Already engrossed in their cribbage game, the men mumbled a “bye” in unison. Then Garrison looked up and added, “See you when you get back.”
Lucky me.
Sigh. Oh, well, tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow I’d get control of this situation. Tomorrow I’d have my fresh water pump burn out, right after I tried flooding the bathroom. Head. Whatever. But, of course, I didn’t know that yet.
I left the men to their card game and drove to my house. The police were gone, a mixed blessing. I spent a couple of very jumpy hours packing my things into RJ’s car. I planned to leave the Beemer in the garage while I still had one, then sell the little yuppie toy. After all, I now owned forty-five feet of ultimate prop. Who needed a status car? And besides, I didn’t think it a good idea to park my thirty-someodd-thousand dollar convertible in an uncovered, salty air parking lot in West Oakland. Chamber of Commerce glamorization and Gertrude Stein witticisms notwithstanding, I know where Jack London Square is, and it is there, in West Oakland.
I got back around six o’clock to find Sea Cock amazingly devoid of people. Maybe I’d gotten lucky and Jenks had adopted Garrison.
Chic, alors! I cranked up a little Mozart, shoved a frozen Stouffers into the oven, Beringer into an ice bucket, and my hungover head under a heavenly stream of hot water. I’d slathered a gooey gob of ten dollar a drop crème de platypus placenta or some such moisturizer on my hair when the shower quit. Which was just in time, for I noticed water threatening to slosh over the side of the stall.
I could hear the continual gallump of what sounded like the sump pump the plumber had left running at my house a few weeks before. The throb came from the bowels of my boat. My own bowels had set up a pretty good throb themselves. “Now what, Ollie?” I growled, grabbing a towel.
I turbaned my slimy hair, found some sweats, rummaged a pot from under the stove, trudged out to the very chilly dock, turned on the hose and filled the pot. All of this, of course, in full view of an amused contingent hanging over the yacht club bar.
Three chilly trips later, during which the club members were waving as well as laughing, I’d managed to remove enough conditioner from my hair to attempt a blow dry. Back in the head, I plugged in my Conair, then had second thoughts as a wake rocked a gallon of shower water onto the floor around my bare feet. “Woman Dies of Shock on Boat,” BART commuters would read in their newspapers the next morning. They’d probably figure she got her monthly pump out service invoice.
In the main saloon, I finally found a plug near a mirrored wall and was all set to flip on the dryer when I remembered something: wattage.
What was it they told me about hair dryers and boats? I looked at the side of the Conair. 1600 watts. Being an engineer I can both add and convert. 1600 watts equals thirteen point three amps. Shoot, according to Garrison I had fifty amps of dock power, so that meant I had thirty-six point seven amps to spare, didn’t I?
I was about to hit the dryer switch again when I smelled lasagna. Twenty minutes to go. How many amps did the oven draw? The hot water heater? Fridge? And wasn’t there something about a battery charger? Merde.
After choking down a half cooked dinner, I crawled into bed, trying not to think about what my slimy, damp locks were doing to forty dollar pillowcases and hundred dollar feather pillows. I was droned to sleep by that faint gallumping sound. Tomorrow I’d figure out what it was.
Tomorrow came early. Three a.m., to be exact. That’s when a smoke detector went off. Garrison and I almost collided as we both scrambled into the main saloon to see what was on fire. I’d never even heard him return to the boat, but as bad as I hated to admit it, I was glad he was there. Fire is one of my phobias, right up there with drowning. So here I was, on a burning boat.
“So, Hetta,” Jan said when I called her the next day looking for sympathy, “it wasn’t a real fire? Just smoke? And Garrison was the hero of the hour?”
“I guess he was,” I admitted.
“How bad is the damage?”
“Burned out water pump. Cost me a hundred bucks for a new one, but Garrison saved me an installation charge.”
“That’s good, I guess. What happened? Did the stupid pump just decide to self-destruct?”
“Evidently. Garrison said something about the water tank, but said he’d make sure it didn’t happen again. Also, I guess the drain in the shower was plugged, but he fixed that, too.”
Jan was quiet for a moment or three, always a bad sign. “Sounds like Garrison’s making himself right handy. You are still gonna make him leave, aren’t you?”
“ ‘Course I am. Soon. But I figure it can’t hurt to let him stay a little while. Only until I get used to all these systems.”
“Or until the body returns to your hair, whichever comes first? You know, Hetta, maybe you should have the boat checked out by a professional.”
“Like?”
“Like Jenks. Lars says he knows boats better than almost anyone.”
“I’m sure Garrison can handle everything for me until he finds a place to live. After all, he’s been living aboard Sea Cock for a long time, so he knows the boat. Okay, so Morris said Garrison didn’t do much, but Morris wasn’t here to check on him and I am. With Garrison taking care of my boat, I can get back to gainful employment. I’ve got a yacht to support, you know.”
“Sounds like you may have more than a yacht to support.”
“What do you mean? Garrison? Nah, he’s history, and soon.”
“It’s your bank account, your life.”
