Saltwater in the Bluegrass (11 page)

It took a moment to all sink in. We laughed, nodded, and then I gestured, and we both stood for a moment and hugged. It had been a long time.

“You look great.”

“You look great, too.”

What was first standing, now sitting beside me, was this beautiful six-foot, one-inch, strawberry blond, thin, blue-eyed, and dark tan woman in heels and a reasonably expensive dress with jewelry. She seemed to have no idea how she had just, within a moments notice, turned this hole in the wall watering trough into a respectable, pretty okay place.

“What has it been, twenty, twenty-five years?” she asked.

“Twenty,” I replied as the atmosphere relaxed and we sat down.

“How are your mom and dad?” she asked.

“Good, they’re traveling as usual. On another trip, planning a trip, or just coming back from a trip. Heck, I don’t know, but good; they’re doing real good, I guess.”

“And Travis—how’s your uncle Travis McGee doing?”

“Not sure. Probably getting old like the rest of us,” I replied. “I haven’t heard from him lately. Neither has mom. He must be working on a case somewhere or just hanging around with his old friend Meyers. Actually, I heard from a friend a while back that he is still in Cedar Keys; at least that’s what he mentioned John MacDonald saying before he passed on.”

With that, I took a deep breath; enough with the small talk. It did not take long to get past the complimentary greetings. The how-are-you-doings and the doing-fine spills were soon at an end. Before we knew it, words and stories about the past were coming to an end. They were over. Not to be visited at this time and maybe never again. Now it was time for the reasons she was here. The mood quickly changed, and I was beginning to hear and try to understand what had brought the three of us together. Why were we meeting here in such a quiet and mysterious manner? How was I going to be the one that got someone I had not seen in years out of a mess that had taken her so many years to get into?

That was the question of the hour.

Kristy Ann—make that Kristina—had definitely grown up. Polished, refined, and dressed far above the means of her family and the dress code of this establishment.

She was a real piece of work.

Over the next hour and several more drinks, I had a chance to hear what she had become. Her hows and whys, what made her tick. Kristina Ann Stringer Delaney Ingram. What a mouthful. Uncle Buddy must have been real proud of his daughter.

Kristina was the oldest daughter from his first marriage to Aunt Dottie. Family tradition and all, chip off the old block. Buddy had been married three times himself, but enough about Uncle Buddy and his three accomplishments.

Kristy, as I liked calling her, proceeded to fill me in on why she had run away from home and what caused her to be in such a need to talk to someone who might help her situation.

Story has it that she had married a tycoon twice her age from up in Kentucky two years earlier. Kristina pulled a picture out of her purse and showed me the happy couple at a backyard party, some fundraiser taken several weeks back. Kristina’s newest husband had been Lamar Alex Ingram, owner of seven large companies, a political man with a wealth of more than three quarters of a billion dollars. He had married Kristina and had then added her to his will right after their marriage, and members of the Ingram family did not like it one bit. Lamar Ingram had died four days earlier, and questions about insurance, inheritances, property, times, places, and Kristina’s whereabouts needed to be answered. Lamar Ingram had loads of money, and there were a whole handful of immediate family members who wanted their shares from Kristina back. No one had intentions of sharing it with her, least of all Katherine Ingram, Lamar’s sister. Kristina shook her head. Her eyes widened as she explained the events leading up to her being here and why she thought that I could help. She was pushing the right buttons. She was family, even though at the moment it seemed like a distant memory.

Not long after the news of her husband’s death, Kristina started getting the feeling that she better leave town before she ended up the same way he had. Over the next couple of hours, I sat and listened to her story as she filled me in on all the illicit details, the stories behind the stories—the one-sided account that pronounced Kristina a saint and a poor, disadvantaged, misunderstood widow. Something I knew wasn’t true. Maybe she needed a specialist, a therapist, or a friend—not a private investigator.

Driving back from Spit’s, I challenged my loyalty of family. I couldn’t help but think of the words John Prine had written and sung so many years back: “Ain’t it funny how an old broken bottle looks like a diamond ring.” Man, isn’t that the truth?

