Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 4) (11 page)

Early the next morning, we saddled up several of the winery’s horses and set off on an estate tour.

Knowing I’d be astride a large animal for most of the next day, I drank several glasses of water between sips of wine the night before. Nothing worse than a hangover on horseback, even on the horse I drew. His name, appropriately, was Rocinante, for Don Quixote’s skinny old nag. In a play on words, the slightly demented man from La Mancha dubbed his decrepit horse Rocinante, meaning reversed: a nag reborn as a gallant steed.

Picturing this Rocinante as a warhorse would indeed require the imagination of a Cervantes, but the horse’s advanced age and docile temperament suited me to a tee. When I expressed doubts about my horse’s stamina, Craig did a quick medical exam and rudely pronounced the horse fit for hazardous duty.

The guys led, while Nanci rode astride a spirited Arabian that was obviously miffed with having to keep pace with our sluggish company. Babycakes, the antithesis of his name, pranced, danced, and snorted in disgust at our lack of speed. Nanci ignored his antics, easily controlling him while pointing out various buildings, explaining their purpose, and which employees did what and why. I learned wine making is a complicated, sophisticated business, and she was an expert. I’ll never uncork another bottle without appreciating what it takes to get it into my wine rack. But then, most of my wine comes with a screw top.

While taking a break at a vista point, I brought up something that bugged me. “Nanci, I have to ask you a question. It might sound silly, but I get the distinct impression that Sonrisa doesn’t much like me.”

“Don’t take it personally. Her nickname certainly doesn’t fit her nature, any more than this horse’s does,” she patted Babycakes, “but being a Mexican, I appreciate our national habit of playing with names. For instance, a really fat guy might be called Gordo, for fat one, but he also might have a moniker like Flaco, for Skinny.”

I had a thought. “Say, what does the nickname, Nacho, stand for?”

“Oh, that’s just the diminutive for Ignacio.”

I smiled. Ignacio? Geez, no wonder Nacho chooses to go by his nickname. “I used to think sonrisa meant sunrise, but now I know it means smile. And you’re right, the name doesn’t suit. Does she ever smile?”

“Not in my presence. She is a little odd, but maybe she’s not used to us yet. We cut her some slack because she showed up, out of the blue, just when our Rosa badly needed a friend. They are from the same area, with similar family backgrounds, just like Lupe was.”

“Lupe?”

Nanci’s perky mouth drooped. “Such a sad thing. Rosa’s best friend, Guadalupe, they were like sisters, two orphans who found their way here via different, but similar roads. Rosa was teaching Lupe the ropes at the grape irradiation processing facility, and Lupe was a fast learner. Then, one day, she just disappeared. Gone. We  contacted the police, anyone who knew her back home, everyone we could think of. Nothing. Rosa was devastated.”

“I can imagine. How long ago did this happen?”

“Two months. Sonrisa showing up on our doorstep a week later, looking for work, was a godsend for our Rosa.”

I pictured the hateful look on Sonrisa’s face the night before and questioned her being God-sent to anyone, but maybe she just didn’t like redheads. Or visitors. Whatever, she quickly regained her annoyingly bland countenance when I caught her out, but I’d witnessed that hate-filled look.

An unworldly bellow jolted me from mulling over Sonrisa’s lack of grace. Startled, I sat straight in the saddle and snapped my head around. A jillion pounds of angry longhorn charged directly at me. Booger Red, I presume.

“Remember, Hetta, sit tight!” Nanci yelled. “He’s a little short-sighted, but once he recognizes Rocinante, he’ll stop. Whatever you do, stay in the saddle.”

I got a death grip on the saddle horn and held my breath as the biggest damned longhorn on earth, or even Texas, barreled my way. Back on my granddad’s ranch I’d hand-fed his longhorn stock, but this one looked like he was going to have me, and my horse, for lunch. Just ten feet away, he put on the brakes, and when he finally skidded to a full stop, one six-foot horn tip was within a few inches of my leg. Rocinante never even flinched, but I was within seconds of requiring a diaper change.

Booger Red snorted, pawed the ground once, albeit a little lamely after such a spectacular charge. Up close, and no longer a threat, his freckled face gave him a homely look and now he seemed downright embarrassed that it had taken him so long to recognize his horse friend. He swiveled his horn away from my leg, snuffled my jeans leg, touched noses with my horse, and gave me a look that said, “Okay, whoever you are, you’re just damned lucky you’re with my buddy.”

I sat stock still. “Nice Booger Red. I think. Uh, folks, what now?”

