Port Starbird (Storm Ketchum Adventures) (4 page)

"
Whoa, that was close!" Ingram exclaimed. He'd staggered backward during the near-attack and almost lost his balance, and was now steadying himself. "You're lucky you had that stupid mutt on a leash!" His eyes flashed while he fished a handkerchief from a pocket of his sport coat and mopped his brow.

Stupid mutt? He probably thinks I'm stupid, too, Ketch thought.
"I'm not lucky," he replied in a surprisingly (to him) strong voice. "You're the lucky one. You're lucky you found two wealthy women you could exploit, you're lucky they're out of your way now, you're lucky they couldn't prove anything, and you're lucky you're not in jail. That's what I call
lucky
." He snapped the leash. "Let's go, Jack."

"
What?" Ingram spluttered in indignation. "What did you say to me?"

"
Stop bothering me and do whatever you have to do, if you really can. We're done here," Ketch said. He got the dog turned around and they started walking back down to the dock.

"
Well, I'll be goddamned - you got some nerve mister, I'll tell you that! Y'all better watch your mouth, sir!" Ingram called after him. Ketch didn't respond. "Y'all ever hear of slander? God damn it!" Ketch kept his back to the developer and kept walking.

When they turned the corner at the dock Ketch steered the dog toward a
wooden bin resting along the outside wall of the building and sat down hard on it. The dog sat facing Ketch and pressed his muzzle into Ketch's abdomen, which was his way of hugging. The dog moaned, and Ketch put his arms around him and massaged his flanks. "It's okay, buddy, all done now. You're a good boy," he said. When the dog had been sufficiently consoled, Ketch pulled back and slumped against the wall.

The
'insolence of power', indeed - old Shakespeare had nailed that one right on the head. People like Ingram truly believed they were powerful enough to get away with just about anything, didn't they? And they didn't usually care who knew it, and they often enjoyed flaunting it. Like that rich heir who got himself killed a while back by skiing into a tree while playing a forbidden game of football on a slope that was only off-limits to commoners, like that ex-presidential hopeful preaching family values who challenged reporters to try to catch him cheating on his wife and then got caught doing just that... Rules were irrelevant - they were just for the rabble, they didn't apply to the golden ones.

But maybe they
were right more often than not, come to think of it. Ketch of course didn't definitively know what had happened to Ingram's wives, any more than the police did, but something certainly smelled fishy in both cases - and yet here was Ingram, prancing around free and clear and carrying on with business as usual.

Nonetheless, it was true that
Ingram hadn't been convicted of anything. Ketch wondered if Ingram was in fact innocent, and he'd just been inexcusably rude and insensitive to the man - but he seriously doubted it. As he had in his former profession, Ketch usually tended to draw his conclusions from empirical evidence, not from what some media talking heads conjectured and the sheeple in their audiences subsequently believed; innocent until proven guilty, it was the basis of the legal system, and he agreed that to do it any other way would be wrong. But in this case, knowing what he did about the man, there were just too many convenient coincidences and too many bells that didn't ring quite right.

A grand jury had decided the evidence didn't warrant prosecuting in the drowning of the first wife. The second wife's disappearance had led to a
locally sensationalized murder trial, due mostly to investigators finding some minute traces of her blood around the couple's in-ground pool. There'd been evidence of some public rancor between the two that the prosecution had claimed established intent; the wife had supposedly spoken with a friend about the possibility of divorce, which was claimed to provide motive; and everyone knew Ingram wasn't the model husband his defense tried to portray him as.

But
there was no record of a divorce motion nor a consultation with any divorce attorney, the physical evidence was scanty and circumstantial, and there was no murder weapon, no timeline, no witnesses - and most importantly, no body. They couldn't even prove she was dead, and the evidence hadn't been sufficient to obtain a conviction. To the general dismay of most Dare County residents, a hung jury had resulted in a mistrial, and the district attorney had declined to retry the case.

