Read Just The Pits (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 5) for Free Online Page A

They got that right. The cute, but pesky critters, board me almost every night, looking for food and mischief. I learned that the hard way on my first night at the dock, when I'd left a garbage bag on deck, planning to take it to the bin the next morning. Cleaning old coffee grounds, banana peels, and even seriously smelly raccoon crap from a deck—what do they eat besides my relatively good-smelling garbage?—ain't no way for a lady to start her day. Or me, either.
    Someone told me to put dog crap on the deck as a deterrent but I didn't consider that a great alternative.
    My plan for the rest of my day was to eat something, catch a short nap, then call Jenks later in the afternoon. I was feeling out of sorts, not only tired, and wondered why. Then I recalled past years of what I called the Sunday Blues, when Monday loomed and with it a loss of freedom. Why did I take a damned job? It was already getting old and I'd only been at it a week. Another Monday morning and my alarming señorita loomed large .  
    Rummaging in the fridge, I couldn't find any ham. Shrugging, I decided on super cheesy scrambled eggs and toast, but soon learned I was also missing my precious block of Velveeta and a loaf of Bimbo. Bimbo bread, with a shelf life of plastic bags, I can live without, but Velveeta? It is almost impossible to come by in Mexico.
    I'd had a busy week before I left Saturday morning to fetch my pickup, so between the daily commute to the mine and throwing together a sandwich or two every day, I must have run through more stuff than I realized. I quickly checked for peanut butter and jelly, those other staples of the working girl, and found them gone as well. It was looking like the man camp cafeteria for me Monday unless I hit a store or two later.
    I was eating my boring eggs when the trash can caught my eye. I had thrown papers into it before I left, but since there was no perishable garbage, I'd decided to dump it when I returned. It was empty, with a nice new plastic liner. Someone had eaten my food and emptied the trash. My stomach fell, because I got that sick feeling one gets when trying to remember if I'd locked my jewelry, some of it literally the family jewels, in my safe. Adrenalin surged as I hurried to my cabin and checked my cash stash and jewelry. All was there, so it looked like only the fridge was robbed, which is disturbing enough. If true. Was I so tired I was imagining things? 
    I grabbed the phone and called my best bud, Jan. She lives with her latest—and to date, most tenacious—love interest, Doctor Brigado Comacho Yee, a Mexican marine biologist and whale specialist. Chino, as he is called, was a happy whale counter when he fell for Jan. He had lived in a simple thatched roof beach palapa, contented with fish tacos three times a day and salt water baths. Then he met Jan. Now his previously basic camp consists of not one, but two, brand new fifth wheel trailers with slide-outs, satellite television, and a washer/dryer. Gallons of fresh water and gasoline for large generators are trucked in regularly from miles away. All of this to keep Jan from flying the coop, something she's prone to do.
    Chino, so nicknamed for his Chinese ancestors, is almost a dozen years younger than Jan, a major source of irritation for her, but now that he has her ensconced in the relative lap of luxury, she seems content. For a while, anyhow.
    Camp Chino is just over the peninsula, as the crow flies, from Santa Rosalia, which is one of the reasons I'd taken this job. We can visit on my days off and hopefully that'll help keep me out of mischief while Jenks is gone.
    I distinctly remembered telling her I was going to San Carlos this weekend, because I was trying to drag her along for company. She wisely declined, but she has a key to the boat. Maybe she dropped by?
    She answered on the second ring and I asked, "Did you eat my ham and Velveeta?"
    "And a good Sunday morning to you, too, Hetta. You drunk already? It ain't even