Ted rode up alongside, gave me a handful of carrots, and told me to give them to the bull. Gingerly, I held one in my palm, Booger Red took it ever so gently, then nuzzled my hand for another, leaving a glob of bull snot for me to deal with.

“See,” Nanci said, “he likes you.”

“Oh, great,” I said, wiping my hand on my jeans. “Ya know, he could do with a course in anger management. Or maybe glasses.  What  would have happened if he didn’t recognize Rocinante?”

“You don’t want to know,” Ted and Nanci chorused. The ultimate house guest, in only twelve hours I’d managed to piss off at least one employee, and enrage a bull. Who says I’m not a charmer?

The thing about riding horses is that you either shouldn’t do it at all, or more often. Anything in between is extremely painful.

Our mounts were sure-footed and gentle, but that didn’t do a thing to save my thighs and butt from a serious ass whipping. Even on level ground, with a western saddle, inner thigh muscles take to screaming after awhile. Add trail riding up and down mountains, and you can multiply your muscle strain exponentially. By the time we returned to Hacienda de las Estrellas for a late lunch, I was sorely, no pun intended, in need of a medic. Not, of course, that I would admit it.

Since we were all a little horsey-smelling, everyone grabbed a shower before lunch. I unpacked a bottle of Aleve, restrained myself from swallowing all of them. I always carry industrial strength muscle cream, but even a generous dollop didn’t soothe the deep aches. Even the two glasses of wine I had with lunch didn’t make a dent in my misery, but did lull me into an afternoon nap. When I awoke, someone was tapping on my door.

Hobbling across the room, I found Nanci holding out a handful of small pills.

She gave them to me as I asked, “Arsenic, I hope?”

“Nope, just a muscle relaxant. They work wonders.”

“You, my friend, are a saint.”

“No problem. Drinks on the verandah in thirty minutes?”

“Can you send someone up to carry me down?”

She just laughed merrily and left. I’m such a crackup.

“I’m not kidding, here,” I yelled at her back.

Those muscle pills of Nanci’s kicked in fast, allowing me to hitch downstairs for cocktails and dinner without screaming with each step.

After a glass of wine and a couple of hors d’oeuvres, I was feeling downright mahvelous, dahling.

Throughout the spicy tortilla soup course I kept ‘em giddy with my clever repartee.

Halfway through the entrée, I opened my mouth to tell a story and nothing came out. Others might have considered this a good thing, but I wondered if I was having a stroke. Craig took note of the sudden lack of noise on my part. “Hetta, are you all right?”

“Ummph.” My attempt to shake my head “no” ended up as a good imitation of a dashboard bobblehead. I slumped forward and was saved from a face plant into my enchiladas by Craig’s strong grip. “Ank oo,” I told him.

“Oh, dear,” Nanci said. “I gave her a muscle relaxant this afternoon. I guess I should have warned her not to drink.”

“How many did you take?” Craig asked, swiveling my head up so he could see my eyes.

I managed to raise one limp finger.

“Oh, well, you’ll live. It’s off to beddy-bye for you.” He  hoisted me out of the chair, threw me over his shoulder like a sack of cornmeal and footslogged, staggering a little under my dead weight, up the stairs. I really know how to make an exit.

Dumping me onto my bed, he covered me with a blanket and said, “I probably don’t have to wish you sweet dreams. Night, night. I’ll check on you later.”

“Urk.”

Through my drugged haze, I heard him return, twice. At some point during the night I woke up thirsty, wobbled to the bathroom, drank a liter of water, peeled off my clothes, and climbed between the crisply ironed sheets.

Church bells, twittering birds, and a strange scraping sound brought me to life. I was sleeping on my side, curled in my normal fetal position, arms wrapped around a pillow. My first mistake of the day was straightening out my legs, sending a wave of agony throughout the lower half of my body. Groaning, I then made another error: opening my eyes.

Something huge and black was three inches from my nose, its terrible pinchers grinding as it crept toward me. Shrieking, I propelled myself backward while shoving the pillow, complete with monster, onto the floor. The shock of my aching butt hitting the carpet on the opposite side momentarily overrode my fear. Folding over the bed, I bent my knees to relieve my searing calves and thighs.  In the meantime, the thing had climbed back onto the bed and was inching my way again. Jackknifing erect, I screamed, “Fire!” figuring, “Bug!” wouldn’t get nearly the rapid response required.

Carrying a bottle of water in each hand, Craig crashed through the door. “Where?”

