Just Needs Killin

As always, my first reader and hubby, Robert "Mad Dog" Schwartz, is my first line of defense. His unflagging patience with the techie stuff that has me screaming at my computer is priceless.

Holly Whitman has been the editor of every one of my books, and she keeps me out of the ditch when my story heads there. Thanks, Holly, once again for your wise input.

Also, I have beta readers! Thanks so much, Mary Jordan and Barbara Novak.

And then there is Donna Rich, who has the final, final, say. And very sharp eyes.

The Hetta Coffey series

Just Add Water, Book 1

Just Add Salt, Book 2

Just Add Trouble, Book 3

Just Deserts, Book 4

Just the Pits, Book 5

Just Needs Killin', Book 6

The Hetta Coffey Boxed Set, Books 1-4

Troubled Sea

The Texicans

Land Of Mountains

All available at http://amzn.to/o0gXOy

Facebook: http://on.fb.me/OegHma

Twitter handle @jinxschwartz

Twitter page: http://bit.ly/peOlj6

Website: http://jinxschwartz.com

Just Needs Killin'

Published by Jinx Schwartz

Book 6: Hetta Coffey series

The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to persons, whether living or dead, is strictly coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning to a computer disk, or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without express permission in writing from the publisher.

JUST NEEDS KILLIN'

Jinx Schwartz

CHAPTER ONE

A friend in need is a pest.—Hetta Coffey

My VHF radio crackled to life and a familiar, if tremulous, voice carried throughout the cabin. "
Raymond Johnson
,
Raymond Johnson,
this is Jan. I'm at the marina office. Can you please, please, come get me?"

That quaver spoke volumes—volumes of ca-ca.

Not that I wasn't happy to hear from my best friend, but Jan turning up unannounced
at Puerto Escondido, coupled with the telling timbre of the call, was a dead-on harbinger of an impending pity party. Or worse.

Her pitiful plea was, unfortunately, broadcast throughout the cruising community for miles around. I envisioned boaters lunging for their radios, poised to switch to whichever channel I chose in order to answer Jan's call. Dashing their hopes of "reading the mail" and listening in on what promised to be a titillating conversation, I answered with a simple, "I'll be right there," followed by a smug, "Ha!" after I let go of the transmit key and gleefully imagined a collective sigh of disappointment wafting my way on a light breeze. We boaters are so easily titillated.

Wondering, however, whether the last laugh might be on me, I let loose a sigh of my own, and said, "Po Thang, let us go fetch your po Auntie Jan and see what manner of well-known substance has hit the friggin' propeller."

CHAPTER TWO

Po Thang, a golden retriever I rescued from a treacherous stretch of Baja's Highway One, or Mex 1 as we call it, was doing his version of a point—paw raised, whole body atremble, staring down the boat's radio—from the moment he heard Jan's voice. When I put down the mic and headed aft, he bumped me out of his way in an effort to ensure I didn't leave him on
Raymond Johnson
. Scrambling down onto the swim platform, he effortlessly bounded into the bow of
Se Vende
, a dilapidated-looking panga I use as a dingy.

Dilapidated-
looking
is a proper description for my old twenty-two-foot panga, a fishing skiff like thousands of others plying Mexican waters. To discourage thieves, I've never repaired her banged-up gunwales, nor repainted the peeling layers of bygone colors from years of hard service. I even retained the name, obviously lettered by an amateur with a sense of humor;
Se Vende
means FOR SALE. And even though she sports a brand new 60-horsepower Evinrude outboard, I bought a very used model Johnson held together with baling wire and duct tape, and switched the housings. Why pirate my piece of crap panga or ancient motor when other cruisers have nice fancy Zodiacs with shiny new engines to plunder?

Po Thang and I putted slowly toward the marina to avoid throwing a wake in the harbor, so by the time we arrived Jan had collected a dock load of admirers: single-handers and deckhands for the most part, drawn to the tall blonde like sharks to chum. Not that man-bait is always bad; goodness knows I've used her as such myself more than once. Okay, a lot.

