She laughed and hung up.
I e-mailed my grocery list to Allie. The first three items were hemlock, rat poison, and a personal guillotine. Then I tried to raise the marina at Treasure Island on the radio. I’d heard they were scheduled to reopen soon under new management, but even though there were a few boats in slips, no one picked up the call. I tried two more channels and got no answer. Finally, another boat responded and said the marina wasn’t officially open and no one was allowed to tie up at the docks until further notice. Merde.
I got out the binoculars. A long dock in various stages of construction ran parallel to shore, but access from the dock to the parking lot beyond looked like it was blocked by a tall fence. Rats. Studying the situation further, I decided to go for it and figure out the details later. I started the engines.
Raising the anchor under benign conditions is easy and I soon had Sea Cock standing off the dock. There were several signs on the dock, NO TRESPASSING, PROPERTY OF THE CITY OF SAN FRANCISCO, ABSOLUTELY NO PRIVATE VESSELS, and my favorite, DON’T EVEN THINK OF PARKING HERE.
I readied lines and fenders to the middle, fore and aft boat cleats. The breast line was only a foot or so from the downstairs steering station, so all I had to do was get it around a dock cleat and I had it made. Unless I didn’t, in which case, with the light northerly dead on my beam, I’d be left standing on the dock, watching my boat blow away towards the rocks on the other side of the cove. Not a reassuring picture.
I sidled up to the dock and, using my rudder and throttles, walked Sea Cock sideways like Jenks taught me. Even with the wind directly on the beam, blowing me off the dock, I chose the right moment, leaned over the gunwale, lassoed a dock cleat and cinched the boat in tightly. That done, I stepped onto the dock and tied off the other lines. I was hauling myself back aboard to shut down the engines when I heard applause, catcalls, and whistles. Turning around, I saw a dozen or so construction workers clapping and hooting approval. I took a bow.
* * *
Allison arrived right on time, lugging five bags of groceries and two bags of wine.
“Holy moly,” I said, “all I asked for were a few frozen dinners, veggies, and some diet Coke.”
“Oh, phooey, no one can live on that shit. I brought steaks, potatoes, Caesar salad fixin’s, and a really great bottle of Merlot. Sorry, they were fresh out of guillotines, but I got you a garrote. I also brought my jammies and toothbrush, cuz I’m stayin’ the night.”
“Uh, I’m not supposed to stay at the dock overnight. I practically had to sleep with the entire construction crew to stay here until you arrived. Actually, I promised them you would.”
“I wondered why they were so friendly.”
“Anyhow, it looks like we have to go back out to the anchorage.”
“Bull hockey. I ain’t spendin’ no night swinging on no flimsy piece of chain. Gimme your phone.” She called the Mayor, at home, and hung up with a satisfied grin. “Hizzoner says we can stay.” Noting my raised eyebrows, she shrugged and poured us each a glass of wine.
I grabbed a Brie and fruit plate, she carried the wine, and we went to the aft deck. “Hetta, I have a feeling you need a good, old fashioned, whine and jeeze party. Now, tell me everything.”
God, it was good to have someone to talk to who didn’t quack back.
I spent the next hour recounting, in detail, my cruise out the Gate with Jenks, the storm at Pillar Point and finished with, “Allie, I was so proud of myself. More importantly, I was pleased Jenks thought I’d done such a good job under crappy conditions. I mean, he even called me a wench.”
Allison almost dropped her wine, then looked me in the eye. “Hetta,” she said solemnly, “I’m your attorney. You can tell me where you left his body.”
I laughed, the first time in over a week. “No silly, he meant it, and I took it, as a compliment. He said I was a certified sea wench.”
“Well, shit, in that case, you’ll need a whole new wardrobe. Lots of low cut blouses and dangly earrings.”
We both giggled and went to the galley to ready steaks for grilling. I made a salad and slathered garlic and green peppercorns on T-bones while Allison chopped anchovies for our Ceasar. Someone rapped on the hull and we looked out to see two of San Francisco’s finest standing on the dock.
“Okay, Ms. Friends in High Places, you deal with ‘em,” I told Allison, trying to sound cool, but my heart was thudding. Please, oh, please don’t let them bring bad news about Jenks.
Allison stepped outside, talked a couple of minutes and came back in.
“Hey, how about that? De man sent those guys down to see if we were safe and sound. How cool is that?” Then she stopped dead, staring at me. “Hetta, what’s wrong? Damn, girl, you look whiter than usual.”
“Allie, when I saw those cops my heart almost stopped. I thought they were coming to tell me something happened to Jenks. Not logical, I know.”
“Not totally illogical, either. Do you know anyone who would have a key to Jenks’s apartment? We could have them check to see if, uh, you know, make sure he’s not sick or something.”
“Yes, I do know someone who might. Allison, I’m not supposed to show this to anyone, but you are my attorney and thereby sworn to secrecy. Watch this.”
I hit the PANIC button.
Seconds later the phone rang and I spoke into the mouthpiece without waiting to hear who it was. “Good evening, Ed.”
Allison cocked her head.
“Good evening, Hetta. Is there an emergency?”
“No emergency, Ed. I was testing the system.”
