Just Different Devils (10 page)

"Cool," Jan said. "We need to get more fresh veggies, booze and a bunch of other stuff. What time shall we leave?"

"Well, uh, I didn't…" he shrugged in defeat. "Nine okay with you?"

"Sure thing. Hetta, you comin' with us?"

"Nope. Po Thang and I'll have a spa day. Maybe I'll do our nails."

Po Thang looked up at the mention of his name and gave me a tail thump.

Little did he know he might be in for a Harlot Red pedi.

It took two dives to retrieve my Waterford Crystal pitcher which, while totally impractical on a boat, is still my favorite. It was resting on the sand in twelve feet of water, and was none the worse for wear after being dropped by Nacho on his unscheduled dunking the evening before.

More importantly, as part
deux
of our hatched scheme, I also got a gander at the bottom of Nacho's boat while I was down there, and underwater shots of some equipment that was definitely not like anything attached to
my
boat's hull. I'd been on a dive boat most of the previous summer, and from what I could tell Nacho's boat was equipped with sonar and underwater cameras.

Jan and I ran and re-ran the contents of the thumb drive I lifted—and hacked—from Nacho's backpack the night before, but were left more baffled than ever.

Not that being in a state of confusion is all that unusual in my case, but even with all our snooping, we were no closer to discovering what Nacho was up to on those daily forays of grid-running. One thing for sure, it was
not
fishing.

The minute Jan and Nacho shoved off for La Paz, I turned on a wonderful toy we'd gotten the year before from Rosario, our sometime partner in crime, hacker nonpareil, and techie-snooping genius: a tiny GPS tracking receiver we found in our bag of tricks. I picked up an immediate readout from the other end of the GPS device, the one in Jan's jacket pocket, but would soon find a home in some well-concealed compartment on Nacho's boat before they returned.

We'd decided to plant the GPS sending unit in case Deputy Dawg wore out his welcome on Nacho's daily trips. The new gadget had a twenty-five-mile range and I checked it repeatedly until I lost the signal in less than an hour. So much for Nacho fishing on the way into town; not many fish are going to hit a hook being dragged at thirty-five miles an hour.

Once I lost the signal, I moved my laptop to the sundeck table, planning on enjoying the solitude while rechecking that thumb drive's contents I'd downloaded the night before, just in case we'd suffered a Coco Loco induced attention deficit attack. After running through it again, I saw we hadn't missed a thing, but by the coordinates we knew it was a combined Google Earth printout, and an aerial video of the same area of the site where Nacho had been running that search of his.

Jan and I guessed he was using his own underwater cameras, GPS coordinated, along with Google Earth and video to find something. But what?

Jan called me on my satellite phone mid-afternoon. "Having a good time without me?"

"Actually, yes. I have newly red hair, and Po Thang and I both have Harlot Red nails. He's not too happy about it, but I think the nails complement his coat. How was your run into La Paz besides fast?"

"Smooth as a baby's butt. We made it pronto."

"I figured as much. I lost the GPS signal pretty soon after you guys took off, but all  systems are a go. Have you planted your end yet?"

"Not yet. My end is planted on a barstool at the Dock Café right now. Nacho just left for parts unknown in town, and I'm still trying to decide where on his boat is the best place to put the tracking device."

"Hide it well, Sherlock. What time you getting back? Want me to put something in the oven for dinner?"

"That's why I'm callin'. When we got into the marina this morning they had a message for you. Your new pangita can be delivered tomorrow if you want us to wait for it."

"Super. You've made my day. First, I'll get an entire evening of peace and quiet, and we'll have wheels of our own when Nacho takes off every day. Where are y'all gonna stay tonight?"

"Nacho says he has a friend in town he'll stay with. When I spring my Jeep from the parking garage, I'll get my emergency overnight bag I always keep in it, then check into that little hotel right by the marina. I'll shop for groceries later today, so let me know if you think of anything else we need. The hotel has a fridge and freezer to stash everything in until we pack up to come back to the boat tomorrow. The panga factory guy says they'll deliver your dinghy around ten, and then we'll head back, but we gotta take time to refuel."

"Call me on the radio when you get within range and I'll check our tracking."

"Roger that. Have you figured out what you want to name your new dink? I can pick up some vinyl stick-on letters at the chandlery."

"Not really. I'll miss the old
Se Vende
. Maybe I'll keep the name. I'm glad I went ahead and bought that new fifteen horse Evinrude before we left, but I've only got two five gallon jerry jugs of gas. How about picking up another jug and fill it while you guys are at the fuel dock."

