Jan went to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Hetta, I know things are a little squirrelly around here right now, but are you sure about selling this house? I mean, you don’t know diddley-squat about boats.”
“I didn’t know anything about renovating houses when I bought this place, either. But after years of turning this place from a sow’s ear to a silk purse, I’m bailing before it reverts. I’ve been hearing distinctive oinks. I’m sick and tired of maintaining this money pit. It’s either sell or we start cruising the parking lots of San Leandro bars looking for pickup trucks sporting tool boxes and logos like ‘Mr. Big Tool.’ I’ve had it.”
Jan sniggered. “Sounds okay by me. You can have Mr. Handy Hand, I want Big Tool for myself. But seriously Hetta, maybe you need some advice on this boat thing.”
“I called my dad.”
“What did he say?”
“Keep the tanks topped off.”
“See what I mean? We don’t even know what’s in those tanks or how much it costs to keep them topped off. Lars says—"
“Lars is a menace to society.”
“Not so. He happens to be a kind and generous person. I like him a lot. And despite being a little wild, he’s the kind of guy we should both be looking for. So is his brother.”
“He’s not my type.”
“Hetta, your type isn’t good for you. You’re so stuck on wasting your time on the likes of that Sea Rooster person, you....Oh, never mind. You never listen to anyone, anyhow.”
“Cock. The boat is Sea Cock. Garrison is a friend, only a friend, and I plan to keep it that way. In fact, he’s agreed to help me boat hunt during the week while you’re at work.”
“I don’t like him. He’s not...good.”
“A rat? I know, but it’s not like I’m having an affair with him or anything.”
“Everyone thinks you are.”
“Who is everyone? And since when do I give a big bull’s rump what people think? Garrison is useful to me right now.”
“So, if you are using a rat, does that make you a ratess?” Jan snarled.
I was wounded. “Let me summarize all the labels your ex-boyfriend, a psychotic lesbian, your present boyfriend, his dorky brother, an aging flatfoot, and now you have anointed me with recently. Unbalanced. Fluffball. Weird. Flighty. Brinky. And now I’m a ratess. Gee, is there anything else? Why don’t y’all tell me what you truly think.”
“Brinky? Anyhow, what I, or they, think isn’t worth a hoot. It’s what you think of yourself that counts.”
I waved my hands in the air. “Psycho-babble. I hate that crap and all of those I’m Okay but You’re Shit books. I know what I am. I’m opinionated, judgmental, and bossy. I like that in myself.”
“No one else does,” she said. Seeing the look on my face, she put her arm around me. “Oh, Hetta, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. And hey, since when am I able to do that, anyway? We always talk like this.”
Embarrassed by my uncharacteristic dip in the self-pity pool, I replaced my pout with a grin and poured more wine. “I’ll be all right. I have the distinct feeling my life is not under my own control lately and you know how I love control. I’ll get everything back on track. I always do, don’t I? Anyhow, what time is it? Don’t you have a date with Lars?”
Jan shook her head. “I broke it. I called him while you were at the hardware store. He said if I changed my mind he’d be at the yacht club, but I can stick around. I don’t want to leave you all upset.”
“I’m fine. Honest. The lock thing rattled me a little, but I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation. You know, extraterrestrials or something like that. If I get lonely tonight, I’ll come down to the club. You take RJ’s car and go on. I’m gonna read up some more on boats. Then at least I’ll have a better grip as to what questions to ask tomorrow. Even if I don’t know what they mean.”
“Okay, then. If you’re sure. I guess I’d better get dressed. Uh, Hetta, I probably won’t be back tonight, so meet me tomorrow at the yacht club for brunch and then we’ll resume the hunt for your luxury liner, okay?”
“I don’t mind braving yacht salespersons on my own. You’re sure you don’t want to go sailing with WOE instead?”
“Naw, sailing’s no fun unless you’re there to get hit in the head and cuss a lot. I’d rather watch you make a fool of yourself with yacht brokers.”
That’s what friends are for.
20
After Jan left for her date with Lars, I carefully locked all my doors and set the alarm, something I rarely did until ready to go to bed. I wanted a soak in my reheated hot tub, but for the first time since I owned the house, I was reluctant to go out on my own deck by myself. This really, really, pissed me off.
With grim resolve, I picked up a stack of yachting magazines and brokerage listings. Somewhere in the pile lay my ship of dreams. I dozed off on the couch and was preparing to board my own Dream Mary when the phone rang. Martinez. Did this man never sleep?
“We got a hit on a partial print from the padlock, Hetta.”
Oh, so it’s “Hetta” now? Didn’t this cop get sarcasm?
I sat up. “So soon? Gee, you guys are fast.”
“New equipment. Everything’s computerized and I had a hunch, thanks to you. Actually, we got real lucky.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Are you going to tell me, or is this going be multiple choice, Martinez?” I can get real cranky when people wake me up. And then play games. Besides, I was still smarting from his little brinkmanship lecture.
