Read Online Just Add Salt (2) by Jinx Schwartz - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jinx Schwartz
Tags: Contemporary, Mystery
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clown?”
She sounded so sincere that I was caught up short. If she didn’t set this guy on me, who did? If I told her about the call, she’d get spooked. “Oh, nothing. Sorry I woke you up. See you tomorrow? Early? We have tons of stuff to do.”
“Yeah, okay. See you around eight. ’Night.”
“’Night.”
I sat and mulled. Who in the hell was making crank calls to me? The voice seemed to have a slight accent, but not one I could identify. As far as I knew, only a handful of people actually knew why I was going to Mag Bay. I hadn’t shared that info at the yacht club, so it was just me, Jan, Jenks, Lars, Wontrobski and probably his wife Allison. Weird.
Shrugging, I stood and came eyeball to eyeball with Jenks. Well, his photo. It was taken the day we re-christened my boat with her new name, Raymond Johnson . I know, I know, boats are supposed to have girls’ names, but trust me, Raymond Johnson was a far cry better than the original and embarrassing moniker: Sea Cock . Besides, I named her for the real Raymond Johnson , my dog. RJ died right before I got the boat and we gave him a burial at sea the same day I changed the name in his honor.
In the burial party snapshot, we were standing on the bow of the boat, just before scattering RJ’s ashes. A friend, who was up on the flying bridge, yelled, “Hey you guys, turn around and smile.” We did and she took the shot. Seconds later, I remembered with a chuckle, I opened the urn and a sudden gust of wind blew dog ashes all over us.
Next to the group photo was another of RJ with a silly doggy smile on his face and a crushed beer can in his mouth. He was soaking wet, and behind him the Pacific Ocean sparkled. A deep, hurtful, sense of loss descended on me, as it always did when I thought of my yellow lab. He had been a grand dog and I missed him.
I also missed Jenks. Smiling back at me from the christening photo, he had one long arm draped around my shoulder. His hair, blondish gray, was mussed. Blue eyes twinkled in his tanned face. Lean and lanky, towering over me by almost a foot, he was quite a contrast to his well-rounded brother, but they both looked like Viking warriors in blue blazers.
Yachting attire was the dress code that day, so Jan and I also sported blue blazers and white pants. Wontrobski, however, was wrapped in something from Gothic Haberdashers. At least it was blue. The diminutive Allison Wontrobski, in proper yachting duds, looked positively doll-like next to her graceless hubby. Craigosaurus, resplendent in his Rochester’s Big and Tall getup, stood behind his ex-amour du jour, Raul. Raul’s pretty face and eyelashes were the envy of every woman there. Detective Martinez and his wife completed the picture.
Before I moved aboard Raymond Johnson , Detective Martinez, of the Oakland Police Department, investigated a series of break-ins at my hilltop home. He was also Johnny-on-the-spot when I discovered my ex-fiancé, Hudson Williams, floating face down in my hot tub.
Despite Martinez’s initially suspicious nature concerning the shade of my character, we became friends and he had come to my rescue more than once. The last time was when he and Jenks rushed to save me from that Brit, Alex, who was rudely dead set on making me dead. Martinez also helped smooth things over with myriad legal agencies taking a dim view of me shooting up Clipper Cove when the Brit didn’t get me first.
When he retired, Martinez had pooh-poohed my brilliant suggestion of starting his own private detective agency, Dick Mart. He said when he started taking my advice on anything , that would be the day. Instead, he’d taken his pension and left the area to build a home somewhere in…Mexico!
I booted up the computer, scrolled to the M’s in my address list. Seconds later, I had it: Marty and Gloria Martinez, APDO 77, San Quintin, BCN, Mexico. No phone number. BCN? I went to Google, typed in BCN and came up with Baja California Norte. Martinez lived in
She sounded so sincere that I was caught up short. If she didn’t set this guy on me, who did? If I told her about the call, she’d get spooked. “Oh, nothing. Sorry I woke you up. See you tomorrow? Early? We have tons of stuff to do.”
“Yeah, okay. See you around eight. ’Night.”
“’Night.”
I sat and mulled. Who in the hell was making crank calls to me? The voice seemed to have a slight accent, but not one I could identify. As far as I knew, only a handful of people actually knew why I was going to Mag Bay. I hadn’t shared that info at the yacht club, so it was just me, Jan, Jenks, Lars, Wontrobski and probably his wife Allison. Weird.
Shrugging, I stood and came eyeball to eyeball with Jenks. Well, his photo. It was taken the day we re-christened my boat with her new name, Raymond Johnson . I know, I know, boats are supposed to have girls’ names, but trust me, Raymond Johnson was a far cry better than the original and embarrassing moniker: Sea Cock . Besides, I named her for the real Raymond Johnson , my dog. RJ died right before I got the boat and we gave him a burial at sea the same day I changed the name in his honor.
In the burial party snapshot, we were standing on the bow of the boat, just before scattering RJ’s ashes. A friend, who was up on the flying bridge, yelled, “Hey you guys, turn around and smile.” We did and she took the shot. Seconds later, I remembered with a chuckle, I opened the urn and a sudden gust of wind blew dog ashes all over us.
Next to the group photo was another of RJ with a silly doggy smile on his face and a crushed beer can in his mouth. He was soaking wet, and behind him the Pacific Ocean sparkled. A deep, hurtful, sense of loss descended on me, as it always did when I thought of my yellow lab. He had been a grand dog and I missed him.
I also missed Jenks. Smiling back at me from the christening photo, he had one long arm draped around my shoulder. His hair, blondish gray, was mussed. Blue eyes twinkled in his tanned face. Lean and lanky, towering over me by almost a foot, he was quite a contrast to his well-rounded brother, but they both looked like Viking warriors in blue blazers.
Yachting attire was the dress code that day, so Jan and I also sported blue blazers and white pants. Wontrobski, however, was wrapped in something from Gothic Haberdashers. At least it was blue. The diminutive Allison Wontrobski, in proper yachting duds, looked positively doll-like next to her graceless hubby. Craigosaurus, resplendent in his Rochester’s Big and Tall getup, stood behind his ex-amour du jour, Raul. Raul’s pretty face and eyelashes were the envy of every woman there. Detective Martinez and his wife completed the picture.
Before I moved aboard Raymond Johnson , Detective Martinez, of the Oakland Police Department, investigated a series of break-ins at my hilltop home. He was also Johnny-on-the-spot when I discovered my ex-fiancé, Hudson Williams, floating face down in my hot tub.
Despite Martinez’s initially suspicious nature concerning the shade of my character, we became friends and he had come to my rescue more than once. The last time was when he and Jenks rushed to save me from that Brit, Alex, who was rudely dead set on making me dead. Martinez also helped smooth things over with myriad legal agencies taking a dim view of me shooting up Clipper Cove when the Brit didn’t get me first.
When he retired, Martinez had pooh-poohed my brilliant suggestion of starting his own private detective agency, Dick Mart. He said when he started taking my advice on anything , that would be the day. Instead, he’d taken his pension and left the area to build a home somewhere in…Mexico!
I booted up the computer, scrolled to the M’s in my address list. Seconds later, I had it: Marty and Gloria Martinez, APDO 77, San Quintin, BCN, Mexico. No phone number. BCN? I went to Google, typed in BCN and came up with Baja California Norte. Martinez lived in
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