“Yeah, and I’ve got to get on with both. Speaking of, don’t forget I’ve got fifty people coming to RJ’s wake at the house Saturday night.”
“Not a hot tub party, I trust?”
“Cute. No, the tub was drained by my service guy after the cops finished with it.”
“Thank God for that. It’ll be creepy, being back in your house, but I’ll come over early to help if you need me.”
“I need you for moral support, not work. The house is completely devoid of furniture now, so the caterer is bringing everything, including chairs and tables. It’ll be a two hour wine and dog biscuit affair.”
“I think I’ll bring me some tater chips.”
33
“Gee, Hetta, isn’t this, uh, interesting? A theme wake,” Jan mused, then took a bite of something called crepes de chien and chased it with Red Dog beer. She stood next to me, watching people and pets mill, snack, and bark. Elvis crooned you-know-what in the background.
Detective Martinez, a last minute drop-in, pried his pants leg from the locked jaws of Raoul’s poodle, Catamite, and joined us in front of the fireplace. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said. He gingerly sampled something labeled pâwtè. “Nice...whatever. Hope you don’t mind me being here.”
“On the contrary, sir, I am very happy you’re around. I had second thoughts about coming back, but RJ was important enough to make me. And thanks for not kicking his guest, although Catamite was asking for it. See anything strange?” I asked.
Martinez rolled his eyes.
“I meant, anything that might help you ID Hudson’s killer? That is why you wanted to come isn’t it? To spy?”
“I wouldn’t have put it so subtly, but, yeah, that’s about it. Doesn’t hurt to keep your eyes open.”
“Is there something you want to share with me, Detective? We have a few minutes before Jan leads off with the first memorial toast.”
“Not really. We’ll talk later.” It’s hard to tell, but he looked more pained than usual. Maybe I’d send him some prunes.
“I’m ready,” Jan said, and blew her whistle. Everyone assembled for the first, er, tail of the day: How RJ Got His Name.
“It was a little over five years ago....” she began, and my mind drifted back.
Dawg, as I called him, had been living with me for three months and we were definitely on a bonding roller coaster. At least I was. Dawg had his own agenda, doggedly escaping the confines of my newly fenced yard to attack any non-W
ASP he could. Which in my neighborhood was really easy.
My section of the Oakland Hills was inhabited by an eclectic tribe of which I was a triple minority: A Single White Female. Up the street, in a new upscale development, lived an assortment of doctors, lawyers and other upper income types, including those nouveau-est of the nouveaux riches: Oakland Raiders, Warriors, and A’s. Few were single and none white. I had unwittingly inflicted a racist dog on an unsuspecting, but very muscular, pugnacious, and litigious populace. Were Dawg to survive, he’d have to mend his crappy attitude and quit dogging his well-armed fellow residents. Or get a bulletproof vest.
Hounded to seek a solution before the dogs of war were unleashed, I sought the highly recommended Dr. Craig Washington, who made house calls and was reputed to specialize in disturbed pets. I made an appointment and was looking forward to a Robert Redford double who’d whisper something magical into Dawg’s ear. Or mine.
What I got was the biggest, blackest, meanest looking man I’d ever seen this side of the NFL. Or Dawg either, apparently, for ten minutes alone—I was listening from upstairs, tearing up petticoats and boiling water just in case—with the behemoth vet and Dawg found something akin to religion. Craig never revealed his trade secret, but I suspect he’d rubbed himself down with Alpo.
At any rate, the terrorism ceased and soon Dawg (still uncured of his escape tactics), instead of eating their tires, could be found cadging handouts from linebackers on the way to their Bentleys. It was enough to bring a tear. Kind of a Mean Joe Green soft drink commercial moment.
Anyhow, that story was for Craigosaurus, wearing, quite naturally, a Big Dog shirt, to tell in doggerel verse.
But first Jan finished bragging as to how she, and she alone, had saved my dog the indignity of being called plain Dawg by naming him Raymond Johnson. As in “You can call me Ray, or you can call me Jay, or you can call me Johnny, or you can call me Sonny, or you can call me RayJay, or you can call me RJ, or you can call me RJJ, or you can call me RJJ Jr., but you doesn’t have to call me Johnson.” Jan was a big fan of the old Redd Foxx Show.
After a couple of hours of RJ stories and some doggone good memorial toasts, I bid my former home good-bye, took RJ’s picture and ashes from the mantle, and went to Sea Cock. God, that name! How about Dream Catcher? Nah, too dreamy.
34
At least I was gainfully employed again.
The Seattle debacle still rocked on with nothing settled, but I had landed a short-term contract in Southern California lucrative enough to keep me in boat parts. Barely in time, too, what with Garrison’s ever increasing demands for moola to buy stuff for Sea Cock. I was sorely tempted to cash that buy-off check, but Allison wouldn’t let me have it. I called her uppity, but it didn’t help.
I had returned from a three day trip south when Jan called. “How’s La land?” she asked.
“Smoggy, snarled, and smarmy. It’s great to be back on the boat. Where are you?”
“At the office. Maybe I’ll drop by later. I have news.”