“You know I have to ask. Do you want me to call the police?”
“No, but thanks for asking. Uh, you haven’t, by any chance, heard from Mr. Jenkins have you?”
“Yep, sure have, Hetta. He called in a few minutes ago, said everything was fine.”
Allison surmised Ed’s answer by the furious rush of red to my cheeks. I could hardly hear Ed say good-bye, my ears were so a-thud with anger. I slammed the phone shut and exploded.
“The son of a bitch.”
“What son of a bitch?”
“Jenks! He’s just fine.”
My bassackward fury sent Allison into gales of laughter, and despite myself, I soon joined her.
45
I renamed my duck Eco, Spanish for Echo.
This change was brought about by a new tack for diverting myself from thoughts of homicide and suicide by dwelling on pleasant recollections from the past and positive plans for my future. By now I was on an emotional roller coaster that dipped into depression, soared to anger, then leveled off and raced towards the brass ring. I know, mixed carnival metaphors. But the brass ring part was what made life bearable. Hmmm. How about Brass Ring?
One particularly beautiful evening aboard Sea Cock, while stargazing at those constellations the City’s ambient light pollution let shine through, I was reminded of another starry night, in another body of water far to the south.
Jan and I had flown to the Mexican city of Loreto in Baja, California, rented an overpriced VW bug, and driven north to Conception Bay. We’d picked Conception Bay in hopes of recapturing some measure of the Baja peninsula’s charm that once drew us to Cabo San Lucas before Cabo became a victim of her own beautiful setting and great climate. We weren’t disappointed by Conception Bay.
Jan and I picked up a little local knowledge while picking up on a couple of local gringos in thatch roofed beach bars. Taking in all the info we could garner, we packed our light camping gear into rented kayaks and set out on a three day, two woman exploration of the bay.
Conception Bay, her spectacular shores sparsely inhabited by a smattering of gringo retirees and dropouts, still held a tenuous charm by virtue of her lack of amenities such as electricity and water. With the exception of those who felt it necessary to import satellite TV, run generators, and build tennis courts, most residents were hardy souls willing to rough it a little to dwell in paradise. So long as paradise remained cheap and i
ncluded enough ice for their tequila, the full timers were a contented bunch of expat ex-malcontents.
Our final evening in the bay, Jan and I camped at a cove the locals called Santa Barbara. We ate cold tamales, drank the last of our wine, and lay in sleeping bags staring at stars in a moonless sky. Stars so close we felt we could touch them. The Milky Way, barely visible in much of the United States, resembled a bright white cloud against velvety black heavens. And although there was no moon, starlight alone cast shadows off the cactus and elephant trees.
Desert sounds—distant coyotes, the rustle of night creatures—were occasionally broken by the faint echo of a truck on Highway 1 using Jake brakes, or a passing fishing panga’s humming outboard. The man-made noises reminded us that, as remote as we were, civilization was inexorably marching down the peninsula.
I had just quipped that our lack of knowledge regarding the heavens was astronomical when a loud splash jolted us upright. The encroachment of civilization notwithstanding, Jan and I suddenly recalled we were completely alone on an uninhabited beach and no one in the entire world knew we were there. We sat frozen, watching and listening for another sound. We both “eeked” and then laughed when a pair of dolphins leaped in unison not a fifty feet in front of us.
Aglitter with the liquid gold of bioluminescence, the dolphins frolicked, trailing fairy dust, and inviting us out to play. Without hesitation, we dragged our kayaks into water twinkling as if backlit by tiny white Christmas bulbs. Our paddles disturbed small fish, creating even more scintillating bursts of phosphorescence. We spent the next two hours in the company of the chattering, diaphanous dolphins, squealing our pleasure over a spectacle even Mr. Disney couldn’t top.
Remembering that night, I came up with a plan. A plan for my future. I’d take my boat to Mexico! Then the dark shark of reality finned into my Mexican dream. And he had a calculator. If I worked really, really, really hard for five years, triple paid my boat payments and—hey, wait a minute, this was my dream. Screw reality!
I banished the shark and added another goal to my list. TAKE MY RENAMED BOAT TO MEXICO.
Then a postscript: BRUSH UP ON SPANISH.
Thus, the renaming of my duck from Echo to Eco.
He didn’t give a quack, and I felt I was getting a linguistic jump on my planned Mexican cruise, even though, by realistic calculations, I was at least five years away from cutting the lines. It pays to plan ahead, especially when trying to divert oneself from murderous thoughts and depression.
Still no new word from or about that shit, Jenks. After a few more days of oscillating between rage, self-pity and worry, I leveled out to a constant state of perplexity.
One of the things that upset me the most was my inability to forget him. Even as furious and hurt as I had been with that lout Hudson, it didn’t take me more than a day or two to, if not forget, then at least write him off. Maybe it was because I learned Hudson was a thief and a deceiver so quickly. Within days of Hudson’s disappearance, I knew he was a married, thieving liar. That sort of thing has a way of taking the romantic edge off a relationship. Especially since one of the relations took a powder. Jenks’s jury was still hung, so to speak.
