Read Online Just Add Salt (2) by Jinx Schwartz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jinx Schwartz
Tags: Contemporary, Mystery
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Baja?
Grabbing a map, I quickly located San Quintin just a couple of hundred miles south of Ensenada. I jotted myself a reminder to call his son the next day, get a phone number and maybe we’d see the perpetually dour ex-cop on the way down. It wouldn’t hurt to have a contact down there. And who knew, perhaps retirement had painted a smile on his face? Nah. It was too bad Martinez wasn’t still in the Bay Area; he could trace the call if my mystery man delivered another rotten rhyme. ‘Stay away from Mag Bay or you’ll pay,’ my ass.
I yawned and headed for my bed. I was just drifting off when it hit me: Jan, Jenks, Lars, the Trob and Mrs. Trob and a bunch of folks at Tanuki, and probably Baxter Brothers, knew I was headed for Mag Bay. Great, for some unfathomable reason, someone at one of two huge international corporations was probably trying to scare me off what promised to be a seriously bankable project.
As is my habit when I’ve got something to worry about, I lay awake drumming up suspects until I heard my ship’s clock chime two. Damn, I needed some sleep. I got up and washed down an extra strength PM, thought about it, and slammed down another. I then set my alarm for eight, because I knew these babies would have me out like a light within an hour. The downside was that once I went out, it took a claxon to rouse me before I’d slept at least six straight hours, and I had lots of stuff to do early the next morning.
Sometime during the wee hours I was partially roused by a clanking sound and a splash, but my friendly PM’s overrode any curiosity. Yes, uncharacteristic for nosy me, but I had lived aboard for quite awhile, and the marina abounded with clanking and splashing. By the time I was jarred awake at eight by my ill-mannered clock, I had forgotten all about the nocturnal noises.
I was sleepily sucking on a coffee cup when Jan arrived with breakfast, or what she considers breakfast. Myself, I prefer eggs and a nice Jimmy Dean sausage or two, but Miz Jan, distaining my penchant for pork, shoved a bowl of nonfat yogurt and granola at me.
“Nice start, Jan. What are we really having for breakfast?” I might as well have been talking to a post.
“So, what’s on our agenda for today?” she asked.
Sigh. I took a bite of yogurt and pretended to gag. “I think we should shop for provisions. You know, real food for the voyage.”
“Nice try, Hetta. We have plenty of time for that. What else?”
Double sigh. I picked up my ever-growing list. “First and foremost we have to find a captain. Or at least knowledgeable crew.”
“I vote for both.”
“We don’t need both. Why don’t you get on the Internet and look for brokers who advertise offshore deliveries. According to Dave Dean, there’s lots of ‘em since Californians are looking to bypass the tax man by taking delivery in Ensenada. While you put together a list of brokers to call, I’ll knock off some items from Jenks’s list. Then we can—”
“Ahoy, Raymond Johnson .” I recognized the voice: Rosemary Dekker, our salty dock master. Dock mistress, I guess, in her case. I get along fine with the feisty Ro, but some yachties, namely men, resented her no-nonsense adherence to the regulations of our rental contracts.
I stuck my head out the door. “Mornin’ Ro. What’s up?”
“You practicin’anchoring?”
“Huh?”
“Yer anchor. You ain’t s’posed to leave it in the water. ’Gainst the marina rules.”
“My anchor?” I stepped out on deck and walked to the bow. Yep, my anchor chain hung straight down into the estuary. I dimly remembered hearing a clanking and a splash through my PM-induced coma, but figured it was coming from another boat. “I guess the brake let loose, because I sure as heck didn’t let it go.”
“Well, you’d best bring her up. Probably need to hose off the mud. This bottom is fair ugly.” She handed me my hose and turned on the dock spigot. I quickly turned down the pistol sprayer, but
Grabbing a map, I quickly located San Quintin just a couple of hundred miles south of Ensenada. I jotted myself a reminder to call his son the next day, get a phone number and maybe we’d see the perpetually dour ex-cop on the way down. It wouldn’t hurt to have a contact down there. And who knew, perhaps retirement had painted a smile on his face? Nah. It was too bad Martinez wasn’t still in the Bay Area; he could trace the call if my mystery man delivered another rotten rhyme. ‘Stay away from Mag Bay or you’ll pay,’ my ass.
I yawned and headed for my bed. I was just drifting off when it hit me: Jan, Jenks, Lars, the Trob and Mrs. Trob and a bunch of folks at Tanuki, and probably Baxter Brothers, knew I was headed for Mag Bay. Great, for some unfathomable reason, someone at one of two huge international corporations was probably trying to scare me off what promised to be a seriously bankable project.
As is my habit when I’ve got something to worry about, I lay awake drumming up suspects until I heard my ship’s clock chime two. Damn, I needed some sleep. I got up and washed down an extra strength PM, thought about it, and slammed down another. I then set my alarm for eight, because I knew these babies would have me out like a light within an hour. The downside was that once I went out, it took a claxon to rouse me before I’d slept at least six straight hours, and I had lots of stuff to do early the next morning.
Sometime during the wee hours I was partially roused by a clanking sound and a splash, but my friendly PM’s overrode any curiosity. Yes, uncharacteristic for nosy me, but I had lived aboard for quite awhile, and the marina abounded with clanking and splashing. By the time I was jarred awake at eight by my ill-mannered clock, I had forgotten all about the nocturnal noises.
I was sleepily sucking on a coffee cup when Jan arrived with breakfast, or what she considers breakfast. Myself, I prefer eggs and a nice Jimmy Dean sausage or two, but Miz Jan, distaining my penchant for pork, shoved a bowl of nonfat yogurt and granola at me.
“Nice start, Jan. What are we really having for breakfast?” I might as well have been talking to a post.
“So, what’s on our agenda for today?” she asked.
Sigh. I took a bite of yogurt and pretended to gag. “I think we should shop for provisions. You know, real food for the voyage.”
“Nice try, Hetta. We have plenty of time for that. What else?”
Double sigh. I picked up my ever-growing list. “First and foremost we have to find a captain. Or at least knowledgeable crew.”
“I vote for both.”
“We don’t need both. Why don’t you get on the Internet and look for brokers who advertise offshore deliveries. According to Dave Dean, there’s lots of ‘em since Californians are looking to bypass the tax man by taking delivery in Ensenada. While you put together a list of brokers to call, I’ll knock off some items from Jenks’s list. Then we can—”
“Ahoy, Raymond Johnson .” I recognized the voice: Rosemary Dekker, our salty dock master. Dock mistress, I guess, in her case. I get along fine with the feisty Ro, but some yachties, namely men, resented her no-nonsense adherence to the regulations of our rental contracts.
I stuck my head out the door. “Mornin’ Ro. What’s up?”
“You practicin’anchoring?”
“Huh?”
“Yer anchor. You ain’t s’posed to leave it in the water. ’Gainst the marina rules.”
“My anchor?” I stepped out on deck and walked to the bow. Yep, my anchor chain hung straight down into the estuary. I dimly remembered hearing a clanking and a splash through my PM-induced coma, but figured it was coming from another boat. “I guess the brake let loose, because I sure as heck didn’t let it go.”
“Well, you’d best bring her up. Probably need to hose off the mud. This bottom is fair ugly.” She handed me my hose and turned on the dock spigot. I quickly turned down the pistol sprayer, but
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