From what he'd read
and heard, though, Ketch believed Ingram hadn't mourned much after either of his alleged losses, and all of Ketch's acquaintances thought Ingram was probably guilty of something. He'd heard the stories about Ingram's volatile temper, and about him hooking up with the second wife before the first one drowned; the trial hadn't slowed him down much once he'd made bail, from what he'd seen in the papers; and he remembered hearing about there being other women during the trial, though he'd never seen them named. And finally, his business ethics were suspect, at least from Ketch's perspective. About the only good thing he could think of to say about the man was that he wasn't a bad father - there were no kids from either marriage.

Granted
Ingram had seemed genuinely upset just now, but that was most likely just a reaction to being crossed, something men like him didn't take kindly to. Ketch concluded he didn't need to worry about it. In the extremely unlikely event he had in fact made a mistake, if it someday somehow turned out he owed the man an apology, he'd give him one. Maybe. If.

Me
anwhile, he had a bag of dog poop to dispose of, and they should be getting back to the boat. Ketch patted the dog's rump and stood up. "All right boy, come on, time to go."

The
y walked past a row of vending boxes in front of the ship's store, the kind that dispensed newspapers and such. There was one for the daily paper, then one for a free tourist magazine, then one for free real estate guides from HatterasMann Realty... Ketch opened the door of that last one, dropped the bag in, and proceeded on to the boat.

"Hey, what took you
two so long?" the Captain inquired as they boarded. Ketch shrugged, all he had energy left to do at the moment. "Well, the boy said to thank you again," the Captain continued, "and a couple of the guys are over there at the table gettin' their catch squared away. The rest of 'em already took off." He patted a cooler. "They gave us some cobia, and some pretty fair tips. Here's yours."

"Thanks
," Ketch said. He took the bills and stuffed them into a zippered pocket of his cargo shorts. He'd tally them up later. The Captain didn't pay him for serving as mate, he worked for tips, and that was fine with him. Though the Social Security wouldn't kick in for a while yet and he did have to pay for flood insurance, he had his pension and a halfway respectable investment account that provided him with another income stream, and his house was paid off.
His
house! Anyway, he didn't really need the money and was happy to just go along for the ride, but it did feel good to be appreciated once in a while. And of course having some extra cash handy was never a bad thing - just ask Ingram.

"Y'all
are lookin' kinda beat," the Captain observed. "You okay?" Ketch nodded. "Well, let's don't worry 'bout cleanin' up just now, I can hose 'er down back at the boatyard. I'll just top 'er off at the pump on the way out is all."

"Okay," Ketch said. "Thanks, I am
a little tired."

When they took the boat back out into
the sound and he had a stiff salt breeze in his face once again, Ketch started to feel a little better. This day had certainly had its share of up and downs so far and it was nowhere near over yet, but it was still a beautiful day nonetheless.

On impulse he invited the Captain to bring the cobia to the house later for an evening cookout. He had two cases of beer and some wine, and he could pick up some sides at the market. What the heck, he'd invite Mario too if he was around, and maybe whoever else he happened to run into between now and then. He could use some company tonight.

~  ~  ~

Ketch was still physically fatigued when he and the dog arrived back at the house, but he was too restless to sleep. He also hadn't had lunch, but he didn't feel like taking time for that either. Aftereffects of the adrenalin overdose, he guessed.

He supposed
some would agree that a few beers might be justifiable considering his situation, but he disliked drinking alone and this town lacked the kind of dive bar that would be apropos of the situation, and besides he was no longer inclined these days to waste time sitting in a bar doing nothing constructive. He'd have a couple tonight at the cookout; for now he'd just run some errands. He nudged the air conditioning up a notch, filled the dog's water dish, and scanned the mail he'd brought in from the mailbox.

No more bad news
there at least, just a bill and two pieces of junk mail. He dropped the bill into the in-box on his desk and considered the other two items. The first one was yet another credit card offer. He opened it and stuffed the contents of that envelope and the envelope itself into the enclosed postage-paid return envelope. The other one, a special offer for some kind of home security system, didn't have a postage-paid return envelope, so he crammed everything from that one into the postage-paid envelope from the credit card company as well. Recycling was a virtue after all, was it not? The postage-paid envelope was now too fat to seal properly, so he taped the flap.