"You've got it, Chica.
Hasta mañana
."

"
Hasta
."

After I hung up with Jan, I contemplated what to do with the rest of my glorious folks-free day. Without a dinghy, I was pretty stuck on the boat, and with my newly tinted locks, I wasn't tempted to take a color-stripping salt water dunk. I knew I could call Karen and Kevin, who were still in the anchorage, and beg a ride, but didn't relish giving up my day alone.

As will happen when faced with a major decision, I took a nap.

When I woke, I was momentarily disoriented. It was dark, and I was on a sundeck lounge chair, wrapped in my bikini print blankie. Po Thang's low growl accompanied the distinctive ka-chunk sound of anchor chain links clanking out of a windlass chock.

"Hush, Thang. It's just a sailboat dropping anchor."

I unwrapped myself and went to the flying bridge. The sailboat's running lights were still on, as was his anchor light. Po Thang, on point, rumbled unhappily at this interloper who had the nerve to anchor near his boat. Matter of fact, I let out a little growl myself when I realized the boat was much closer to us than I like, and in an area a little too shallow for the average sailboater's comfort zone.

"Must be a charter," I told Po Thang. "Let's just hope the wind doesn't come up and he drags down on us."

I realized my own boat was completely dark and flipped on the deck lights, lest the new arrival hadn't seen us. However, when I looked up at my own anchor light, a solar powered job, it glowed brightly. Okay, so they saw us and anchored too close anyway. Charter for sure.

Not willing to re-anchor to get away from this annoying boat, I went into the galley to find us dinner. I opened the fridge and spotted the snapper filets from Nacho's "catch" the day before. "Some catch, huh? He caught it when that blue panga dude handed it to him. But, hey never look a gift fish in the mouth. How would you like your fish prepared this evening, sir? Sautéed wiz zee
buerre d'ail
? Or perhaps béarnaise sauce?"

Po Thang didn't seem to care, so rather than go to the trouble of making béarnaise, I smooshed garlic cloves with the flat of a large knife, added the garlic to butter and olive oil in my great-grandmother's iron skillet, and put it over low heat to gunch—culinary technical term—before turning up the heat and adding the fish. I popped some of the leftover mac and cheese into the microwave, which reminded me to check my battery levels after dinner, what with the microwave being the arch enemy of batteries. I rarely ran it unless the generator was running, but I felt like living dangerously.

By some miracle I found half a bottle of Pouilly-Fume in the fridge, right next to the container of mac and cheese. The odds of these two things surviving intact overnight on
Raymond Johnson
made me wish I'd bought a lottery ticket.

I gave Po Thang some dried dog food with sautéed snapper mixed in, but he gave me a glower that said he knew I was eating mac and cheese, and not sharing.

"Okay, here's the deal," I told him, "finish the dried stuff and, even though I know better, I promise to save you a large spoonful of mac and cheese for dessert. I wonder if there is such a thing as doggie Beano? I'll have to ask your Uncle Craig."

He stared at my plate.

"Eat. Your. Dinner."

Glare with woof.

"I mean it."

Whiney growl.

I turned away and protected my food with my arms. "I'm not looking at you," I singsonged.

Yip.

"You're driving me nuts here. Oh, what the hell, stop your grousing." I spooned mac and cheese into his bowl. Dog discipline is not my strong suit. Good thing I never had children.

Finally left to eat my meal in peace before it got cold, I shoveled down the mac and cheese first. Out of sight, out of doggy mind, right?

I finished my dinner, making sure, just for spite, that there was not even a tiny piece of anything left, and put my plate down for him to clean.

Pushing into my seatback, I took a sip of the perfectly chilled crisp white wine, then sat up straight, my head swiveling toward a sound. Was that bagpipe music? Coming from the sailboat anchored right next to me?

Great Scot!

The bagpipes gave a last gasp, as only bagpipes can, and about two minutes later I heard Sean Connery's voice on my VHF radio. "
Raymond Johnson, Raymond Johnson
,
Full Kilt Boogie."

"Po Thang," I told my dog, "I really should not answer this, right?," even as I reached for the mic.

His tail wagged in agreement. Either that, or he thought I said "You want an entire T-bone steak?"

"
Full Kilt Boogie
, this is
Raymond Johnson
, switch to 88." I chose eighty-eight because most boaters don't have that channel on autotune. Why have everyone in the anchorage reading my mail?