“Touchy, Ms. Coffey, very touchy.”
“Mar-tin-ez,” I growled in warning.
“Okay. Are you sitting down?” He sounded downright gleeful. Well, for him. “The prints belong to your long lost Tokyo guy, Hudson Williams. He sure as hell isn’t deceased, and thanks to your telling me about him, I went straight to Interpol, and whammo! Modern technology, ain’t it grand?”
My hand flew to the gold chain and bar key hanging around my neck. My stomach turned cold. I guess I gasped, because I could hear Detective Martinez saying, “Hetta? Are you all right, Take a deep breath.”
I did, finally, but I was sure it was my last. My heart and eardrums would surely explode any second. I choked out, “We need to meet. Soon. Can you come over? Tonight? I think I know what Hudson wants.”
* * *
What do men really want?
If I knew that, I probably wouldn’t be in this mess. I was pretty sure, though, what Hudson was after: The Key Note Club bar key or, more accurately, whatever was in the box at the bar. The question here was, should I give the key to Martinez? And if I did, would it be the end of Hudson? I think not.
By the time Detective Martinez arrived, I’d decided to stall. I was working up a story when he rang the bell.
After accepting a cup of coffee, he dug into a pocket and handed me a piece of paper folded in quarters. The black and white image was grainy, obviously faxed to Martinez. Grainy or no, the man I was looking at was Hudson Williams.
I stared at the eyes I knew to be blue and marveled I never before noticed their beadiness. Shiftiness. How could I have ever considered Hudson’s smug face handsome? The world would be a much safer place if foreplay and hindsight could be reversed. But boring.
“Oh, yes. That’s Hudson Williams all right.”
“Read the details, see if they agree with what you know.”
I read the Interpol description below the photo, adding my own mental comments as I went:
Williams, Hudson O. Dirty Rat Bastard
Sex: Male. Not if I get my hands on him.
Date of birth: 1959. More like spawned.
Place of birth: New York, USA Under what rock?
Language spoken: English And not a word of it true.
Nationality: USA. I couldn’t think of a comment here.
Height: 1.78 meters (70 inches) Bullcrap!
Weight
: 72.5 kilos (160 lbs) Of evil.
Color of hair: Blonde Dirty dishwater.
Profession: Computer sales. Computer THEFT.
After reading the Interpol data, I nodded. “Yep, looks right, but he’s shorter. More like five-six and a half. He was real sensitive about his height and probably lied on his passport application. I’ve disliked short men ever since he disappeared.
“Anything else?”
“His occupation. It should be professional jerk.” My eyes fell on a handwritten note next to the photo of Hudson. “Merde, Martinez, That’s my old address in Tokyo.”
“Don’t worry, you aren’t considered an accomplice. Read on.”
I did. Hudson was wanted for misuse of company property, fraud, larceny, and murder. Murder?”
“Murder? I thought he just stole stuff and jilted women.”
“Oh, there’s even more. The guy I talked to at Interpol thought your old buddy was also mixed up in drugs and gem smuggling. Quite versatile, your Mr. Williams.”
I gave him a dirty look. “He ain’t my mister, mister.”
“A figure of speech. So Hetta, what was it you wanted to tell me about Williams? You said you think you know what he wants from you?”
I’m a really good liar—accomplished, some of my detractors might say—but for all my apparent bravado and disdain for rules, some authoritative types can bully me pretty good. Preachers, cops and the IRS, in that order. Having been raised by an eclectic mixture of hard-shell Baptists, Baha’is, and redneck backsliders, I harbor a host of divinely inspired phobias. You see, I have it on good authority, and believe in my soul, that liars burn in Hell. Ask any one of my great aunts or grandmothers. So I don’t lie, I fib. I prevaricate. I equivocate.
“I guess I said it wrong when we were talking on the phone a few minutes ago,” I prevaricated. “What I meant was, maybe I can tell you more about what he might be looking for. Maybe he thinks I have some of his stuff. But I don’t, I threw it all away.” Jesus, that sounded lame.
Martinez thought so, as well. “Cut the crap, Hetta. What stuff?”
Decision time. “Nothing. Maybe he thinks I do, though. He left a television, some furniture, things like that, but I sold it all in Tokyo. That’s all.”
Martinez arched a brow and wrote a couple of jots in his ever-present little book. From my upside down vantage point, it looked like the last words were “pants on fire.”
He agreed to a cup of tea, then pursed his lips when I added a smidgen of Slivovitz to mine.
“What?” I asked. “Never heard of thé Slav?”
It was after ten when he rose to leave, and I wondered again about his hours. He wore a wedding ring, and it occurred to me I’d been remiss in inquiring after his personal life, what with us becoming such bosom buddies and all.
“Detective, are you married?” I asked.
He gave me a sly grin. “Why? You interested?”
“Gee, I dunno. Do you have a lot of money?”
“Nope.”
“Then nope.”
