Just Add Trouble (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 3)) (9 page)

Trouble was on my doorstep. Starts with a T, ends with an E.

Flummoxed, I bribed the DHL guys with a beer, and slugged one down myself, all the while trying to figure out how to get rid of Trouble. Several Tecates later, between my Spanish and their almost non-existent English, I finally obtained a phone number in Hermosillo. Since getting a Mexican cell phone was on my list for the next day, I was forced to fire up my million peso a minute satelitte phone.

“
Day Hache Elle
,” a woman answered.

“Do you speak English?”

“
Si
.”

“Okay, here’s the deal. I’ve received a shipment I don’t want. I want to send it back.”

“Back?”

“
Si
.”  

“
Momentito, por favor
.”

Very expensive dead air ensued. I ticked off the ka-chings while watching the delivery guys raid my refrigerator for more Tecate. I signaled for them to get me another. It was half gone when there was a click. I thought maybe the connection was cut and was poised to hang up when a hearty, unaccented voice boomed, “Can I help you?”

“Oh, thank God. Yes, you can. I just received a shipment that I don’t want. I want to send it back from whence it came.”

“Bill of Lading number?”

I grabbed my copy and read off the numbers.

“Can you hold?” he asked, but didn’t wait for my answer. Kaching! More expensive Satfone time, with the added insult of elevator music.

One of my new best friends in yellow popped another top and handed me the bottle.

What seemed an eternity later, I heard, “Miss Coffey?”

“That would be me.”

“You are in Mexico?”

“Yep.”

“Why is it that you don’t want the box of jerky?”

“Jerky? I didn’t get jerky, I received a parrot.”

“A parrot? I don’t understand. We have suspended bird shipments temporarily, what with the bird flu thing.”

“Look, buster, I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to pull off here. These two guys showed up with a damned parrot and I don’t want the little bugger.”

“Miss Coffey, there’s no need to get upset. What does your manifest say you received?”

I squinted at the blurry writing, rummaged for a pair of reading glasses and finally made it out. “
Caso de la machaca
.”

“What’s that?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Hold on, I’ll get my Spanish to English dictionary.”

I did.
Machaca
: dried meat. “I found it. A
machaca
is a rare Mexican parrot.”

“Miss Coffey, I don’t think so. However, you only have to refuse the shipment.”

Now, why didn’t I think of that
? “So if I do, will these guys take the, uh,
machaca
back to Hermosillo? I mean, they won’t just put it in a warehouse somewhere, will they?” I conjured a vision of Trouble dying a slow horrible death by starvation, and starvation is something I cannot abide.

“How would I know? I’m in New Jersey.”

No amount of beer would convince the guys to reload Trouble into their truck.

After all, they pointed out, I had signed for the shipment and they must go, now that I was out of Tecate.

Chapter 8

“Mother, what on earth were you thinking? That…that…
bird
is here.”

“That’s nice, Hetta Honey. Did he have a good flight?” She giggled at her own lame joke. I, on the other hand, was unamused and my feelings were hurt. The manifest wasn’t completely wrong, for along with the bird, Mama sent an entire case of Oh Boy! Oberto Habañero Jerky, my favorite, with a note telling me to keep my paws off, the jerky was for Trouble.

“How could you do this to me?” I wasn’t sure whether I was talking about the bird, or her callous disregard for my own Jerky fetish.

“Well, dear, we couldn’t very well ship Trouble to you when you get back to California. Monk parrots are illegal as pets there. Sooo, what with you being in Mexico, and on a boat, your father and I think you two are a perfect match. Parrots sort of belong on boats.”

“I meant the jerky. You are kidding aren’t you? None for me?”

“Ask Trouble, maybe he’ll share. After all, you are shipmates.”

“This is not a pirate ship, and it doesn’t need a parrot. What am I supposed to do with him?”

“Oh, he likes a banana for breakfast with his jerky and lots of sunflower seeds, in the shell. He prefers shelling them himself, and he doesn’t throw the husks too far from his perch. Loves jalapeño peppers. Once a day, take him for a drive. He flies, you drive. If you want him back, just whistle, which you might want to do if he gets near any Mexican men.”

“I didn’t want his schedule and culinary preferences and you know it. I have to go back to Oakland and, by the way, Mommy, that is in California. What will I do with him when I leave?”

“Take him with you?”

“Are you kidding? Even if he wasn’t illegal in California, it would be easier to get Osama Bin Laden with a suitcase nuke strapped across his chest past the border guardians than a bird. No way in hell will they let him back in, even if they believed he came from the US.”

“Oh, dear, we didn’t think of that.”

“And speaking of, how did you ship him here? I don’t know for sure, but I’ll bet the Mexicans aren’t wild about importing birds either.”

“Well, you remember Pancho, who’s doing our patio tile? He took Trouble with him when he drove south to visit his sister in Piedras Negras, then shipped him. I think Pedro was glad to get rid of Trouble. They don’t get along, you know.”

“No, I don’t know. Was it something I did as a child? Why didn’t you send Trouble to my sister?”

“Your sister lives in Colorado. He’d be cold. So nice of you to call, dearest. Your father and I are leaving in the RV tomorrow, so I guess we won’t be talking for awhile.”

“Why can’t you two get a cell phone, like the rest of the world? Or, here’s an idea, get on the Internet? Do e-mail?”

“We don’t care for such things.”

That’s the truth. It is a miracle they learned how to switch channels on the satellite system I talked them into only a year ago. Until then, they were living with a roof antenna, rabbit ears and five whole channels of snowy TV. Now they are hooked on the BBC. Dad is especially fond of
Antiques Roadshow
and
Absolutely Fabulous
.

I sighed in resignation. I know when I’ve been nailed by the velvet hammer. “No word from Aunt Lil, I presume?”

