Just Add Water (1) (18 page)

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-WASP 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 did
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?”

“I believe that would be gas
lighted
, Miz Jan.”

“Whatever. Anyhow, we, or rather,
Lars, had an idea.”

I thought,
If I hear “Lars” once more I swear I’ll scream
. But I said, “Let me
guess. I should buy a condo in Ft. Lauderdale?”

“Fat chance, Hetta, I know better.
He says you should hire Jenks to check out your boat. Lars...” she paused as I
let out a small shriek, “says his brother knows more about boats than almost
anyone on the estuary.”

“Jenks hates me.”

“I think ‘hate’ is a strong word.
You two are diametrically polar.”

“You’ve been listening to those
talk shows again, haven’t you?” I watch them, as well, but I try not to pick up
the lingo. Diametrically polar?

“You know. You two have different
interests, that’s all.”

“Yeah, he holds no interest at all
in me and I have less in him. Also, I have my permanent teeth and I can read.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” I said, “his interests
seems to lie somewhere between a brunette from ding dong school and a dingbat
aging blonde bimbo.”

“Ooowee, do I detect a little green
monster glint in those big brown eyes?” she asked. Since I refused to
acknowledge such drivel, she answered her own question. “Oh, I think so. And
for your info, you doofus, the brunette is his daughter. And the blonde? You
could get rid of her in a San Francisco second.”

“Why
would I want to do a thing like that?” Jan must be wading in the Valium pool
again.

“For one thing, we could be
significant others in-law,” she said with a grin. A shit eating grin, at that.

“Jan, get any idea like that right
out of what’s left of your brain. Jenks Jenkins is everything I hate in a man.”
I guess. I know I hate it when they ignore me.

“Okay, okay, but this is business.
Jenks won’t work cheap, but if I were you I’d hire him. He’s working on his own
boat right now, but I’m sure he’d take the time to come over here.”

“I’ll think about it. Where’s his
boat?” I asked.

“It’s at Svensen’s Boat Yard. It seems someone creamed him
in a race.”

“I hardly touched him!”

“Not you. Someone else hit him a
couple of weeks ago. Call Jenks and hire him to do a survey. It’s the same as a
real estate appraisal, but for boats. Tell Garrison it’s for the insurance
company or some bullshit. That way you won’t hurt the freeloader’s feelings, if
it’s humanly possible to do so. And maybe you’ll learn a thing or two about
Sea Cock
.”

“I’ll think about it.”

She dug around in her purse and
handed me Jenks’s card.

I read aloud, “ ‘Robert Jenkins,
Marine Specialist, Surveyor. Electronics repair and installation, diesel engine
diagnostics, security systems.’ Gee, does he also do windows?”

“Probably not, but at least he
won’t move in on you.”

“Point taken. I’ll keep this card,
in case the world ends and Jenks and I are the last two on it.”

“Hetta, you can be such a bitch.
I’m gonna miss that.”