Free Just Add Trouble (Hetta Coffey Mystery Series (Book 3)) by Jinx Schwartz

made the kind of bittersweet love of two people who are already parting emotionally while in physical denial.
    As Jenks softly snored, I lay awake under the diamond sprinkled sky, my thigh against his. I was already in tangible pain, a deep, wrenching ache that would intensify when he was actually gone. I, like a dog I once owned, suffer from acute separation anxiety, and would most likely chew up his boat shoes unless I threw myself into work or something else. It was the something else that worried me, since my predisposition toward perturbation has a way of manifesting impropriety when I’m emotionally maltreated. That’s psychobabble for, when Hetta’s pissed off, she drinks too much and has a tendency to go on a man prowl, preferably in low life bars.
     
    On the way to Hermosillo the next day, Jenks reassured me that everything would be fine, he’d miss me terribly, and we’d be together again soon. All the banalities people tell others when trying to save their shoes.
    I watched him walk out of the terminal, board his plane for Mexico City, knowing I’d be in a misery of anxiety until I heard he was safe and sound in Kuwait. As safe and sound as any American can be in the Middle East these days.
     
    Back at the empty boat, my melancholy only intensified, which of course pissed me off no end. I’ve been single, like, forever and am not amused when my happiness is so dependent on another. Now Jenks was not only gone, I faced both Christmas and New Year’s Eve solo. The New Year thing bothered me the most. For many years I have been alone on that night, and accepted it as my fate. Okay, so maybe not alone, alone, but I never had anyone super special, as in male type, to celebrate with. After meeting Jenks, I thought enduring lonely holidays, and especially New Year’s Eve, were at an end. I really must learn to lower my expectations.
    I eyed his boat shoes, but decided on busy work. I washed out the morning’s coffee cups, instead of chewing on shoe leather. As I dried the dishes, though, the realization that tomorrow I’d only need one cup made me miss Jenks even more. As a distraction, I made a list of stuff I wanted to accomplish within the next couple of days, before Jan showed up.
    I knew she’d want a thick steak or two, so a carniceria visit was in order. Also a trip to a farmacia , where I was told I could buy hair stuff. Salt water and sun had faded my locks to something approaching brassy blond instead of my signature copper. Chastising myself for not stocking enough of my old standby, Red Penny, I added hair color to my shopping list.
    Finally, exhausted from the drive and self-pity, and still facing a few more hours of daylight, I considered getting drunk, vetoed that, and crawled onto Jenks’s side of the bed, wallowed in his lingering scent, hugged his pillow, and went comatose.
     
    “ ¡Day Hache Elle! ” someone yelled while pounding on the side of Raymond Johnson .
    I willed myself into what passed for consciousness and staggered on deck, primed to kill. Two beaming men in red and yellow shirts stood on the dock. One held a yellow clipboard.
    “ Buenas tardes, señora. Day Hache Elle .”
    “What do you want? Uh, que quieres ?”
    “¿ Usted es señora Café ?”
    “ Si, soy Hetta Coffey.” I’d long since given up telling folks I was señorita Coffey. Evidently all Mexican women are married before they are, uh, thirtysomething.
    He thrust the clipboard at me and indicated I sign by the X. It was then I saw who they were, DHL. Figuring that Wontrobski messengered some project paperwork, I signed and held out my hand for a package, but received the Mexican thumb and forefinger hand signal that means anything from, Wait a minute, to I’ll be right back . It was the latter, for they left.
    Thirsty, I went inside for a glass of water, and when I returned, the men were lugging a large box down the dock. Actually, not a box, a crate. Actually, not a crate, a cage. From it emanated an