He considered taking the pickup
, then decided he needed to pedal. The dog appeared ready for his afternoon nap anyway. If they don't get their eighteen hours a day they get cranky, he thought, but with affection. "Jack, I'm going out. I'll be right back, you be good," he said. The dog, settled in on his designated end of the couch, wagged once without picking up his head and closed his eyes.

The bike had saddlebags mounted over the rear wheel, so he wouldn't need
his backpack. He stuck the envelope in the mailbox, flipped the red flag up, and headed out, with the open shirt he still wore over his tee shirt flapping behind him in the breeze and an OBX ball cap in place of the tarp hat. His twenty-one-speed Schwinn all-terrain bike was overkill on this mostly flat part of the island; a balloon-tire island bike would have sufficed. He couldn't recall the last time he'd had to shift out of whatever gear it was currently in, but he'd brought the bike with him when he moved and he liked it.

He
pedaled south down North End Road, enjoying the sunlit scenery along the way. This was a pretty drive. The grounds of most of the soundside properties bordering the narrow paved road were grassy and often attractively landscaped as well, with various kinds of trees and interesting semitropical foliage providing a soothing contrast to the sand and rocks and stock plantings that predominated on many of the oceanside properties on the other side of Route 12; though a lot of those were also impressive in their way.

He passed the Sands of Time campground,
cheery-looking and well-kempt as always, and the Baskins Gallery, probably his favorite place to impulse-shop on the infrequent occasions he indulged in that quintessential American pastime. He briefly considered stopping there today, but decided against it. They'd undoubtedly have some new piece of nautical bric-a-brac or artwork that he'd have to find a place for in the house, and he should save the saddlebag space for the food he needed to buy. He should also watch his time, he supposed.

The houses in this part of town varied in size and age, and m
ost were not new - including his own, which had begun its life as essentially a four-room bungalow on stilts. The living room and dining area in the front, and a galley kitchen in the back behind the dining area, were now open. One of the two adjacent back bedrooms included a full bath, and there was a half-bath with a washer-dryer stack along the inside wall of the kitchen. The flooring was rustic wood plank throughout.

Wooden riser
steps led up from the front yard to a covered deck that ran the length of the front of the house and continued down both sides, where it was screened-in; and a set of open wooden steps led down to the back yard from the kitchen door at the end of that side deck. The tan-stained decks and deep brown cedar shake siding were in fair shape all around.

There was no shed, but he had a sizeable though low-ceilinged enclosed storage area under the house that served the same purpose.
Since it was an older property that predated the recent building boom, he had a relatively large lot irregularly bounded by lush wild scrub on both sides, which provided some privacy; and he had some grass, which he kept neatly mowed. There was no garage, but he could park a car on the gravel driveway under the kitchen-side deck; also no pool, but he didn't need one since his back yard abutted the sound and he had a small boat dock he could swim from.

With its simple design and about
a thousand square feet of living space on its single floor, it was nowhere near as impressive as the newer places around town - but still, it had cost him about half of the savings he'd managed to accumulate over the years, which included the proceeds from the sale of the last house he'd owned. A similar place on a lake where he'd lived back North would have cost him half as much or less - but a similarly aged oceanfront bungalow, if any still existed here, would cost twice as much or more, and then he wouldn't be able to keep a boat. In any event, he was on the water and he felt it was worth it. It wasn't fancy and it wasn't huge, but it was all he needed - and it was
his
, damn it.

He turned onto Harbor Road and proceeded east toward Route 12. As he passed the firehouse
, he decided to take a little time out after all and stop at the dive shop before hitting the market. He didn't enjoy biking along the highway as a rule, but the shop wasn't too far up the road and it wasn't a freeway, just a two-laner; but it was that time of year and there would definitely be traffic.

