What people are saying about JUST ADD WATER, Winner of the EPPIE AWARD FOR BEST MYSTERY
Hetta Coffey's hilarious string of misadventures after being suddenly plunged into the "yachtie world" is a great page-turner for the quarter berth!— Capt. Pat Rains
A romp of a read, with snappy dialogue and memorable secondary characters, but it is Hetta's story. It's easy to sympathize when she takes her yacht out alone into San Francisco Bay, to nurse her broken heart and start A LIST OF THINGS TO DO AS AN INFINITELY UNATTACHED PERSON. Then, of course, all heck breaks loose. —Pat Browning, Author of Absinthe of Malice
Can’t get a man? Just add water.
Hang on tight for a rollicking adventure with Hetta Coffey, a globetrotting civil engineer with an attitude. After a lifelong swath of failed romances, Hetta prefers living with her dog and commiserating her single status with best friend, Jan. But old habits die-hard and one morning while brunching with Jan at the waterfront, Hetta’s attention is snagged by a parade of passing yachts and their hunky male skippers. She decides that if she had a boat, she could get a man.
Despite her naiveté of all things nautical, Hetta buys her dream boat and sets about learning to sail. A series of events, including a shadowy stalker and an inconvenient body threatens to imperil her new lifestyle. As her past comes back to haunt her, Hetta must use all of her gritty resources to foil an attempt on her life to figure out who is determined to kill her and why. —B, Bramblett, for Fiction Addiction
Author Jinx Schwartz will need to change her name to Lucky when readers discover Just Add Water. Schwartz has not only hit a home run; her first book is out of the ballpark. Schwartz is a twinkling, bright star on the mystery genre horizon with her witty and sometimes irreverent heroine, Hetta Coffey. Book One of the Hetta Coffey series, Just Add Water, is a refreshing antidote to the seriousness of the mystery genre without sacrificing a well-constructed plot, enjoyable story, and colorful characters. Readers will fly through the pages in anticipation of what Hetta will do, and say next. Schwartz ties up all the loose ends at the conclusion of the book, leaving this reader eagerly anticipating Book Two of the Hetta Coffey series.—BookwormBriefing
JUST ADD WATER
BY
JINX SCHWARTZ
Just Add Water
Copyright © 2005 Jinx Schwartz
All rights reserved.
Published and printed U.S.A.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to persons, whether living or dead, is strictly coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any for by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning to the computer disk, or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without express permission in writing from the publisher.
BOOKS BY JINX SCHWARTZ
The Hetta Coffey Series
Just Add Water (Book1)
Just Add Salt (Book 2)
Just Add Trouble (Book 3)
Just Deserts (Book 4)
Just the Pits (Book 4)
Other Books
The Texicans
Troubled Sea
Land of Mountains
Acknowledgements
Heartfelt thanks to the following folks:
The red pencil gang: Anne Kelty, Holly Whitman, Rebecca Dahlke, Lurah Magee, Marilyn Oliveras, Monica Brooks, Monika Madden, Sheran Vaughn, Geary Ritchie, and Katherine Baccaro.
Medical advice: Dr. Betty Carlisle who, via e-mail from her post in Antarctica, gave invaluable medical info.
Moral Support: Ed and Nicole Gribble, Maggie and Van Pomeroy, and Paula and Dennis Lepak
As always, My best friend and husband, Robert (Mad Dog) Schwartz, offered patience and input.
And they know why! Jane Stris, Martha Farrington, Marian Morse, Jane Portis Sheffield, Carmen Austin, Kristin Henry Erikson, and Rae Presley.
DEDICATION
To my sister, Arleigh.
And Jane Stris, who has been like a sister all these years.
Prologue
Tokyo
Hudson’s master plan was unraveling.
His cleverly orchestrated year-long juggling act was crashing in on him. If he didn’t make that flight this afternoon, his life wouldn’t be worth two red yen.
Hudson Williams thought he was well-prepared for this day, but when a team of auditors from corporate showed up unannounced at his office this morning, his blood ran cold and his mind went into overdrive. Friggin’ sea gulls. They fly in, crap all over everything, and fly out.
Of course, bean counters were the least of his problems. All they could do was get him fired, maybe prosecuted for embezzlement. Once his house of cards began to tumble, one thing would lead to another and very quickly the guys he really had to sweat would get clued in. The ones who could get him dead. He really hadn’t planned on double-crossing them, at least this soon, but now he had no choice. All’s fair in love and crime.
During that interminable morning, he produced files for his unwelcome visitors, all the while keeping up a seemingly easy banter. His practiced charm, which usually worked for him, began to flag. Minute after stressful minute ticked by, until he pasted a smile on his face and walked into the conference room they’d commandeered.
“How’s it going, guys?” The auditors’ heads snapped up from some documents they were poring over, discussing in hushed voices. Thinly veiled suspicion permeated the air. Or was Hudson’s imagination working overtime? He shook off his paranoia. They couldn’t have found anything so soon. Certainly not with the files he’d given them. “So, got everything you need?” Or what I think you need.