On the way to pick up Jan, I mulled myriad possibilities of why she was here. Had she left Chino, her sig-other, yet
again
? If so, she wasn't in for a whole lot of sympathy on my part, for Dr. Brigido Comacho Yee, a.k.a. Chino, is a handsome, world-renowned Mexican marine biologist with enough letters after his name to put Vanna White on roller skates, and he has done everything in his power to keep Jan in his camp. No really, it is a camp—a fish camp located on a lonely stretch of sand on the Pacific side of the Baja—but he's done what he can to make it comfortable for the love of his life. Unfortunately the
amor de
Chino's
vida
has a bug up her cute butt about being twelve years older than he, but I thought they'd worked that out. So, what now?

Jan had a Mexican plastic carry-all in hand, but dropped it, and her designer handbag, to hug Po Thang after he made the leap from panga to dock while we were still three feet out. I'd secretly vowed to someday throw the boat into reverse at just the right moment and dump him into the drink, but today was his lucky day. I sidled up alongside the dinghy landing and one of the cruisers reluctantly stopped ogling Jan's long, beautifully tanned legs just long enough to snag my painter. One eye still on Jan, he haphazardly secured the line to a dock cleat.

Jan wore the oversized sunglasses we both favor, but I could tell by the set of her mouth she was more than a little disquieted. When you've been friends with someone for over twenty years, their very body language is a 'tell,' and Jan's fairly screamed "knickers in a twist!" Breaking off her love fest with Po Thang, she tossed her bags into my panga, followed them, and ordered, "Let's go."

"Sure thing, Blondie, but I gotta charge ya extra for that pooch," I grumbled in what I considered a fairly good imitation of a New York cabbie.

She had the good grace to give me an apologetic lip twitch. "Sorry, Hetta. I'm a little on the distracted side. I'll explain when we get to the boat."

We motored away, much to the dismay of Jan's admirers. Po Thang moved to the bow again, barking at the occasional gull, pelican, or fish. Jan clammed up, for she knows full well how sound carries across water, and that talking over an outboard's whine is a surefire way of sharing your business with everyone in the harbor.

Rather than go directly to the boat, I coasted up to an isolated strip of beach nearby so Po Thang could do his doodie, thus saving me another trip ashore later. I'd pick up his leavings the next day, for Po Thang, being a creature of habit, always goes for his favorite six square feet of dumping ground.

Cutting the engine after the dog leapt onto the sand and started nosing around for the perfect spot, I turned to Jan, who had removed her sunglasses and was dabbing tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Those big blue peepers I envied so much were bloodshot and swollen, which might have given me a moment of guilty glee had I not known whatever her problem was, it was most likely about to become mine as well.

A friend in need is, indeed, a pest.

CHAPTER THREE

There is something magical about anchoring out, swaying on the hook at the whim of breeze and tide, surrounded by magnificent views and turquoise water. And my boat is no garbage scow, either.
Raymond Johnson
is a forty-five foot powerboat with all the accoutrements of an upscale condo. By some boater's standards, I live in the lap of luxury, but hanging out for long stretches by myself at anchor is nevertheless a solitary business.

Not that I'm totally alone in my almost-empty corner of the harbor. I have Po Thang for company, but that has its good and bad points, as well. Po Thang is a rescue dog in a literal sense of the term; I rescued him, stranded and starving, from a barren six-foot piece of real estate next to Baja's Highway One, aptly named
La Cuesta del Infierno
,
or
Hill of Hell. This charming two-lane stretch of Mex 1 is carved from towering volcanic mountainsides, and snakes through turns, switchbacks, and blind curves without benefit of guardrails, shoulders, or turnouts.

The dog was skinny, filthy, and his future grim, until a friend and I risked our own futures to snag him. Dubbed Po Thang by Jan, once he was scrubbed and then fattened up, he turned out to be a beautiful young golden retriever with a propensity for eating me out of house and boat.