“There,” I pointed.

Craig laughed. “Cool. I’ve always wanted one of these.” At that moment several others arrived, one man with a fire extinguisher.

“False alarm,” Craig told them. “Hetta can’t tell the difference between fire and a vinegarroon.”

“A what?”

“Vinegarroon. Mastigoproctus giganteus. Some people call them whip scorpions, but they are totally harmless. I gotta admit, though, he sure doesn’t look it.”

I peered warily at the bug. “Looks like a squid with claws, if you ask me. How was I supposed to know he’s harmless?”

Nanci arrived. “Oh, dear. Vinny,” she said, shaking her finger at the monstrosity grinding away in the middle of my bed, “you know you’re supposed to stay downstairs. Bad bug. Sorry, Hetta. He does look frightful, doesn’t he?”

Rosa swooped in, picked up the six-inch insect, gave me a shrug, and took the thing away. It was then I realized I was dressed in an oversized tee that barely covered my butt. I sat on the bed, pulled a sheet around me, and asked, “Pew. What’s that stink?”

Nanci sniffed the air. “That vinegary smell? That’s Vinny. He emits the scent when he’s frightened. Poor thing.”

“
He
’s frightened?
He
’s the poor thing? He about scared the vinegar out of me. Are you telling me he’s a pet?”

“Not a pet exactly,” Nanci explained, pouring me a glass of water and shooing the others from the room. “Here, drink this. You’ll feel better. I am so sorry about Vinny. He is actually a great asset to the household, because he eats roaches.”

I lifted my glass and said, weakly, “Oh, well then. Anything that eats roaches can’t be all bad, but man, is he butt ugly.”

Craig stuck his head through the door. “You rang?”

I chuckled through my pain. “Naw, I was talking about Vinny.”

“I’ve always wanted a Vinny for my bug collection. Does he have a dead brother around here by any chance, Nanci?”

“Nope, they are all alive and well, the whole family. If you’d like, I’ll box him up for you, but you have to promise me he’ll expire of natural causes.”

Harmless or not, I didn’t like the sound of that.

“Uh, Craig, you aren’t taking that damned thing home with us are you? What’s his, uh, lifespan?”

“I don’t know how long they live, but I’ll keep him in a terrarium until I go back to Oakland. You won’t even know he’s there. Okay?”

“I guess,” I grumbled, recalling with a shiver a childhood pet tarantula the size of a dinner plate that escaped his terrarium one night to terrorize the household. If Vinny came to live under my roof, his longevity prospects had just suffered a turn for the worse.

“Great,” Nanci chirped. “I have an old fish tank you can take with you. We kept a rat snake in it in the room next door, but he’s been missing for a week or two, so you might as well take his cage.”

I quickly, but painfully, jerked my feet from the floor. Snake? What is it with these people?

“Don’t worry, he’s non-poisonous,” Nanci assured me. “We used to turn him loose anyhow every few days to clear out bugs, mice and the like, but now he’s on the job twenty-four seven, I guess. Maybe poor Vinny crawled in bed with you for protection?”

“Then Vinny is a very bad judge of character,” I growled.

Nanci guffawed. “Okay, everyone downstairs for breakfast in ten minutes,” she announced as she bounded out the door. I could grow to hate that woman.

Limping around, I downed two more bottles of water, brushed my teeth and hair, and somehow pulled on clothes. Descending the stairs was an exercise in excruciation, but there was no way I was going to take another of those pills before the drive home. Plain old ibuprofen would have to suffice.

“There you are,” Nanci chirped. “Good morning again. Feeling better?” She was drinking coffee and looking great.

Maybe hate is too mild a term. I duck-walked to the table, grimacing as I sat. “Better than what?”

Craig entered, heard me, and warned, “Watch it, Nanci, she bites before coffee.”

A servant quickly filled my cup and scuttled out of reach. I loaded two heaping spoonfuls of raw sugar and a massive dollop of heavy cream into my cup, all the while glaring at Craig, mentally daring him to even mention Splenda and skimmed milk. Wisely, he did not.

Ted strode in, gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder, and plunked down next to me. “I heard you met Vinny. You okay?”

Caffeine had restored my manners. “Yes, thanks. Sorry about last night. I think that was the first time in my entire life I didn’t finish an enchilada. Good grief, Nanci, what was that pill you gave me?”

“I really don’t know. My doctor prescribed them to me after I pulled a ligament. Or was it when my horse pulled a ligament?”

That lightened the mood and we chatted while eating like lumberjacks preparing to decimate a forest.