The head auditor, Garth Jones, stood up and stretched. “We could use a break, but we have a few questions for you. How about we discuss them over some lunch?”
Crap. “Uh, sorry, dude, but no can do. Got a doctor’s appointment that won’t keep. But we’ll make dinner an occasion.” He gave them a meaningful leer. “This town can show a guy one good time, if you know what I mean.”
Jones didn’t rise to the bait. “Not my cup of tea, Williams. And I’d strongly advise you to break that appointment. Boston is standing by for some answers, and we need you here to help get them.”
“Like I said, no can do, buckaroo.” Hudson turned abruptly, left the conference room and shut the door behind him, but not before registering, with some satisfaction, the look of helpless dismay on Jones’s face. What are a couple of bureaucratic number crunchers gonna do, tackle me? Take away my birthday?
Picking up the briefcase he’d been slipping small packages into all morning, Hudson headed straight for the elevator. As he passed his secretary’s desk, he growled, “Doctor’s appointment.”
“Williams-san, I—” but the elevator doors slammed shut behind him, leaving her confused by his abrupt departure. Her boss, if a little secretive, was, unlike most foreigners, always polite and friendly. Now he’d left her at the mercy of the rude men who invaded the office this morning. Tinny, loud music suddenly filled the room, and she automatically stood up to do her mid-morning stretches. When the five minute exercise routine was over, she made tea for herself, leaving the auditors to fend for themselves. Not that the coffee-swigging Barbarians would even appreciate a decent cup of tea.
Hudson didn’t look back. Sweating profusely, even though a chilly November breeze whistled through Tokyo’s financial district, he walked—wanted to run—to the nearest subway entrance. As always, the terminal bustled with commuters, but blending in was out of the question; at only five-eight, he still towered above most Japa
nese.
One stop later, he hopped off the train at the last second before the doors closed. Just like the movies. He made a show of checking his watch as he scanned the crowd for foreigners. Not a gaijin in sight. Of course, my “associates” could have a gook keeping tabs on me, but I doubt it. After all, up until now they haven’t had a reason not to trust me. He’d held up his end of the deal, shipping their goods all over the Pacific Rim concealed inside Comtec’s hardware. He’d followed the equipment and, before installing it for his customers, remove the stuff and hand it off. Smooth as glass. He hustled up the steps and hailed a cab
This morning, however, everything had changed. He’d made a big show of opening boxes in the warehouse, purportedly taking an inventory for the auditors, actually slipping small packages into his pockets and briefcase. Thousands of dollars belonging to Comtec, deposits from customers for equipment he never intended to deliver, had already disappeared into his Cayman account. He was set for a long, long while. And what the hell, his escape plans had only been moved up a few days.
Exactly one hour remained before he had to catch the “limo”—actually a bus—to the airport, barely enough time to get to the apartment, pick up the suitcase he kept packed with his new passports and enough clothes to last for days of changing planes and identities.
As he passed through the lobby of the apartment building, he smiled at the concierge, who bowed in return.
His so-called fiancée was probably in her office, but just to be sure, he called. Her secretary put him straight through, as always. “Hey, how’re things at Tanuki Engineering today?”
“Same ole, same ole. Putting out a fire started by some jerk in San Francisco. What’re you up to? I called your office, and they said you’d gone to the doctor. You okay?”
Damn, were there no secrets in Japan? “Actually, I lied. Had a bunch of guys in town from corporate, didn’t feel like eating lunch with them.”
“What do you want for dinner tonight?”
I want to be the hell out of this country. “Oh, whatever. What time will you be home?”
“Probably by six. No meetings planned this afternoon.”
“Great, see you then. Love you.”
“Love you, too. Bye.”
Hudson hung up and had a slightly guilty moment. Wedding presents, still wrapped, filled one corner of the living room. RSVP’s were piled next to the phone. The caterer’s proposed menu hung on the refrigerator door. How did I let this friggin’ charade go this far? There was no way any wedding was going to take place, even if those auditors hadn’t shown up today. They just accelerated his plans by a few days. A guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do. The kitchen clock chimed, catching his attention. Time to saddle up, buckaroos.
Retrieving his suitcase from the back of a closet, he added a few toiletries and was about to leave when he spotted his betrothed’s ATM card on the bedside table. For all her smarts, that gal was way too trusting; he had the PIN. Every little bit counts, ya know.
Now all he had to do was—Crap! The key! His wannabe bride wore the damned thing around her neck and he had neither the time nor a reasonable plan for getting it. Why didn’t I get the damn thing back before now? And what was I thinking when I gave it to her, along with some bullshit line about it being the key to my heart. Must have been the Crown Royal talking.
Too late now. But he could get that key back later when the heat was off, when he needed money again. He ran back into the living room and snatched up an address book from under the phone. They’d discussed selling her house in California after they married, but he’d be willing to bet that once she got through boohooing and realized he was gone for good, she’d return there when her stint was up in Japan. Checking to make sure the book held her Oakland address, and that of her parents in Texas, he stuffed it into his briefcase.