I wasn't exactly thinking ahead when I nabbed him, and had I known I'd be stuck at anchor with the ungrateful little turd, I might have considered leaving him for coyote food. But now here we were, in Puerto Escondido, just us two, until that day Jan showed up. At least ferrying Po Thang ashore a couple of times a day and taking him on long walks filled up time, which I had plenty of while waiting for Jenks—my long-distance boyfriend—to return from Dubai.

Choosing Puerto Escondido for my new digs made sense. It's a safe harbor in all but really ugly hurricanes, and has a large Gringo community, mostly living on boats or in RVs, in case something goes wrong and I need help. I was wait-listed for a slip soon in the small marina, but for now I swung on my own anchor, and had opted for the far northeastern end of the harbor because there is a window, or low berm, between the hills forming the harbor. Through that slot I have a direct line of sight to a cell tower between Puerto Escondido and Loreto, the nearest town to the north. Near that older tower, Carlos Slim, owner of Telmex, and the richest man in Mexico (and sometimes the world, if Bill Gates is having an off day), has recently bought into a development with a golf course. Rumor has it 5G is just around the corner, but just around the corner in Mexico is on par with mañana, which doesn't mean tomorrow, as many think, but instead it means not today.

I received both cellphone and Internet service via Telcel's supposedly 4G
banda ancha
—in actuality more like 3G, but better than nothing—and therefore a way of keeping in touch (and killing even more time on Facebook) without firing up my bajillion-peso-a-moment satellite system. Cell service in Baja is still spotty on most of the peninsula, so finding a spot with even marginal service is a bonus, although it does relegate me to the nether reaches of the large harbor.

Puerto Escondido was also a logical choice because of my semi-employed status. I am Hetta Coffey, SI (my little phonetic joke for Civil Engineer), Chief Executive Officer, Chief Financial Officer, and sole employee of a consulting firm specializing in Materials Management for offbeat—some might even say shady—projects.

I was recently given the boot as Acting Project Manager at a Baja copper mine when they found someone who is actually qualified for the job. However, they pay me a retainer as a consultant, and as such I'm on call to drive the hundred miles or so north for a couple of meetings a month, for which I gouge them properly. I could have stayed at a marina in a town much closer to the mine, but if Puerto Escondido is a little on the lonely side, Santa Rosalia, a blue-collar Mexican town, is almost devoid of other
Gringos
, and social life for a single
Gringa
is nil to none.

Stuck at anchor with only a demanding dog, daily mundane chores required to keep afloat on the hook, and the occasional visitor or beach party invite to enliven my days, Jan showing up like she did would have been a bonus had I not sensed an impending eff-up with every bone in my somewhat ample body.

"Okay, Chica, what's up?" I asked her as we sat in
Se Vende
waiting for Po Thang to pee upon every bush on the beach while in search of the perfect place to dump his load. My dog can multitask, but every so often gets distracted by a possibly tasty critter, like a lizard, to run to ground, gobble down, and then barf up, before getting back to the business at hand. He always faces south while piling poo, a doggy feng shui kinda thing he picked up from a Shih Tzu play pal that lives on a beach nearby.

As we watched Po Thang sniff around for south, Jan drew a ragged breath and blew it up into her bangs. "I think I've screwed up, and since you do that so much, I thought you could help me out."

"Well, gosh, since you put it that way."

"I meant, Hetta, with your uh…background, and all."

I'll admit I've sewn enough wild oats to end world hunger, but what did she mean by my
background
?

"My background as what?"

"You know, a woman of the world. And you
did
live in Tokyo."

"And that qualifies me for mind reading?"

She gave me a crooked smile. "It's a long story, but we don't have much time. We gotta be there by six."

"Not Japan, I assume? And by the way
we
don't gotta be anywhere by
any
time, much less six."

"There's gonna be lots of great food and free booze."

"Well, phooey, and me without a thing to wear. Po Thang, get your furry ass back into this boat, your Auntie Jan and I have places to go."

