Just Add Trouble (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 3)) (14 page)

“I can relate to that. Speaking of work, ya think we should hire a publicity agent? I mean, now that we’re world famous and all.”

“Naw, I think our fifteen minutes is up, what with fame being the fickle thing it is.”

“I sure hope so. Well, kiddo, I’m plumb tuckered.” I stood and stretched. “See you
mañana
.”

“I’m turning in, too. Oh, look, the ferry is still trying to dock. Man, oh, man, am I glad I’m not on that sucker. Even with last night’s little fire drill, I’m so glad you brought me over.”

“Wait’ll you get my bill, then see how grateful you are.”

“Yeah, well, we can trade invoices. I think I can work up quite a jerky tab for your critter you’re dumping on me.”

Touché. We watched as the ferry boat captain gave up on entering the harbor. He went a little offshore, outside the breakwater and either dropped the hook or continued motoring to hold position into the seas. I took one last look out my porthole before drifting off, and could still see his running lights out there, as he waited for the wind to die down. Sometime during the night I was half awakened by loud speakers, so I figured they made it in.

Snuggling my pillow in my warm bed, in the safety of a marina, the windstorm outside didn’t seem quite so bad. I stretched and smiled, thinking,
Somewhat like the stupid news storm Jan and I stirred up.

No wonder no one takes the news seriously these days if
we
can make the CNN headlines! What a joke.

Chapter 15

“You’ve got to be joking.” Jan’s voice, especially the slightly hysterical timbre, half-woke me from a fantasy dream where Jenks, RJ and I were swimming with dolphins. Spending time frolicking with my deceased dog was so special that I fought to recapture the dream, not wake up. But then Jan was bellowing through my open bedroom door—the one I should have locked—“Hetta, dammit! You get up here right this minute. We have company.”

My eyes flew open and RJ and the dolphins dissolved. The sun was fairly high in the sky, and the wind had picked up again. I’d slept in my favorite foul weather warmies, a red oversized tee shirt with white stripes on its long sleeves, and even though it covered my knees, I grabbed a pair of sweats from the closet.

Company? That called for a splash of cold water on the face, and a smear of Harlot Red across my lips. I slipped on my red plastic clogs, noted the clash with the yellow sweats, didn’t really give a damn, and stomped up into the main saloon. It was full of people. People with cameras.

Jan cringed in the galley as flash bulbs blinded me. “What the hell?” was all I could manage. I spun around and headed for the safety of my cabin, but Jan was too fast for me.

She death-gripped my arm and bleated, “Oh, no, you don’t. You are not leaving me with these…these…people.”

“Who are these, these, people? And what are they doing on my boat?” And as I said it, I realized,
wait a minute, this is
my
boat
. I stepped around Jan and commanded, “Okay, everybody off. Now!”

Bright camera lights flooded the cabin as a tangle of questions were thrown our way. With everyone talking at once, it was impossible to make out a single question, but one thing was clear; they were from CNNI and they wanted info on the Tucson Corridor.

“Uh, Hetta,” Jan yelled above the questioning, “I sort of told them they could come aboard, but I didn’t realize who they were. Sorry.”

“Well, then, you can entertain them. Cook them breakfast or something. I’m going back to bed.”

“Wait for me.”

We scrambled into my master stateroom and slammed and locked the door. Trapped like rats, we were trying to figure out what to do next when there was a loud screech, a bunch of screaming and yelling, and the stomp of feet exiting the boat, fast. When things quieted down, Trouble broke into a hearty rendition of “Hetta, Hetta, she’s our gal. If she can’t do it, no one shall.”

We returned to the emptied main saloon and peered out.

On the dock, what had seemed an army of reporters was really only four. One female talking head and three crew. A couple of them plucked feathers from their hair, while the reporter babe from, where else? CNNI, dabbed bird poop from her blouse.

