Saltwater in the Bluegrass (15 page)

As for Jenny Jenkins, she had a small home just off Nicholasville Road, near the corner of Mason Road and Headly Drive, near the University of Kentucky campus. She stayed there on occasion when she had late classes or too much alcohol to drink during sporting events. Other times she stayed at her parents’ house out off Versailles Road, about three miles past the Lexington airport, but this is where he would probably find her, and Charlie decided to go by her home first.

Jenny was a play-by-day rich girl. One of two daughters of a recently wealthy millionaire with endless credit limits on their cards as long as they lived at home. At night, she at least had the good sense to be in control of her activities and not get too crazy with friends. Jenny and Charlie had met at a mixer on campus years earlier and had been best friends ever since. They were basic pal-a-rounds. Never anything sexual, except for a quick one-night misdirect in the back of the frat house in honor of Big Blue after Kentucky had won the 1998

NCAA Basketball Championship against Utah.

They spent lots of time at Keeneland together betting on the horses and were seen together at most of the basketball games and parties afterwards.

Nancy Jenkins was eight years younger than her sister Jenny. She had her life all figured out by the time she had left high school. She had planned all along on meeting a surgeon by hanging out at the entrance to the University of Kentucky Medical Hospital between classes. Nancy had been a popular cheerleader at Lexington Tates Creek High School, and by the time she arrived on the Kentucky campus, she had filled out into one beautiful little sweetheart. With Daddy’s extra spending money, she made friends real fast. It did not take her long to hook up with a third-year intern. She had her doctor, and in one year she was married and had a baby on the way. Jenny, on the other hand, had no plans for settling down anytime soon.

Charlie made his way
across the Little Kentucky River Bridge on to Versailles Road and within ten minutes was heading up the onemile blacktop driveway to the Jenkins’ plantation home. This home was picturesque in southern charm, with large white columns running down the front of the house and a porch that ran completely around the home. Hundred-year-old oak and hickory trees surrounded the property, and a creek divided the lower meadow. All this property from just selling crickets at $5 a dozen to 973 little pet shops across the country.

What an idea. Only Paul Harvey could have justified telling you the rest of this story.

Even though Charlie and Jenny had just talked a few days earlier on the phone about Lamar’s death, it had still been a year and a half since the two of them had been together. On that trip, Jenny had flown down to the islands with K.K. and Paula, two friends from school, and met Charlie in St. Thomas for a week of fun in the sun. Jenny ran out of the house to see who had just pulled up the driveway. When she realized who it was, she ran down the sidewalk, jumped into the passenger seat, and gave Charlie a big hug and kiss.

“Hey, Sweets,” she said. “I was hoping you would show up today.”

“Are you kidding?” Charlie said. “Where else would I go but here?”

“Thanks. That’s nice to hear.”

Jenny was tall, long legs with an athletic build, her face balanced with dark blue eyes, thin pale lips, and shoulder-length brunette hair with blond highlights. She was wearing designer slacks, sandals, and a beaded rainbow-colored v-neck sweater.

“Let’s get out of here before you have to go inside and say hello to my parents.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Charlie said, then turned, put his arm around her, and gave her a squeeze and a kiss on the side of the cheek. “You really look great.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” Jenny said.

“Ready?” Charlie said, touching the side of Jenny’s face. Then he put the car back in drive and revved the motor.

“I’ve missed you,” Jenny said, fastening her seatbelt. “Let’s get out of here.”

The next thing Charlie knew, he and Jenny were in Lexington, stopping first at the Two Key’s, a local tavern, and then doing their best to close down Joe Bologna’s Bar and Grill. They were somewhere in the middle of their second pitcher of beer, soaking it up with Joe’s famous bread sticks, when Charlie realized what time it was and how much he enjoyed Jenny’s company.

Typical passion with a non-typical girl…

Jenny was care free and loved life. She was full of energy and at the same time full of charm. Beauty was her gift, but her smile was what melted hearts. So far no one had yet found a way to melt hers. She was still single.

She had more money than most, more time than most, and she loved every minute of it. This is what made Charlie and Jenny so perfect for each other.

By morning, Katherine
had already
read
through two complete reports, one concerning Charlie and one dealing with Kristina. Katherine knew when Charlie’s plane had landed in Louisville, and she knew where he was. She knew his reservations and when he planned to leave. She knew which villa he had been staying at on St. John’s Island and the owner’s name. She knew when he had left, and she knew when he would arrive.

Katherine prided herself on knowing all of Charlie’s moves. She had been having Charlie followed for quite some time. It was only a matter of time before he showed up.

Katherine always liked knowing what was going on in her family. She needed to know the ins and outs of each family member before one of them did something that she might have to clean up. She knew all about the two markers that were out on Charlie in the Caribbean. She had made them both happen.

Charlie drank heavily, partied with great enthusiasm, and relished his friends. He loved to gamble, and beating the house is hard enough when it is straight up, much less when you are riding up against marked decks and dealers who are paid to win.

Charlie was oblivious to what Katherine was up to. He had no chance to beat the house and was not smart enough to know what was being done, much less the fact that it was his sister Katherine who was behind the whole thing. Katherine was diligent in her attempts to control and meddle in his life.

In the second report that Katherine examined, the appeal was much different. This was not family. This was Katherine against the enemy. This report had documentation on the times and locations of one Kristina Ingram. Katherine held nothing back when it came to outsiders. She was ruthless when it came to Kristina.

Katherine hated the thought of Kristina, the sight of her, and wanted her as dead as her brother.