I switched from channel sixteen to eighty-eight and waited. A minute later, Sean called and I answered. "Hetta here. That you next to me?" Like I didn't know.

"Aye. We keep bumping up against each other, so I thought it time we actually met."

Or bumped up against each other for real? Bad Hetta!

"Uh, sure. Want to come over for coffee in the morning?"

"I thought to bring you a bottle of wine tonight."

Oh, well, I tried. Right?

I had time to brush on blush and pouf my hair before his dinghy bumped—that word again!—against my swim platform, and Po Thang banged up against the locked doggie door trying to get out of the cabin.

Releasing the hound, I followed to find a hunk of Scot—unfortunately, no kilt, just shorts and a tee shirt—already on my back deck, petting the formerly furious dog, who was chewing on an oversized dog treat. My dog has a keen affinity for palm greasing. Kinda like me.

Accepting my own kind of treat—a bottle of wine—from his large hand, I stuck out my own paw. "Hetta Coffey."

He bowed and kissed my hand, which sent an electric shock through my body. Looking up into my eyes with his green ones, he said, "Artherrrr MacKenzie Gra-ham. Mac to my friends." Putting his other hand over mine, he held on until Po Thang, thinking there might be another treat involved, nosed our hands apart.

Rattled, I stammered, "Uh, welcome aboard?"

"It is my pleasure. Nice dug."

"Huh?"

He patted Po Thang's head. "Yer dug."

Po Thang gave him a lick. Fickly dug, in my book.

"Wine!" I yipped.

"Aye."

It seemed we were inventing a new language here.

A glass of good burgundy goes a long way toward breaking down language barriers. I thanked him for his help with the rescue of Bubbles two weeks before, he praised my bravery for tackling the job by myself. A mutual admiration society.

Although I'd told myself I wouldn't have a second glass of wine, I did.

We talked about where we came from (Stornoway, Isle of Lewis/Austin, Kingdom of Texas) why we were in the Sea (stop on the way to the South Pacific and around the world/I wish I knew), careers (Corporate Sales/Engineering consultant), and the like. 

The bottle was soon empty, and I made a grownup decision not to open another. Then, as wine will do, it changed my mind. I stood to get another bottle when my Satfone rang.

Does Jenks have a sixth sense about such things? Here I was, on the brink of getting drunk with a hunk, when up pops Jenks on Skype. I told him to stand by, went out to tell Mac I had to take the call, and he got the hint and left.

"Sorry about that. A neighbor stopped by and I was just saying goodnight."

"You still at Partida?"

"Yep. The water is still a swimmable temperature, and no northers yet this year. Matter of fact, I went for a swim this morning. And guess what? The new dinghy is ready. Jan's picking it up tomorrow morning." The minute I said this, I feared I'd opened a can of worms.

"Jan's in La Paz?"

"Uh, yes. Our charter folk," I thought this sounded better than charter dude, "had to go in for fuel for the fishing boat, so she caught a ride. We're running through our fresh fruit and veggies. One thing we have plenty of is fresh fish."

"Wish I was there. I'm getting real tired of hotel food. So you've got the boat to yourself, huh? I know you don't like people on the boat that much. Maybe this charter will cure you of wanting to do any more of them. Are the guests nice?"

"We're getting along just fine." I was a little wine-fogged, and was trying desperately to remember what I'd told him so far about the "folk" we had on board. A good liar, I am a less than stellar remember-er. I always remember what others have to say, but me? I sometimes mess up. Maybe someday I'll just start telling the truth?

A pig flew by.

After talking with Jenks, I buttoned up the boat and went to bed with my Kindle and dug. I read a few minutes, heard a splash outside, got up and rechecked my locks, went back to my book, heard another splash, looked out again, and was back in bed when I realized Po Thang hadn't even twitched an ear. I trust his instincts and keen ears, so I read until I drifted off into a deep sleep.

Which ended at six a.m. with the arrival of Bubbles.

Po Thang was ecstatic, and spent a good two hours in the water with his aquatic buddy while I gave the boat a good cleaning, inside and out. We'd rinsed the boat with fresh water and squeegeed the windows when we'd arrived, but it was time for some boat soap and elbow grease. I consider it my boat aerobics.

What I've never figured out is why, when you're floating in the water, miles from the nearest road, and there has been no wind, I get dirt all over the boat. I keep a fresh-water foot bath for dipping off sand and salt water when boarding, and a no-shoes rule past the entryway from the swim platform. Po Thang gets a wash down every time he goes in the water or on shore. And yet I found myself scrubbing, then rinsing, brownish tinted water all the way down from the flying bridge.