I tickled Trouble’s neck feathers and gave him a piece of apple. “What a sweet little press agent you are,” I cooed. He blushed and ducked his head for more scratching. I have to admit, I was growing quite fond of him.

He flew back outside, where the press dudes and dudette, for lack of anything better to do, filmed him as he loudly demanded, “Oh, Boy! Oberto.”

With no clever ideas of my own as to what to do next, I called the Trob and told him we had the press on our tails. I thought he’d blow a fuse, or what passes for anger with him, but he sounded pleased.

“You mean you’re not upset with me for outing the project?”

“No. Baxters like it.”

I’ve known the Trob many a year, so I knew what he meant. Scary. “I haven’t blown the project? I’m not fired? I thought the brothers Baxter would be royally pissed since it seemed they wanted to wrap up my study on the QT before it was universally known this was gonna be a go.”

“No.”

Jan, who could see I was struggling for aplomb, shoved a cup of coffee in my hand. I shoved it back and she added a splash of Irish Whisky. I took a deep breath and a big glug. “No?”

“Not upset. Glad. Now the politicians are all behind the idea, saying, quote, ‘Splendid example of international cooperation in light of our other differences.’”

“Let me guess, those are Republican politicians. What’s the other side saying?”

“They’re afraid to say anything. Check out the Internet.”

“I will. What should I tell these news hounds?”

“The truth"

“What a novel idea. I will. Thanks, I guess. Bye.”

“Bye.”

I fired up the computer and read today’s headlines. All I wanted to be was yesterday’s headlines, but it was not in the cards.

“Oooh, Jan. As of twenty minutes ago, this is what we looked like.” And sure enough, there we were, white faced, hair askew. Caption: Reporter Hetta Coffey and Photog Jan Sims, tracked down on Ms. Coffey’s yacht in Santa Rosalia, Mexico, minutes before attacking reporters. CNNI 20 minutes ago.

“Oh, boy,” Jan said, “What’s CNNI?”

“It’s CNN International. I get it on cable at home. This is going out all over the world.”

“I wish I’d had my hair done. And Hetta,” she giggled, “is that you, or Ronald McDonald?”

The resemblance was uncanny. With my red striped tee shirt, yellow sweats, fuchsia hair, red clogs, and crimson lips, all I required to complete my Ronald McDonald look was a Big Mac in my hand. We were still howling with glee when Mother called.

“Hetta Honey, stripes? You know they make you look, uh, shorter.”

“You mean fatter, don’t you? Jan thinks I look like Ronald McDonald.”

Mother hiccuped a little chuckle, told Daddy what I’d said, then asked, “What on earth are you doin’ on the morning news in your PJ’s? You and your father may think it’s funny, but knowing you, there is a lot more to this story than they are telling on CNN. Are you in trouble, again?”

“No, Mama, you know how the media blow everything out of proportion. By tomorrow, the world will forget I was ever on the screen. Believe me, there is no secret plot and once these folks do their homework, they’ll find out for themselves. This project proposal I’m working on has already been in the works for years. This CNN thing is a tempest in a teapot.”

“Well, if you say so. Seems to me you could have put on a dress or somethin’,” she drawled. Mother doesn’t even leave the bedroom in the morning without combed hair and complete makeup, and she dons Liz Claiborne for breakfast.  “Who did you attack?”

“Didn’t. It was Aunt Lil's bird. Trouble cleared those reporters from my boat in a jiffy. I’m gonna miss him when Jan takes him home with her tomorrow.”

“Jan’s coming to Texas and bringing the parrot?”

I always forget that “home” means Texas to a Texan. “Her new home, here in Mexico. She’ll keep him until we come up with a more permanent solution. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything more from Aunt Lil?”

“I thought maybe you’d found her by now.”

“Mama, she’s in Mazatlan and I’m in Santa Rosalia.”

“You told me you were in San Carlos.”

