Just Needs Killin (2 page)

Within an hour, we'd moved
Raymond Johnson
to a mooring near the docks, cadged a ride to shore with another boater so
Se Vende
remained chained to my boat, stashed a pouting Po Thang with beach-dwelling friends nearby, and steered my red Ford Ranger toward a fun night on some rich dude's tab.

We took my pickup because it has a few things Jan's jeep doesn't: air conditioning, windows, and a roof. During the drive to the resort we discussed everything
except
what Chino and my always-somewhere-else boyfriend, Jenks, would think about what we were up to.
This
time.

Since the resort, only eight miles or so to the south, was almost within visual distance from Puerto Escondido, we could have taken
Raymond Johnson
, but what the heck, we had a paid-for room in a luxury hotel, and parties to attend. I was already warming to the idea of Jan's new profession as a paid escort.

And even better yet, since the parties were luau/beachy affairs, we even had something to wear. In Jan's case it was a teeny fuchsia bikini with a small, sheer, scarf. And mine? A lot more suit and larger opaque wrap. I couldn't do much, on such short notice, about the extra ten pounds—okay, fifteen—setting off my zaftig-ness. However, I'd just had my pixie-cut hair re-reddened and my toenails lacquered Dior 438, Mango, which Jan said set off my hair.

We decided Ishi-san need not know about me bunking with Jan. I'd wander down during the luau and get myself invited to join the festivities, which shouldn't be much of a problem since my friends say I can talk myself past a Buckingham Palace guard. This way, if Ishi later tried storming Jan's door, so to speak, I'd be there to whack him one. Okay, that might be an unfortunate choice of words, but you get the gist. And if he later reneged on his promise of funding Chino's expedition to find a sunken Manila galleon in Magdalena Bay, I'd bear witness Jan kept her end of the deal.

We turned off Mex 1 and immediately dove into a rocky wash.

"Dirt?" Jan exclaimed as we bounced a couple of times. "They build a multi-million buck resort and don't pave the road into it? Look at this mess. If it rains they're gonna have to take their guests to the airport by boat, cuz this baby's going to flood."

"For sure. They need themselves a bridge, but with the size of this arroyo, it'll cost
mucho dinero
, which is probably why they haven't done it yet. Hurricane season, or even a heavy rain, must pose a serious commute problem."

Once through the
vado
, we climbed a wide gravel road, well-maintained, but still—gravel?

A few dusty miles later, I was patting myself on the back for deciding to bring a vehicle with windows and A/C. We came around a curve and the resort loomed, like a Mexican Xanadu, from the surrounding lunar-like landscape. The turquoise waters of the Sea of Cortez sparkled in sharp surreal contrast to the barren desert. Palm trees and flowering greenery, obviously imported, swayed with the gentle afternoon breeze. I'd seen the hotel from the water, but it was even more impressive when arriving by land, because it was just suddenly
there
.

Since most guests probably arrive via a shuttle from the Loreto airport, we parked right in front, one of the few private vehicles to do so. Three men dressed in light colored shirts and dark pants reminiscent of yacht crew dashed to greet us. While Jan was ushered to the front lobby desk, I dawdled at the pickup so as not to be seen by the office staff, then sauntered into a nearby gift shop. I was, however, close enough to hear her give her name to the clerk: Hetta Coffey. 

We'd discuss
that
later.

Our room was touted as a small suite, but was the size of a one-bedroom apartment back home. With a kitchen and dining area, queen sofa bed in the living room, and a king bed in the bedroom, we certainly weren't going to crowd each other. After living on the boat for so long, I was in heaven, space-wise. From the balcony we could have seen the entrance to Puerto Escondido harbor if I'd thought to bring my binoculars. 

A large bouquet of flowers, a bowl of fruit, two iced-down bottles of Veuve Clicquot, and an envelope marked "Hetta" sat on the dining table. "So,
Hetta
, looks like you have mail," I snarled.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, who knew you'd actually be here?"

"Yeah, who knew?"'

"I might remind you," Jan said, "of all the times you gave
my
business card out in bars to jerks you wanted to get rid of? And when you used my name to rent a car that got burned up? And—"

"Okay, okay. What's the note say?"

"Just a room number and a reminder the cocktail party is at six, which means I gotta get a move on. Will you help me put some of these flowers in my hair?"

I picked out a few huge pink hibiscus blooms and we moved to the master bathroom. I rummaged in her makeup kit for something to fasten them with while she glommed mascara onto her long lashes, and applied a smidgen of blue shadow on those previously swollen eyelids we'd treated with chilled tea bags.

"You know, Jan, I've been thinking. With all the trouble I'm going to here, maybe a little fooling around in a futon might not be all that bad. I'll cover for you and we can split that fifty thou. Just a thought."

"Yeah, well here's a thought for you. No! Now put those flowers in my hair."

Jan wears her hair in a chin-length bob cut shorter in the back, so I braided in the flowers down one side. We added an extra scarf or two over that bikini for the cocktail party.

She whirled on her three-inch espadrilles and vamped. "Whaddya think?"

"Drop-dead gorgeous."

The way our lives had been going for the past few months—okay, years—I should probably be a little more cautious when using the term, dead, but she sure looked capable of causing an up-tick in defibrillator sales.

With Jan off to her benefactor's cocktail party, I celebrated our opulent digs by opening some icy champagne. Taking the bottle with me, I swanned (as best as a short, somewhat chunky gal
can
swan) towards an oversized bathtub I'd spiked with lavender bath crystals and had started filling while I was weaving flowers into Jan's hair. Now that I had the place to myself, I lit a couple of candles, turned off the lights, slid into piping hot water, and reveled in the scent and caress of a real bath after so many months of showering on
Raymond Johnson.