Jan's radio call let me know they were on their way with an ETA around 11:30, so I wrapped up my boat chores, threw together a tuna noodle casserole, and popped it into the oven.

Back on deck as I was hanging wipe-down rags over the rails to dry, the unique harmonic of a bagpipe gave me an emotional charge. I've always had a drippy response to the pipes, maybe leftover from hearing the incomparable version of the "Amazing Grace" melody played against that low drone, or something. Whatever, it gives me goose bumps, and sometimes makes me tear up. Mac and his pipes were becoming serious mind messer-uppers.

Not everyone shared my fascination with Mac's pipes, for as soon as the bagpipe wailed, Bubbles performed a couple of high leaps and took off like a shot, out to sea, leaving Po Thang paddling in confused circles. He couldn't see her wake like I could from the boat, so he dog paddled around a bit, waiting, before giving up and launching himself onto the swim platform.  He whined while I washed and rough dried him, then sat on his towel in the sun, gazing longingly out to sea. Love can be so cruel.

"I know, Honey. Been there. There was this ski instructor—"

Po Thang barked and thumped his tail, then Nacho's low rumbling engines preceded his entry into the anchorage. My new dinghy trailed behind him.

Yippee. Wheels!

Jan embraced my exuberant, but still damp dog while Nacho and I maneuvered my new dink alongside
Raymond Johnson
, and tied her off where I'd already deployed fenders.

"Hetta, look at the transom," Jan told me.

I walked aft where I could see the back of the pangita. In large black letters, I saw,
Po Boy
. I laughed and Jan asked, "So, you like the name?"

"Yes, I do."

"Oh, good. I wanted to surprise you."

"What if I didn't like it?"

"We'll peel it off. It's only electrical tape, but I bought a vinyl lettering kit for the permanent name."

Bagpipes piped and Jan spun around. "You are kidding me. I leave for one lousy night!"

Nacho had also turned to listen. "Who is that?"

"Hetta's boyfriend," Jan said.

"Not so."

"So."

"Hetta has a boyfriend? I mean besides Jenks. And me?"

I threw up my hands and stormed to the galley to check on the casserole. Jan followed, still laughing. "Jeez, Hetta, we were just kidding you. Why so touchy?"

Letting out a long breath, I admitted, "I honestly do not know. Bagpipe music makes me cry, and he keeps on playing the damned thing."

"He just quit, so you can dry those crocodile tears."

I gave her shoulder a backhanded tap. "Oh, shut up. Let's put away the groceries and have lunch."

Nacho made several trips to his boat and hauled in goodies for Jan and me to stow. We probably had enough on board now to provision the
QEII
for a transatlantic voyage.

We'd just finished putting everything away when the timer dinged. "Let's eat! I'll bring the casserole, Jan you grab the salad. Nacho, get the plates, napkins, and silverware. Everyone get what you want to drink."

"Aye, aye,
capitán
," Nacho said as he grabbed four plates. "Oh, I invited Mac to join us. Hope you don't mind."

I was the last up on deck, carrying the heavy, still bubbling, Le Creuset casserole dish with both hot-pad covered hands. I'd tucked an ice cold Tecate under my arm and when Mac saw me coming, he rushed over and removed the beer from my freezing arm pit. His knuckles brushed my boob in the process.

My cheeks flamed and I almost dropped our lunch.

Jan, who was watching the whole thing with a smirk, asked, "Hetta. That new blush you're wearing?"

"Hot dish!" I declared.

"I couldn't agree more," she drawled.

I plopped the casserole on a trivet in the middle of the table and tromped on Jan's bare toes under the table.

"Ouch! Watch it, Hetta."

"Oops, sorry," I crooned, looking down. "Hey, is that a new nail polish color? It's really good at covering up that fungus."

Nacho intervened by pushing a chair seat into my knee backs, forcing me to sit. He threw a napkin in my lap and popped my beer tab. "Glass for
madame
?" he asked.

I shook my head and took a long pull directly from the can.

Nacho, still in his maitre d' mode, asked Mac what he wanted to drink.

"Did we finish that great bottle of Burgundy last night, Hetta? If not, I''ll take a glass."

Jan lowered her sunglasses and waggled her eyebrows at me.

Nacho's mouth fell open.

Mac waited for an answer.

I chugged my beer.