Uh-oh. It’s times like this that require creative prevarication. Mother would pitch a Texas hissy fit if she found out Jan and I had crossed an entire sea by ourselves, so I crossed my fingers. “Not far from there.” Not a bald faced lie, as we were located somewhere between both San Carloses. Mexico is in dire need of some new saints to name their towns after.

“Well, it sounds like everything is all right. I’ll call Jan’s mother and tell her that, if you like.”

“That would be great, thanks.”

“You girls have a good time. We miss you.”

“We miss you too. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Bye now.”

“Bye.”

“Not far from where?” Jan asked.

“San Carlos. Technically, that’s true.”

“Technically. Hetta, we’re all over the news. What if she tries to find us on a map?”

“She won’t. They’re on the road. She’s calling your mom to let her know this whole thing is bogus.”

“Good. Now, what are you going to do about those reporters out there?”

“Hose ‘em down?”

“That’ll look good on the five o’clock report.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s get dolled up and hold a press conference. Mother thinks I should wear a dress, but I don’t have one on the boat.”

“What are we going to say?”

“The truth.”

Jan fell on the floor, convulsed with glee. What a cynic.

Chapter 16

It’s amazing how, if you tell the truth, people lose interest, especially when the truth is really boring. So I gave the reporters a very long, tedious, and technical version of the truth, and my part in it. One of the cameramen practically fell asleep, and the poor reporter babe did her best to get in a provocative question or two, but I droned on, and on, and on.

Boring or not, I thought Jan and I presented yachtily intellectual personas for what I hoped was our last interview. Dressed in white slacks, turtlenecks and navy blazers, donning drugstore cheaters for effect, our last fifteen minutes of fame fizzled the second the camera lights went out. Once the team learned that I had written the newspaper article based on well-known, documented research that they could check for themselves, their interest dried up, but they couldn’t figure out a way to politely shut me up. The fact that the Guaymas/Tucson port deal had been in the making for years was, well, old news. Boring engineering stuff. No scandal. No hanky panky. In effect, no news at all.

The rather disheveled reporter gal did comment on the fact that we were two women alone on a yacht, thinking perhaps there was a story there, but we intimated that our husbands were out fishing. I think she at least hoped we were lesbians.

In desperate search of a news lead, she asked to interview Trouble. As I felt a little sorry for this woman who had obviously spent the night on a tossing ferry in search of her big break, I encouraged Trouble to talk, sing his signature song, then wolf whistle and squawk, “Oh boy! Oberto,” for a finale. After heavy editing in lieu of bleeps, Trouble earned a thirty second spot on CNN. Jan and I were five second has-beens.

Fame really is a fleeting.

Now that we were once again mere mortals instead of international celebs, we fostered a plan to find Granny Yee.

Jan called Chino and casually grilled him if he’d heard anything from his grandmother, and whether he was the only one on the planet who didn’t know we were big news. Nothing from Grans Yee, and not a hint he’d seen us on TV. We were golden on that end.

We needed wheels, preferably a tank. Our sailboater friend, Smith, volunteered the use of his pickup, which we gratefully accepted, even after seeing the antiquated Ford. Beggers cannot be choosers, they say, and Santa Rosalia was devoid of car rental agencies.

Early the next morning, we loaded up a change of clothes, a roll of toilet paper—we’d learned from experience that public restrooms in Mexico often have none—a couple of gallons of water, a map of Baja, and Trouble. I didn’t have the heart to leave him locked up in the boat for who knew how long.

By some miracle, the old Ford truck chugged along just fine. We weren’t in a hurry, so we stopped off at Burro Beach in Conception Bay for breakfast at Bertha’s, a small café we’d eaten in years before, while on a kayak trip.

Conception Bay, like everywhere else in the world, was becoming more populated, but their saving grace was still not having electricity. We even ran into an old friend, Baja Geary, who actually remembered us. Well, he remembered Jan, but who wouldn’t? His palapa beach home had undergone some updates, including one of those new composting toilets and satellite Internet service, but little else had changed.