Anyhow, I was waiting for the other shoe to drop this time, leaving me barefoot and emotionally free. But it wasn’t happening quickly enough. I still held a modicum of hope that Jenks was kidnapped by a band of terrorists and, in his struggle to return to me, suffered a blow to the head, leaving him temporarily an amnesiac. When let free, he‘d climb the highest mountain if it reached up to the sky, to prove that he loved me he’d jump off and fly. Swim the deepest ocean from shore to shore, to prove that he loved me just a little bit more. Wait a minute, isn’t that the lyrics to an old country western song? I sang One Woman Man for Eco, wondering if singing to a duck constituted demented behavior.
I talked to Jan daily, if for no other reason than she actually talked back. And did not demand quackers. Lars was taking a very annoying “what, me worry?” attitude, saying he was accustomed to his brother’s sudden and unannounced departures. And, after all, we had heard from his employee, Ed Lu, that the bastard was just fine, wherever he was. I reminded Jan that if I killed one Jenkins brother, they couldn’t hang me twice for doing in the other.
Determined to get over my latest, and absolutely last, amatory adventure, I continued adding stuff to my GOALS list. I had named this list THINGS TO DO AS AN INFINITELY UNATTACHED PERSON. The list grew daily, as did my reluctance to return to my dock at the yacht club. There was something soothing and insular about living in my own universe, self-sufficient, independent of outside resources. Well, not exactly so independent.
By conserving water (I found I could shower, wash dishes and cook with a little under ten gallons a day) I was good for some time to come. And, with reluctant thanks to Jenks, I had enough fuel to keep Sea Cock powered up at anchor for a year. One of the first things Jenks’d done when I turned him loose on my boat was to install two seventy-five amp solar panels on the sundeck roof, an inverter for AC power without running the generator all the time, and an extra bank of golf cart house batteries. When I’d bought Sea Cock, I couldn’t leave the dock without the generator running, but now I only had to charge batteries a couple of times a day, depending on how much power I used.
What with solar charging plus two short generator charges per day, I could easily run my computer, printer, cell phone, TV, VHF radio and refrigerator during the entire day. Any additional required electricity, say a blender, microwave, toaster or the like, had to be carefully considered and usually called for me to turn on the generator for a few minutes. Or reconsider and make a sandwich.
The other, wonderful side of the new system, for both me and my fellow anchor outs, was not having to listen to the drone of a genset all day and night. I charged batteries while cooking dinner on my electric stove or in the microwave, then shut down and didn’t have to fire up the generator until I charged again the next morning. My morning activities while running the generator included making coffee, taking my shower, and drying my hair. As long as all systems continued to work, I had it made.
Unless I got blown out.
Niggling at the back of my mind was the possibility of a strong westerly blowing into Clipper Cove. I remembered Jenks saying it didn’t happen often, but when it did, things got ugly, pronto. That night at Pillar Point, which now seemed like another life ago, proved his point as to how quickly shit happens at sea. I didn’t have any idea how I’d handle Sea Cock alone under the same conditions.
So, true to the old adage about leopards and spots, I’d found something new to obsess over. Local weathermen became my new saints, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, my oracle. The droning monotony of VHF radio marine weather reports were music to my ears. And to make sure all those weather gurus didn’t screw up, I spent an hour each day of expensive cell time downloading Internet weatherfax data. Which, of course, I couldn’t interpret, but it made me feel better to have a tangible document showing little wind arrows pointing every which way but due west. Thank God I couldn’t receive cable TV, and therefore The Weather Channel, while away from the dock. I’d have been glued to the boob tube all day.
The slightest shift in the breeze had me instantly on deck, planning my getaway. The good news is that San Francisco Bay in the summer doesn’t have much wind. The bad news is if it does blow, it can come from any direction. Clouds sent me into major anxiety, diving into the Oreos. Good thing I had a limited supply. Oreos, that is; anxiety for me is aeonian.
Then there were the toilets.
After the holding tank fiasco on my first weekend aboard, I had a phobia of overflowing scat. Jenks eliminated, you should pardon the pun, part of the problem by rigging each toilet for a specific purpose. Toilet #1 was for peeing and toilet #2 was for just that. Toilet #1 discharged directly overboard, while the other one was plumbed to the old dreaded holding tank. This, barring my dining on fresh salsa in Mazatlan ever again, reduced by far the nu
mber of gallons flowing into the holding tank. Okay, so one toilet was illegally plumbed, but tell that to all those construction workers, fishermen, and even Coast Guardians I’ve seen spraying the bay. What? My pee is toxic and theirs isn’t?
I still watched the rising gauge on the holding tank ve-ry carefully. I could hardly fathom what the potty patrol boys would charge me to come out to Treasure Island.
Even with all these little problems to brood over, I was enamored with my new life as an anchor out. A floating hermit. Hetta’s Hermitage, how’s that sound? Nah, too Jacksonian.
Eventually I knew I’d have to go back to the dock and reality, but for now I was handling my life and career from afloat, thank you. I didn’t even bother calling my answering machine, which was locked in my dock box back at the marina to pick up messages, because everyone I wanted to hear from already knew where I was and I was afraid I’d hear something that would force me to return.
Just Add Water (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 1)) Page 27