“I received a postcard from Mexico.”

At first I was dismayed to be in the same country as my least favorite auntie, but then I perked up, thinking I might dump the winged varmint back into his rightful owner’s lap. “Where in Mexico?”

“Hold on.” I heard a rustle of paper. “It’s a hotel on a beach.”

“Gee, that should be easy to find down here. Let’s see, I’ll put out an APB for a silver haired tourist in some beach hotel in Mexico. That should take us right to…hey, what is Aunt Lil’s last name these days?”

Silence.

“Lemme guess, Mom, you don’t know.”

“Yes I do, but I don’t like your tone of voice. Her name is Lillian Seagren, and if you’re going to be sarcastic, I’m hanging up.”

“Seagram? That’s appropriate. Sorry, don’t hang up, I’ll be good. Is there a postmark and date?”

“Let me get my glasses. Looks like…two weeks ago from M-a-z…”

“Mazatlan?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Hotel name?”

“El Cid.”

“Who’s she with?”

“Why do you assume she’s with someone?”

“Mo-ther. Who’s she with?”

“I think his name is Frank. No, here it is. She writes, ‘Sorry I left so fast. How is my baby bird? Having a wonderful time, water is warm and margaritas are cold. Should be home in a few weeks, since Fred’s due back in rehab. Love, Lil.’”

I choked back a guffaw, barely managing to gasp goodbye between spasms of laughter. Sometimes it’s either laugh or cry. Or both. I let loose a melange of tears of self-pity, and laughter at the situation.

The next day I rode the crest of a soaring learning curve. Right off the bat I discovered what my mother meant when she said to keep Trouble away from Mexican men.

I let Trouble out of his cage, maybe secretly hoping he’d escape through a conveniently open door. Through the door he went, all right, not to escape, but to perpetrate a vicious attack on a hapless dock worker. Trouble turned tail feather and soared into the boat when the worker attacked back. A couple of hours later, however, the tiny terror went after the dock dog, Marina. I heard the ruckus and whistled for Trouble. He sailed back into the boat, but poor Marina, who innocently nosed around for her daily handout, was so traumatized she didn’t return for days. What I had on my hands was an airborne bully who harbored a deep-seated dislike for Hispanic men and dogs. So, quite naturally, my mother sends the pint-sized, anti-Hispanic, dog hater to Mexico? Maybe figuring that all the Mexicans were working in Texas?

Another thing I learned? Hair coloring in Mexico is different.

After studying dozens of boxes at the local
farmacia
, I finally zeroed in on one that possibly might do the job. I like my hair a coppery, peachy sort of hue, with golden highlights. Lucky for me, I found just the thing. According to the box, the color,
durazno
—peach—was also,
rubio oscuro cobrizo
. In my Spanish-English dictionery, that translated to dark red copper. I figured the peach part offset the dark part.

I guess I overlooked the words,
rojissimos
and
extremo
.

After a sleepless night of listening to howling wind, clanking sailboat halyards, and a parrot screeching, “Let ‘er blow!” I groggily climbed into the Thing and headed out to meet Jan’s ferry in Guyamas. I made Trouble fly all the way as payback for keeping me awake. As I waited on the ferry landing, he settled onto my shoulder and promptly dozed off. Jan was the last passenger off the boat, and looked plumb tuckered out herself.

I waved and yelled. She headed for me. “You didn’t have to yell, Hetta. I could see that florid hair from two miles out. And what, pray tell, is that attached to your shoulder?”

I took her bag, gave her a hug, and Trouble roused enough to gently peck her cheek.

“Oh,” Jan trilled, “how sweet. Aren’t you just about the cutest thing I ever saw.”

“Why, thank you.”

“I meant the parrot. He is cute.”

“Actually, he’s a parakeet, and he’s a royal pa…” I caught myself as an idea formed. “Parrot. Everyone calls them parrots. Very smart, and up for adoption.”

“Really? Who wouldn’t want such a baby doll?”

All of Mexican maledom? All dogs? Maybe the thirteen states that, according to the Internet, ban his species? Me! I held up my finger, Trouble roused and jumped aboard. I transferred him to Jan’s shoulder, where he nuzzled her neck. Good, let them bond.

“What a darling boy. Is he a boy? And what’s his name?”

“Trouble. Oh, but he’s no trouble at all, not really. I think he is a male because of his bright coloring.” While Jan tickled the gray feathers ringed with white on his neck and chest, I continued my sell. “That bib look, that’s why he’s called a Quaker or Monk parakeet.”

Jan gave Trouble a kiss, and I upped my praise. “And guess what? He can talk, sing and dance.”

Trouble nuzzled himself into Jan’s hand, making contented chirping noises. Jan seemed positively smitten. Yes!

“So, how was your ferry trip?”

“Horrible. It was really, really rough and everyone was sick. The toilets backed up right off the bat. Thank God you told me about getting a cabin with it’s own bathroom. I holed up, read, and dozed.”

“Port Captain here clued me in on that cabin. Looks like he knows what he’s talking about.”

As I guided her towards the parking lot and she asked, “Hetta, how’s your head?”

“Very, very, red.”

“I mean the, uh, brain thing?”

“Oh, that. You know, now they think I simply need better reading glasses.”

Jan’s eyes narrowed. “Let me get this straight. Five days ago “they” thought you might have a brain tumor, and now you only need glasses? My, my, incredible diagnosticians, these Mexican doctors.”

In mock high dudgeon, I sniffed. “One would think you’d be overjoyed that I was not going to die.”

“Umm-hmm. One would, wouldn’t one?”

It was time for a diversion. “Hey, here’s my car.”

Jan stared at the Thing. “If you say so.”