Kristina had taken off right after the news of Lamar’s death was reported, hours before the press conference. She needed to regroup. She needed to establish a new game plan.

Kristina feared Katherine. She felt intimidated by her; she always had, and with Lamar now out of the picture, she needed to have time to think things through. In Kristina’s mind, she had plans on getting a large inheritance from Lamar’s estate. She would leave this town with this money and never look back. Get the money and run. Over and over she kept thinking, “Get the money and run.”

Katherine had no intention of letting this happening. It was not an option. No way was some little tramp getting her hands on any Ingram money.

Not even Lamar’s.

The report Katherine read stated:

13:30 - Rented a car in Louisville, drove

to Indianapolis.

15:15 – Dropped off rental.

15:45 – Purchased ticket on TWA to Atlanta.

18:00 – Arrived in Atlanta.

18:20 – Purchased ticket on Delta to St Louis.

18:45 – Purchased ticket on Delta to Tampa, Fl.

19:15 – Rented vehicle under the name Kristina

Stringer.

19:30 – Disappeared heading south on I-75.

Katherine sat back deep in her leather chair. She tried her best to hold back a smug but warranted smile sneaking out of the corner of her mouth. She could not help but think of the obvious.

“Amateurs, you really have to give them credit for the effort.”

Katherine set the file on her desk, turned in her chair, opened up the bottom drawer of her mahogany desk, pulled out a third file, and when she had it open began to read.

On the sleeve jacket it read Kristina Stringer - Family. Opening the file, Katherine knew exactly what she was looking for. She looked down the page, studying the contents, following each line as she continued reading.

On line seventeen, Katherine saw what she needed:

Father: Buddy F. Stringer

Address: 48959 Ocean Spray Boulevard

Pompano Beach, Florida 31312

Katherine put down the file, picked up the phone, and within minutes of her findings, placed a call giving out the information she had. “Gentlemen,” she said over the phone, “I thought this is what I paid you to know. Now find her!”

Hit by a wave?
At least
that’s what I thought when I first heard the call come in about the accident.

It was six thirty Wednesday morning. The sun was up, and I was hungry. The harbor was bustling with marina employees and fishing guides stowing bait and gear and preparing for the day. I had just returned from my morning run—two miles up the beach and back to clear my head. I never ran more than four. It’s a good way to see the morning as it starts to unveil, before tourist bring out all of their blowup toys and clutter up the beach.

Usually after my run, while changing, showering, and getting ready for the day, I listen to my VHS metro police band radio. I like hearing what is going on in the area, especially in the morning, down along the southern Florida shoreline, marina to marina, and the surrounding counties. This morning, early, the news had been all about two men being injured at a local bagel shop when a car had crashed into the building. Pompano Beach Fire and Rescue, along with Broward County Sheriff’s Officers, were on the scene. Both men had been taken to the North Broward Medical Center. The VHS radio also keeps me one step ahead of the riffraff in town, and it’s a good way to hear about the morning speed traps or where traffic jams are the heaviest.

On this morning I lost my appetite. The next news story made me sick, as though I had walked across the deck, tripped over a hatch, stuck my arm through one of the scuppers, and ripped the skin completely off my arm.

I had finished my glass of juice and the newspaper and was preparing for the day when across the airwaves I heard the officers talking about a late-model blue Audi that had gone through the guardrail at the third street pier. The car had gone over the edge and into the water.

I immediately thought of Kristina. I knew she had rented a car fitting that description; I had seen her leave Spit’s place with Uncle Buddy on Monday afternoon in the car the dispatcher had just described.

Could it be? I wasn’t sure, but I had to find out. I had to find out and quick.

I called Uncle Buddy’s house, with an apologetic tone in my voice when Kristina answered the phone.

“Oh, I’m sorry to bother you, Kristy. I was listening to the police band. I heard about an accident a few minutes ago down on third that sounded like the same description of the car you said that you rented. I guess not.”

“What? I let Dad drive it up to the store for some beer and cigarettes a few minutes ago. His truck is in the shop. He should be back in a few minutes. Jimmy you don’t think? Jimmy.”

I took a deep breath. I didn’t know what to think, at least not yet. I hung up the phone, finished getting ready, gathered my stuff, and drove over to pick up Kristina at Buddy’s place. By the time I got over to the house, two officers were already breaking the news to Kristina.

They had found the address on Buddy’s driver’s license. As for Uncle Buddy, what do you say? Seventy-seven years old, close to six foot, two hundred ten pounds. Drunk, at least most of the time when I saw him, which was not often.

Uncle Buddy had been in the coast guard and a member of the merchant marines for thirty years, spending most of his time away from home and his family. For most of his active duty, Uncle Buddy had served in the South Seas. He had told me stories of his times in Tahiti, New Zealand, Tasmania, and Botany Bay. As a child, I only remember him surfacing on special occasions—deaths or family reunions.

Since retiring, Uncle Buddy had been overcome with memories of the past. He always had a story to tell. It was usually late at night when he called. His wanting to know if I could come by some local bar, pick him up, and then drive him home.

Uncle Buddy was no longer the powerful, formidable man in his military uniform I had remembered. He had changed. Before, he was always composed and in control. Dad had taught me to sail, a Catalina 22 monohaul, but it was Uncle Buddy who had taught me how to navigate and read charts. Now his face wore a reddish glow, as though his liver was about to explode. I was worried about him. Then there was Uncle Buddy’s smell, the smell all drunks wear on their sleeves as alcohol evaporates through their veins. Even so, Buddy was lovable. I had never heard him say a mean thing about anyone, well, except his fish stringer full of wives.