Waving a friendly bye-bye to the concierge, Hudson Williams jumped into the waiting taxi and ceased to exist.
1
FIVE YEARS LATER
From our window table at a trendy waterfront eatery in the People’s Republic of Berkeley, Jan and I commanded a postcard vista of where Tony Bennett left his heart. Piped music spared us Mr. Bennett’s signature song, but not Dock of the Bay. San Francisco Bay sparkled despite washy late summer sunshine. A fog bank glowered on the horizon, held in abeyance by the famous red steel guardian at her gate.
Settling into velvety, overstuffed armchairs under a canopy of Boston ferns, and surrounded by enough stained glass to compete with a European cathedral, we projected a studied image. Our makeup was meticulously applied to look as though we weren’t wearing any. Chic, sleek, blunt-cut coifs, hers long and naturally ash blonde, mine a short “naturally enhanced” red, were designed to look oh, so casual. After all, we were on a mission.
Jan’s Brooks Brothers jacket draped gracefully on her tall frame while my Armani tested its button’s tensile strength across my unfashionable boobs. We both wore de rigueur Gap khakis. Chunky gold bracelets, rings, Rolexes, and loop earrings—no démodé dangles or diamonds—along with Fendi bags and Ralph Lauren turtlenecks completed our ensembles. I sported my favorite red Converse hightops for a touch of whimsy.
Jan’s tall, slim, blondness contrasted with my short, chunky, perkiness, saving us from Tweedledee and Tweedledum-dom. Cute enough to draw looks, but not so done up as to telegraph “gals on prowl.” Even though we were. If, that is, one could call two aging broads out trolling for triceps cute. And since I seem to operate on an ecologically correct catch-and-release system, one might wonder why I even bother baiting up.
As we sipped cheap complimentary champagne between forays to an overpriced buffet, a boat peeled off from the winged flotilla plying the bay, sailed toward the guest dock, executed a smart turn, dropped its sails, and coasted gently alongside the restaurant’s courtesy dock. Two windbreaker-clad men bounded from her decks, tied the boat, and strode up the ramp towards us.
“Well lookee here,” I drawled, “fleet’s in.” I hummed a couple of bars of “It’s Raining Men.”
“Hetta Coffey, you are not,” Jan whispered as the mariners neared, “going to use your ‘Hi there, sailor, new in town? Wanna buy me a drink?’ line, are you?”
“Why not? It worked fine in that Greek dive on the Houston ship channel.”
“Don’t remind me. It’s a freakin' miracle we haven’t spent the last ten years rolling grape leaves into dolmas in some leaky cargo ship’s galley.”
“Au contraire, y’all. You would be. I, at least, had the good sense to pick up the captain instead of the cook. You are, at times, far too plebeian. Hush, here they come.”
Seemingly studying my newspaper and ignoring the newcomers, my legendary crawdad vision raked the men as they chose a table next to us and ordered coffee. They turned down the free champagne.
It was too much to bear. Looking over my rumpled San Francisco Examiner, I said, “Hi there, sailors. New in town? Wanna give us that champagne?”
“Sure,” the tall one said, dazzling me with a show of perfect teeth set in a fashionably tanned face. Ruffled, grayish blonde, razor-cut hair and Ralph Lauren shirt bespoke “man with a job.” Hmmmm.
His shorter, nerdier looking companion called the waitress back and waved his hand in our direction. “Please give our champagne to the ladies.”
Tres charmant. Double hmmmm. “Y’all are too kind,” I cooed, letting my on again, off again Texas drawl transform the word too into two syllables. Jan gave me a sour look and buried her head in the Business Section. Or Bidness Section, as we say back home.
The men went to the sumptuous spread and returned with heaping plates of salmon pâté, quiche Lorraine, croissants and tiny red potatoes stuffed with caviar and sour cream. Jan stared at their plates. “Shit,” she mouthed, “gay.”
I always say if one can’t have love, then settle for knowledge. While my new friends, Joe and John, munched on brunch, they graciously answered my barrage of questions about boats and sailing. Finally feelin
g I had garnered all the men had to offer, I left them to their quiche and turned my attention on two women who had taken a table on the other side of us. I like to think of myself as a keen observer of humankind.
“Will you puhleeze quit ogling and pestering people?” Jan hissed, mistaking my sentience for snoopiness.
I forgave her her misconceptions and continued to snoo…observe.
Sheathed in spandex that left no doubt as to their cellulite free status, the aerobically buffed women passed on the buffet and champagne, opting for dry English muffins and decaffeinated coffee. The chef was obviously out of tofu. Why bother going to brunch? But I knew the answer. Brunch lures singles like chum entices piranhas, Berkeley is prime fishing ground and these two had all the proper tackle. That superior specimens such as these were reduced to using my own angling tactics was a lit-tle disheartening.
Just Add Water (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 1)) Page 1
