of the boat, an hour passed and the wind increased. Jan and I collapsed on the settee in the main saloon and surveyed the chaos.

  “I didn’t know I had so much stuff. Look at this.” Lawn furniture, life rings, rolled Eisenglas panels, fenders, cushions and plastic stemware lay heaped in messy piles.

  “Yeah,” Jan groaned, “and Fabio says we now have to tie it all down. I’m exhausted. Think we could have one little glass of wine?”

  “No!” Fabio bellowed from the engine room. How did he hear us above all that howling wind? Then I realized the intercom was on.

  I was reaching to turn it off when he said, “Do not turn that off. We must stay in communication at all times.”

  I stuck out my tongue at the speaker.

  “I saw that,” he said.

  Crap, Captain Fabulous had morphed into Captain Bligh. “Wanna make what might be our last phone calls home?” I asked Jan.

  We called my parents in Burnet and Jan’s mother in Houston. Of course, we woke them up, but we gave them the lame excuse that we were getting underway and wouldn’t be able to call later. They bought it, so both of us chatted inanely, not giving the folks back home a clue that a hurricane was bearing down upon their precious daughters. What was the point? Oh, the five o’clock news might report that a hurricane had hit the Baja, but only because Texas might get rain from the storm. By then, we’d call again and report we were fine. I hoped.

  “Call Jenks,” Jan insisted.

  “I’m mad at him.”

  “Het-ta, call him. You know you want to. You call while I tie stuff down. Hurry up, Fabio’s probably gonna want to get going soon.”

  Three tries later, I gave up and left a message with Jenks’s hotel, and on his cell: “I am in danger of being blown away by Russell, so you’d better call soon.”

  Jan was giving me a ration over my stupid message to Jenks when Fabio and Chino finally emerged from the engine room, wiping grease from their hands and their grimy, grim faces.

  “Stop!” I yelled, giving them a straight armed halt signal. “Don’t even think of coming in here until you clean up. We may live through this and I do not want grease on my rugs and furniture.” They dutifully set about wiping themselves down with the roll of paper towels I launched at them, but were giving me looks that said I was nuts and that a little grease was the least of my worries.

  The men also made phone calls, Chino to his mother in La Paz, who was herself preparing for the storm in case it changed direction again, and Fabio to his wife. He spoke in rapid Spanish, but I gleaned that he was telling her not to worry, then his tone changed and I could tell he was talking to a child. When he hung up, I caught a glint of a tear before he put on a brave face.

  “So, we are ready? Let us eat breakfast and I will explain what we must do. But first, one more lo
ok at the tormenta.”

  Tormenta, indeed. I brought up the NOAA site and nothing had changed, except Monika/Russell was closer. I decided to name the storm Mussell. I opened two large cans of clam chowder, heated garlic bread, made a salad. I know, it was still early, but it felt like we’d been up for hours. As we huddled around the dining table, I left the NOAA screen on, periodically hitting the refresh button, hoping for change. No such luck.

  As he ate, Fabio, with input from Chino, told us what to expect during the next few hours. I was so intent on hearing above the caterwauling wind that I jumped when the phone rang.

  “Hetta? Martinez. Where are you?”

  “Still in Mag Bay.”

  “Well, you need to get out of there.”

  “No kidding. Too late. We’ve battened down the hatches and are headed for a safe place to ride ‘er out.”

  A blast of wind heeled the boat and shook us like a dog with a bone. “Yikes,” I yelled.

  “You okay?” Martinez asked.

  “Fine. Honest. We’ll be tucked behind Isla Madgalena in no time. We’re just getting a lot of wind.” With a roar, we were suddenly engulfed in a wall of water. “Uh, and rain.”

  “Hetta, I know this is a bad time, but I have a couple of pieces of news you need to know about. What they mean, I don’t know yet. Are you alone?”

  “Nooo.”

  “Then listen carefully and put on your poker face. First off, your Volkswagen has been involved in some kind of incident. It’s totaled and there’s a body involved. Not Pamela’s. She’s okay.”

  “What! What happened?”

  “Don’t know. Pamela called Wontrobski and he called me. He said he’d e-mail the details to you. But that’s not the big news.”

  “Maybe to you. I loved that car. Dammit. What in the hell would you consider big news?”

  “Fabio used to work for Tanu—”