I returned back
to the
Brenda Kay II
a little after three in the afternoon. As expected the day had turned out to be beautiful, just as the forecast had called for with high pressure and light winds. I felt lazy and good all at the same time.

I needed a shower, a change of cloths, a beer, and a long walk. The combination of diesel fumes from the harbor and the over abundance of cigarette smoke from inside Spit’s had penetrated my clothing and my brain. I also needed to clear my head, and the beach was the best place for that.

Traffic was heavy along the inter-coastal waterway. Copans Road was closed due to a water main break, and everyone heading west was being detoured over to Atlantic Boulevard. Both pedestrian bridges were full of walkers, talkers, picture takers, and afternoon fisherman. All of the roads leading in and out of town were congested, with rushhour traffic leading in from US-1, back through Lighthouse Point into the beach harbor resort area.

Not unusual for this time of day.

First shift people were getting off work. Many who lived around the harbor were now recreating, heading to the beach, taking out their boats for an afternoon sail or cruise up the coast, going swimming, heading to their favorite fishing spot, or simply relaxing and enjoying the warm rays of the afternoon sun. Some folks were lounging for pleasure, some for spiritual rejuvenation, and some just trying to justify their reason for working all day inside some designer-built concrete high rise.

Several boats I saw were heading back in from their day on the ocean to drop off passengers, while more than a few of my neighbors, liveaboards, were just relaxing on their boats, lazily wasting away the afternoon while their vessels were simply tied in their reserved slips. Most had hors d’oeuvres and platters and drinks of some type in their hands. Others were cooking out, mingling, relaxed and

conversational, nothing unusual, especially for this time of day. It was definitely a party atmosphere around the docks.

Connie and Jo were grilling shrimp, sea trout, and steaks two slips down on their new 58-foot Chris Craft Cabin Cruiser as I passed by. They had named their boat
The Head Hunter
.

Connie, a large man, was busy talking, milling around the dock, holding a bottle of Bud-Light, trying his best to stay out of trouble, swapping stories with anyone who would listen. Connie had no problem in this area, not that it was so much of a talented attribute in his area. At the marina, someone is always listening.

It’s what they do.

His wife Jo, on the other hand, was content sitting cross-legged on her new peach-colored lawn furniture painting her nails and tanning her half naked, but very proportioned, body.

A few slips down, Derek Peck and his new younger wife, Sonya, were washing down their 42-foot Bay Liner Classic, daddy’s wedding present, after being out all day on the water. Derek had named his boat
Second Chance
.

I complimented Connie on his new toy, said hello to Derek and Sonya and to several of the other locals I saw milling about, and then climbed aboard my boat.

Time on the water had told me there might be rain late this evening. For you land lovers, I saw a few clouds off in the distance. And, yes, I do not trust weathermen. I’ve made those mistakes too often. I decided to stay close by tonight in case the weather came up rough, which it sometimes does out of nowhere, especially when the day has been this balmy and hot.

I opened several windows to ventilate the cabins below and checked my answering machine. There were no messages. I grabbed a towel, stripped naked, took a quick shower, and then dried myself off, throwing on a pair a blue board shorts, and a white cotton shirt. I walked into the galley, grabbed a corkscrew, and opened a bottle of wine. I grabbed the crab salad and a box of crackers that I had bought earlier and then walked out back, setting myself up to relax on the deck.

I pulled out an old favorite novel, one I had been rereading, poured a drink, and sat back in the cushions. Tully Mars, the main character, had just left Montana, riding his horse to the sea, deciding that roping dogs at a poodle ranch was not something a real cowboy would do. I could relate. The character was somehow etched in my memory, like many others characters I’ve read about over the years, and being that I’ve read this particular passage at least seven or eight times. It still beats the heck out of reading about pigs in Manhattan. “I still to this day don’t know what the “Margaritaville” man was thinking. The coastal causeway was going to be really busy tonight. The Arts and Entertainment pages in the paper showed Rickie Lee Jones and Jackson Browne playing in concert up at the pier tonight. There are always a lot of things going on here in the summer.