“Tell me now, you know I hate waiting for gossip.”
“It’s big,” she teased.
“You won the lottery.”
“Better. I’m moving to Florida with Lars.”
“Oh, that’s, uh, sudden,” I said, trying to cover the disappointment in my voice. I failed.
“I knew you’d be upset. We’re not leaving for a whole month. Look, I’ll come over tonight and tell you all about it. I mean if you plan to be home?”
“Without doubt. After my week in La, wild horses couldn’t pry me off this boat. Even with all the maintenance problems I’ve been having.”
“More? What now?”
“Nothing money can’t fix. Garrison has a list of boat chores a mile long requiring my money and his attention. Did you know there are twenty pumps on this mother? Thank the gods Garrison’s been here to keep things working. You were right, he’s real handy to have around.”
“Hetta, I was being sarcastic and you know it. Doesn’t he get in your way? I mean, you’ve always been a bit of a loner.”
“No, when I’m here he makes himself scarce.”
“Where does he go? And how? Lars says Garrison’s car hasn’t run in a year.”
“He’s using RJ’s car this weekend. I don’t want to go anywhere anyway,” I said, then wished I hadn’t. Somehow I knew she wouldn’t like to hear that.
Meaningful pause, followed by, “Oh.”
“What does ‘oh’ mean?”
“Nothing.” Petulant, she sounded.
“Jan, speak.”
“It’s just you never wanted roommates.” Was that a whine? Had she and I ever discussed being roomies in the past? If so, had I vetoed the idea? We’d always been so close, but maintained our own places.
“Jan, Garrison is not a roommate. He’s only staying on the boat until I get used to it and he can find another place. Besides, now that I have to be in La so much, it’s good to have someone watch the boat. What time’ll you be here? I’ll grill us a big ole juicy T-bone.”
“On my way.”
I took a shower, which blessedly delivered hot water and also drained, poured a glass of wine and opened the freezer. The steaks were gone.
* * *
“It’s okay, Hetta, you know I love macaroni and cheese.”
“Yeah, me, too, Jan. But I’d like a choice. I’ll have to talk to Garrison about raiding my fridge.” I poked at my salad. “Thank God he hates veggies and that I had the good sense to warn him away from my liquor cabinet before I left this week. Last time I came home, and there wasn’t even a beer left.”
“I can’t believe you’re letting him get away with this. What’s come over you?”
“Fear, Jan. Abject terror. At the house, if something didn’t work it was annoying. Here, if it doesn’t work I could sink.”
“Excellent point, but.... Never mind.”
“But what?”
“Well, Lars says—”
“Lars, Lars, I’m sick of hearing that name.”
Jan stared at me, obviously wounded by my waspish retort. Merde.
“I’m sorry. Maybe I’m jealous. Hell, I am jealous. After all, Lars is hauling off my best friend and I’m feeling sorry for myself. I’ll miss you. I know I’m not being fair or logical, but why should I change now?” This got a small smile, so I asked, “Okay, so what does Lars say?”
“Never mind.”
“Don’t pout. I said I was sorry and I meant it. I was being a self-centered lout. I want you to be happy and if Lars makes it happen, so be it. Why can’t you two be happy here, in California? You’ll hate Florida. It’s full of Yankees, you know.”
“Lars is a Yankee, but if you’d get to know him better you’d like him anyway. Really.”
“Okay, invite him to dinner here next weekend.” Maybe I can poison him.
“That was way too easy,” Jan said, a skeptical frown on her face. “What’s the catch? And what kind of poison?”
Damn, the woman reads minds. “No catch. If Lars is gonna be a permanent fixture, I guess I’d better get on his good side.” If I can find it. Getting around that tub of lard could take years.
“Why am I still worried?” she said. “Never mind, I’ll ask him.”
“Good. So, what did Lard, uh, Lars say?”
Jan narrowed her eyes. “About what, Hetta?”
“Sea Cock. God, we have to come up with a better name. I’ve been on this boat for a month and I’m having as much trouble with its name as I did RJ’s. I’ve ruled out gods— Greek, Roman or otherwise—godly realms, anything with Neptune or Poseidon in it, mom’s name, or anything cutesy.”
“Lemme think on it. Far Pavilions?”
“Nope, too...stupid a plot.” We laughed, and I said, “How about High Cotton?”
“Too Southern.”
“Too bad I didn’t buy a yawl. I could name her Nice Meetin’ Y’all Yawl.”
“Now that’s Southern.”
“Anyhow, what d
id Lars say about my boat?” I asked again, somewhat reluctantly.
“He wanted to know if you’d ever seen Gaslight?”
“Sure. Old movie, Ingrid Bergman. Her husband, Charles Boyer? He wants her to think she’s crazy, so he rigs the lamps to dim and then acts like nothing’s wrong. What’s it got to do with me?”
“Are you sure that Garrison is doing as many repairs as he says? You’ve never been afraid of squat, Hetta. Why the boat? Are you sure you’re not getting gaslit?”
Just Add Water (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 1)) Page 18