Back on
Raymond Johnson,
I poured us both a glass of wine and we moved to the aft sundeck where she gave me the lowdown. When she finished talking I remained speechless, something I'm not known for.

"Hetta, shut your mouth. You've got flies checking it out."

I snapped my lips shut, ran my tongue around inside my mouth checking for insects to spit, found none, and then quaffed my wine. "Let me see if I have this straight. You agreed to meet some Japanese guy at a ritzy resort tonight, and attend a party with him in return for him funding your boyfriend's treasure expedition in Magdalena Bay?"

She nodded.

"And Chino, the would-be treasure hunter, has no idea what you've gotten yourself into on his behalf?"

"Of course not. What kind of man do you think he is?"

"I think he's going to be one pissed off significant other when he finds out you're off for a tryst with Mr. Japanese dude, while
Mrs.
Japanese dude and his three little sushi crunchers are back at his whale camp communing with wildlife."

"It's not a tryst. Ishi just wants a, uh, well...someone by his side, like, you know, a hostess."

"Oh, it's
Ishi
, is it? How very chummy."

"It's what he asked me to call him at the party. So his friends know that we're friends."

I snorted, and rolled my eyes. This Ishi's friends were going to know exactly what Jan was. Or what he wanted them to
think
she was. Having worked in Japan, I know the ways of the men. Jan, although younger than I, is, at thirty-eight-ish, a little long in the tooth by Japanese standards. She nevertheless has assets they prize: 5'11" height, big blue eyes, and blonde hair. Prime
Gaijin
eye candy. And while it
is
true the men are willing to pay great sums for impressive arm decor, they almost always expect payback. My friend was extremely naive if she thought this guy was going to shell out big yen without a roll in the futon.

Jan's reaction to my cynical snort surprised me. Instead of being insulted, she laughed. "See, I
knew
you'd know what to do."

"I didn't say anything."

"I know, but you understand, right? Anyhow, I was headed for the resort when it hit me maybe I was making a big mistake, and that I'd better talk to you first. My original plan was to call you from the hotel and ask you to cover for me tonight, in case Chino called, then I got all rattled, thinkin' about what Chino would do if he found out—"

"So you cleverly deduced he just might possibly take offense at the love of his life selling herself?" I know, that sounded harsh, but what Jan was contemplating was even beyond the limits of
my
nonnormative moral map.

"You're just being a pill, Hetta. For your information, Ishi has arranged for me to have my own room at the hotel, and told me all I have to do is attend a cocktail party in his suite at six, a luau later, and have brunch by the pool the next morning."

"And no hanky panky?" I ask, doubt evident in my tone.

"Nope."

"And just how much of a donation is Ishi prepared to bestow upon Chino's expedition for the platonic pleasure of parading you around like a prized race horse?"

"You make it sound so ugly. But if you must know, a hundred thou."

I choked on my wine. "Dollars?"

Jan gave me a Cheshire cat grin. "Well, it ain't no stinkin' pesos. So, you comin'? You can stay in my room, be my chaperone…you know, make sure I'm safe. Or, go to the luau if you want. Ishi asked if I had any girlfriends who might like to party."

"Uh, I don't think he meant dress up and sip cocktails, you dork. And you don't suppose old Ishi-san might expect a little
shābetto
between the luau and brunch, whether I'm there or not?"

"Well...no. Uh, what shab…whatever?"

"Sherbet. As a palate cleanser between courses, so to speak."

"Oh, come on, I betcha Japanese people don't even eat sorbet."

"Yes, they do, and they also want what they pay for."

"Exactly, smarty pants. Which is why I flat turned down the rest of the deal."

"What rest of the deal?"

"The, uh, other fifty thou if I…you know."

I didn't have any wine left to spew, darn it. "He offered you
fifty thousand dollars
to sleep with him?" I was shocked, and that ain't easy to do.

She sat up straight, tilted her cute little nose righteously into the air, and said, "Yes, but I turned him down."

"Well, hell, Jan. Ya think he'd consider me instead?"