Earlier, I had thought about going, but now that I was home, relaxed, fed, and the music was only a click away, I decided, why leave? What would I gain? Besides, I could pick any performer I wanted to listen to from my own personal collection and not have to fight the crowd.

Like Grandpa Stringer had told me on many occasions, “If you are going to sit around on your boat all night and breathe in the paradise, sooner or later you’re going to have to hold your breath.” Whatever that is supposed to mean.

By ten p.m. I found myself nodding off on the couch so I retired to bed. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

I remembered that Texi had asked me to listen to her brother’s tape while she was gone. I lay across the bed, opened the envelope, turned the tape to side A, placed it into the tape deck, and proceeded to listen to the first cut.

During the night,
squalls had made their way across the lower half of Florida. By morning, the storm had worked itself back out to sea.

Except for a few times during the night when the boat moved uneasily, creaking and sighing against her wood and braided lines, nudging at her fenders, where she suddenly heeled and then pitched due to the wind and the hissing of rain, I slept great. I usually do during light storms, especially when I find myself listening to the sound of the steady drizzle up against the windows and ports and on the canvas that covers the sails up on deck.

Last night before bed, I had spent most of the evening trying to recount what Kristina had told me, the details of her story and the excitement in her voice. With the understanding that she had gone from one rich man to another over the past ten years, it was not hard to see why Katherine Ingram had a lot of questions about her ethical side or what her real intentions had been.

Kristina explained to me how she and Lamar had met. She emphasized how strong their love was and how absolutely perfect they were together.

I took that with a grain of salt. It all seemed scripted to me, a little too cat and mouse for my taste.

Kristina and Lamar had both been up in Lexington at the Keeneland Sales several years earlier, which is where they met. As she put it, “Keeneland Sales is the premier auction house for thoroughbred racehorses.”

Once a year, all the rich horse lovers throughout the world go to Keeneland to buy and sell future champions. It is sort of the K-Mart of fast ponies.

It turns out that it is a great place to meet the future spouse of your dreams if you have the looks, charm, and the fashion to pull it off. Kristina had all three.

It was not long before she would meet Lamar’s family.
I spent most of the midday
with Uncle Buddy and Kristina over at Spit’s. By mid-afternoon I had left the two of them and made my way back across town. I made a stop at the cleaners, filled up the gas tank, bought a sleeve of stamps at the post office, and then drove down to the City’s Historical District at Flagler Avenue and NE First Street, stopping at the Green Market. It was now open. I picked up some fresh fruit and vegetables, and then ran by the grocers, picking up a small bag of sundry items before heading home.

It was still relatively early.

As I drove across the causeway bridge I noticed several men fishing from the railings. Sure enough, knowing my weaknesses, by the time I made it off the bridge I, too, had decided to drop a line in the water.

At the intersection I turned right. I made another quick right, then a left, and soon found a place to pull over where my car would be in the shade.

It was only a matter of time, now.

Opportunity fishing. That’s what I like to call it; it’s the best kind, merely taking what nature has to offer.

I quickly lathered on sunscreen, grabbed my sunglasses, chapstick, and a hat. I grabbed my Crowder Rod and Penn Reel from the trunk, rigged up a yellow spinner with a rattle—a new spinner I had just this week picked up at Miller’s Fishing Supply—and walked a hundred feet over to the waters edge and survived the situation. I felt confident the bright chartreuse colors of the spinner would do the trick. It did.

I made several casts along the concrete pilings, and within five minutes of stopping and getting out of my car, I was pulling in a nice eight-pound keeper from the bay.

After sitting in the
bar for a few hours with Buddy and Kristina and smelling stale beer and bad breath all morning while listening to their stories, I was in deep need of cleansing my soul. Fresh air and the smell of a freshly-caught fish was the only thing that was going to work.

In mysterious ways, I was definitely a man of the sea, or at least for the time being, a man of the inter-coastal waterways.