If there is one thing I love, it’s a Mexican breakfast. Give me corn tortillas, refried beans, eggs scrambled with chile peppers, and I’ve died and gone to heaven. “Did I hear church bells this morning?” I asked, recalling a moment of peace I’d experienced before being scared out of what little wits I have by our cousin, Vinny.

“Sorry, you missed mass,” Nanci said. “If I’d known you wanted to attend, I would have wakened you earlier.”

“Oh, I’m not Catholic, I just wondered if I was hearing things.”

“We have our own chapel and a priest comes up from the village each Sunday. As you saw yesterday, we have over fifty people living up here, so it is easier to bring the church to us.”

“I love your life, Nanci,” I said. “You guys are living your  dream, and helping others along the way. You even adopt
perros de calles
.”

Ted laughed. “How’d ya know our dogs are strays?”

“I know a street dawg when I see one. Heck, I dated a few.”

Craig nodded in mock grim agreement. “Actually,” he told us, “left to their own, with no humans finagling their breeding, dogs revert to mostly looking alike. I did my doctorate on the subject. What I’ve seen here, though, is that once in awhile there’s a coyote in the gene pool.” Then he told them about Blue acting more dog than coyote.

Ted nodded. “We have our share of coydogs in these parts. What we need is a good vet in town to spay the strays. If you decide to relocate to Bisbee I'll fly you down here once in awhile for a spay and neuter clinic. The local authorities are forced to shoot dog packs on occasion, and unfortunately, so are we. They attacked our dogs and livestock, until, of course, we got old Booger Red. He makes short work of stray dogs, or coyotes. Well, he and Sancho, our attack donkey.”

“My granddad had one of those donkeys,” I told them. “Went after anything that even looked like a canine. He and my grandmother’s Border collies got on fine, but Lord help a stray dog or a coyote. I guess between Sancho and Booger Red you don’t have much need for guns around here? You did say, though, you shot some marauding dogs. I thought you couldn’t own firearms in Mexico.”

“We both have hunting licenses and shotguns. It’s legal if you do it right. The trick is the transportation license. The feds get sticky on the movement of guns from, say, your house to town.”

“So, only the narco thugs get a free license to kill, huh? They know pretty much no one has a gun except them, the military, and the cops. I read about the big shootout around here last fall.”

Nanci said, “It was near Arizpe, just south of here, and very scary. We went on full defense mode when we heard some ranchers were kidnapped as hostages. The police tracked down the gang members, supposedly Zetas out of an east coast cartel with ties to Texas, and killed them. Good riddance, in my book, but we haven’t really relaxed. There’re too many places to hide in these hills, what with scores of abandoned ranches and few people.”

“Speaking of ranches,” I said, “do you know the people who own Rancho Sierra Coronado? Craig and I tried to stop by yesterday, but the gate was locked and posted. Maybe they are still spooked over the gang thing, as well.”

“It’s for sale and the owners are not around, only caretakers are there. The gate was locked? That’s strange.”

“I did see someone drive up on the other side as we were leaving, but by then we’d decided to move on. Those caretakers drive a fancy white SUV of some kind by any chance?”

“Hardly,” Nanci said with a laugh. “Tomás has a decrepit flatbed. Why?”

“I saw a Jeep or SUV, a white one, behind the gate.” I didn’t mention my suspicion that it had followed us down to the river crossing .

“Who knows? Maybe they finally sold the place.”

Craig stood. “We’d better get on the road, I guess.” He grabbed my arm to help me up, which my screaming thighs greatly appreciated. “Hetta, you all packed?”

“You betcha. There’s no way I am going up those stairs, so can you pretty please bring down my stuff?”

Craig left, Ted walked me out to the verandah, and asked, “I wonder if you could do us a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Can you give Sonrisa a ride to Naco, Sonora? Her brother lives there, and she visits him every Sunday. It’ll save her a long wait for the bus.”

Why not? She and that vinegarroon should make perfectly sour company for each other, I thought, but I said, “Uh, well, I was thinking of stopping by my office in Cananea for a couple of hours.”

Craig, who had returned with my suitcase, heard me and gave me a, say what? look.

Ted shook his head. “No way, not today. The news this morning said the mine is closed, complete lockdown. The miners have totally walked off the job. Matter of fact, you’re lucky you don’t even have to pass through town to get home. I guess things are a little tense.”

Crappola. “Oh, well, then,” I said meekly, “I guess we can give little Smiley a lift.”