Martinez left and I went back to my stack of yachting magazines. I tried concentrating, but the idea that Hudson Williams was alive and stalking me kept creeping into my thoughts.
For the first time since I owned the house, I closed all of the drapes and blinds. I tried shaking off this chagrin with promises of a new life through yacht listings, but soon threw them on the floor. RJ, who had obviously been whacked with a newspaper or two when he was a pup, looked up in alarm.
“Sorry, baby,” I said, soothing his fear with a pat. “It’s all right.”
RJ settled back down with a sigh, and I retrieved the listings. Damn Hudson Williams’s eyes. He was not going to have us to terrorize much longer. I intended to find safe refuge for me and my dog. Sanctuary on our ship of dreams.
21
My dream ship, which I now perceived as a seaborne panacea and an escape from all my pyramiding problems and slumping spirits, continued to elude me. But I hung in there, climbing in, out, and over every available vessel in the Bay Area.
Over time, I refined my list of minimum requirements. No less than forty feet, with a double or queen bed in the master cabin, office space, and a comfortable main saloon. That’s boatspeak for living room, and is pronounced salon, as in beauty salon, not saloon, as in cowboy drinking establishment. Oh, and a fully equipped kitchen. Uh, galley.
What I was finding in my price range and size had few of those redeeming factors. Not only that, many were wooden. I was strongly advised, ad nauseam, by everyone at the yacht club that I had to have a fiberglass hull for easy maintenance, both upper and lower steering stations for navigating in bad weather, and twin engines for ease of handling.
Navigating in bad weather? Ease of handling? Who was I kidding? This tub was probably never going to leave the dock. I most likely didn’t even need an engine, much less two.
I had all but given up hope of finding something both affordable and habitable when manna from heaven showered down on my yacht club barstool.
“I hear you’re on the lookout for a good liveaboard boat,” said a distinguished looking gentleman in his late sixties or early seventies. While others were dressed in windbreakers, T-shirts and khakis, he wore a blue blazer, turtleneck and linen pants. Just under six feet, he wore his age as confidently as he did his clothes. He also sported a timeworn wedding band. Not that I notice that sort of thing.
“Yeah, and I’m about looked out,” I grumbled. Great, that’s what I needed, another barstool sailor giving me more friggin’ advice on boats.
He tapped the bar in front of me, signaling Paul to serve us both another split of champagne, and then he introduced himself.
“I’m Morris Terry. We haven’t been formally introduced. I used to be Commodore,” he told me, motioning toward his photo hanging next to Garrison’s in the Past Commodore rogue’s gallery. Morris was actually better looking now than he’d been when younger.
“Hetta Coffey. I think I met your wife last week. Betty?”
“She told me. She likes you.”
“I like her, too. Do you guys have a boat for sale?”
“Might. Do you like Sea Cock?”
“I love her. Well, everything but the name.”
“I know. Betty’s been on my ass to change it for the past two years.”
I had to cut down on the champagne. It was affecting my hearing.
“Past two years?” I echoed dumbly.
“Lazy, I guess.” He shrugged, misunderstanding my misunderstanding.
Mystified, I shook my head. “I don’t get it. Why would your wife want you to change the name of Garrison’s boat?”
“Because we own it. I meant to change the name as soon as we acquired her, but never got around to doing the paperwork. Garrison was supposed to be doing some work on Sea Cock in exchange for a place to live. You know, taking her out once in a while to keep her running.
“Betty and I have been on a world tour, now we’re back and nothing’s been done to the boat except hours added to the engines. If you’re interested in buying, I’m interested in selling, but I’d appreciate it if we can keep this our little secret for now. I’ll take care of Garrison when the time comes.”
Sea Cock! My mind reeled. Forty-five feet of perfect boat. Almost perfect boat; the interior décor was predominantly blue. “Can I afford it, Morris?”
“That’s up to you and the bank, but if you can get the financing, I’ll cut you a deal you can’t refuse.”
“Ballpark?”
“Two.”
I was stunned. I had looked at comparables in the beginning of my quest, but soon narrowed my search to those boats of a size and vintage to match my budget. Forty-five foot Californians were beyond my reach. Certainly beyond my reach at three hundred thousand, but not at two.
I wanted to kiss the man sitting next to me, but kept my cool and said, in what I hoped was a businesslike tone, “Morris, I think we can deal, but my house is on the market, so I’d have to ma
ke the purchase contingent on the house selling.”
“I’m in no hurry. Here’s my card. Like I said, let’s keep this between us for now.”
“No problem at all. My lips are sealed. But, uh, Morris, I have to ask. Why would you sell me a boat at a hundred thousand under market value?” So much for my cool business act. It’s a good thing I stay away from poker.
“I got her cheap. Guy owed me money and I took the boat. I don’t feel like going though a bunch of crap with brokers and all to unload her. Besides, Betty told me to make you the offer and what Betty wants, Betty gets. See what you can do and call me. I won’t do anything with the boat until I give you first dibs.”
Just Add Water (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 1)) Page 12