I'd about decided I'd skip the luau altogether and stay submerged in the tub when I heard our room door open and slam shut. Cursing myself for not hanging out the
Favor de no
molestar
sign before heading for my bath, I sloshed out of the water and grabbed a big fluffy towel. I was making for the bathroom door lock when the door flew open, almost knocking me on my butt. My towel slithered to the floor as I grabbed the only weapon within reach and held it over my head, prepared to do battle.

Ice-cold, two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle champagne cascaded over my head and into my eyes. Through bubbles I saw a face whiter than my lost towel, and checked my swing just in time. "Jan! What on earth?"

She sank to the floor, settling into a puddle of water, bubble bath, champagne, and flowers that fluttered down from her hair. I flipped on the light, grabbed my towel, wrapped it around me, and sat on the side of the tub. Jan slumped over, her face hidden in her hands, and began to wail. I realized there was still a little bubbly left in the bottle and drained it before saying, "This better be good, Chica. You just screwed up a primo bubble bath."

"Is there more of that?" She pointed to the bottle.

"Yep, but unless you get up off that floor and tell me what's wrong, you ain't gettin' any."

She struggled to her feet, dogged me into the living room and hiccupped little sobs while waiting for me to uncork the second bottle. I filled a flute, she melted into a chair, downed the whole glass in one gulp, and stuck it out for a refill.

I moved the bottle behind me. "No way. Not yet, my friend. Talk!"

The woman who, minutes before left the room looking like a million—or should I say at least fifty-thousand—bucks, now sat in disarray, mascara running down her face a là Alice Cooper, one lone bedraggled flower dipping over a bleary blue eye, and the only reason she wasn't white as a ghost was the blush on her cheeks, some of which was tear-and-eye-makeup smudged. And, dang it, she still looked good. Life is not fair.

She sighed deeply. "You pour, I talk. And Hetta, I'd really, really appreciate it if you put on some clothes."

While she downed another flute and reached for the bottle, I went back to the bathroom and donned a luxuriously soft hotel robe. The moment I returned, she whimpered, "Dead."

"You drank the whole damned bottle?"

"Naw, there's a tad left.
Ishi's
dead."

"So, I guess that means the fifty grand is out?"

"Not funny, Hetta."

"Did
you
kill him?"

"Nah."

"Are you sure?"

"Am I sure he's dead, or that I didn't do it?"

"Either. Both."

"When I got to his suite, the door was open a smidge. I heard music, but no voices, so I peeked inside. To tell the truth, I was a little worried it was a set up. Like, you know, he'd be nekkid or somethin'."

"And?"

"Yup. As the day he was born. But deader than Elvis."

"Some might debate just how dead
that
is."

To lubricate our higher cognitive processes, we were working our way through the minibar. I splashed a mini-bottle of Jose Cuervo over a glass of rocks.

Jan turned from staring out to sea, and squinted puffy eyelids at me. She took a hit of Kahlua straight from the tiny bottle. "Huh?"

"Did you, like, touch him?" I asked.

"Eeewww, no."

"Then how do you know for sure he's even dead?"

"Lemme think. His head is about three feet from his body. That qualify, Detective Coffey?"

I finished off my tequila and selected the next bottle in line: vodka. No rocks. "Yep, that'd about get 'er done. Okay, I gotta think."

"That'd be different."

"Excuse me, Miz Jan, as I recall, you're the one who got us into this debacle. I'm trying to deliberate our way out of it. I'm thinking we get the hell out of this hotel, drive back to the boat, and forget the whole thing."

"You're right. But, doncha think we oughta at least throw a blanket over Ishi or somethin'? Doesn't seem quite right to leave him like that. Butt nekkid an' all."

"Okay, that is totally illogical."

"I'm just thinking of Kayo."

"Kayo? Who the hell is that?"

"Ishi's wife."

"How will she know whether he was covered or not?"

"I dunno, just seems wrong, leaving him like that. I mean, they probably won't find his body until tomorrow morning."

"I doubt that. Isn't he the one throwing the luau? Someone will surely wonder why he isn't at his own party, and go looking for him."

"Yeah, I guess. Oh, hell!"

"What?"

"The front desk. They saw me, and they must know Ishi paid for my room. When they find him—"

"They'll be looking for Hetta Coffey. Thanks a whole hell of a lot."

"Sorry, I just thought it wouldn't be a good idea to use
my
name."

"There a million jillion names in the world. Why mine?"

She shrugged. We sat in silence, each trying to figure out how we'd gotten into yet another mess.

Well, we both knew
that;
it is what we
do
.

Jan screwed the top off a gin bottle. "So, any ideas yet?"

"Yep, but you aren't going to like them."

"Probably not. I never like anything you think up, but somehow I end up going along."

"We gotta put on our big girl panties and go to that luau."

"What? Are you freakin' nuts?" Jan unfolded to her full 5'11"—6'2" in those espadrilles—put her hands on her hips and looked down her nose at me. "No way, no how. And this time I mean it. And besides, I don't have any big panties. That'd be your department."

I let that insult slide. "Sit down and hear me out. For starters, my pickup was logged into the resort, on a one-way-in, one-way-out road, at the guard shack. And there are probably cameras all over the lobby and maybe the hallways. And to make matters worse, you checked in to a room provided by a dead man. We've been
seen
.  If we don't show up at that party, we'll be way up on the suspect list when they find both pieces of your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend." After taking a swallow of straight gin that brought tears to her already teary eyes, she nodded. "But, bad as I hate to admit it, you might be right about going to the luau."

"Okay then, let us ice the puff out of those eyes once again, maybe down a cup of strong coffee or two, and get ready to hula."