The Sea
Dog Scuba Center sported a colorful sign on its roof, complete with the traditional American red and white diver-down flag and a pirate dog inspired by an unfortunately deceased pet, but that was its only notable feature. Otherwise it was a nondescript unpainted wooden building that was completely incongruous with its more modern strip mall neighbor. It did however house something special that made it another of Ketch's favorite places.

She was
no Miss America, nor that young if truth be told; but she was attractive and perky and in good shape, and though Ketch had figured he was pretty much done with women now, something about her just rubbed him the right way, and her agreeable nature and pleasant voice with its classically seductive Carolinian cadence affected him more than he'd voluntarily admit. And her shoulder-length auburn hair, which perfectly framed her lightly freckled face when it wasn't tied back in a ponytail.

"
Hello? Kari? Anyone home?" he called as he entered the shop and glanced around the interior. After his ride the air inside was invitingly cool, and so was all the shiny and neatly displayed gear. And it was the middle of the day during tourist season and the place was deserted. Ketch hoped she was making ends meet. She might do better in a better location, which would probably mean Hatteras on this island, but maybe not as there was already competition down there. Or better yet somewhere else entirely perhaps, but Ketch didn't like to think about that.

Not that he was in a position to help a lot, and not that she'd
be likely to take charity from him or anyone else anyway, but he wished he could do something for her. He could buy some new gear, maybe a buoyancy compensator since his was starting to get a little raggedy - but she'd unfortunately probably insist on giving it to him at cost as she often did. That and free tank rentals were the only rewards he got (or wanted) for occasionally assisting with her certification classes and dive charters, and he didn't think he could forgo even those without getting her hackles up.

"Well hey, Ketch!" she said as she emerged
from a room in the back. "Long time no see! What brings y'all round today?" It was funny how he sometimes bristled at Southern accents and idioms when they were coming from a man; depending on the man, of course - Ingram's manner of speaking being especially irritating to him, for example. But her voice had quite the opposite effect on him.

"Oh, h
ello." Looked like today was a ponytail day. Ketch unconsciously stood a little straighter and brightened visibly. "Well, I was thinking of picking up a tank, for one thing." After he'd said it, he supposed he had thought of doing that sometime recently; but that wasn't really why he was here.

"Okay, no problem. Hey, where's my Jack
y?"

"I'
m on my bike. Jack's sacked out back at the ranch. We went out with the Captain this morning."

"Bike, huh? What
are y'all gonna do, strap that bad boy on your back and pedal it on home?" she asked with a grin. "You remember those tanks weigh about forty pounds full out of the water, right?" Seeing Ketch's look of consternation, she added, "Hey, you look hot. You want a Co-Cola with some ice?"

Ketch cleared his throat.
"Well, I can come back with the truck later or tomorrow, you don't have to fill one for me right this minute. And yes, a cold drink would be nice, thanks." What was the matter with him? She'd been over to the house at least a couple of times before. He felt like an awkward teenager.

"Come on back here
to the kitchen and I'll pour us a couple," she said with a follow-me wave. While she set them up she remarked, "I hope you're not fixin' to dive solo. It's not sanctioned and you ought to know better, bein' a divemaster and all."

"Not really
, I just want to clean the bottom of my boat," Ketch replied. That would be the used seventeen-foot Whaler he'd picked up for a song a while back. Though the boat was ancient, the outboard wasn't, and he'd gotten a great deal on it. "Besides, it was only unsanctioned until they found a way to make money on it. As I imagine you know, PADI started offering what they call a 'distinctive specialty course' on diving without a buddy, and I heard SDI has a class like that too."

"
Yeah, they did, but that doesn't mean they advocate solo divin'. It's to teach experienced divers how to take care of themselves in an emergency in case you get separated from your buddy, or when you might not have a competent buddy, or can't have one. You know, like if you're takin' pictures, or buddied with a stranger, or tec divin', and even just when you're teachin' students, if you think about it.
And
when you're cleanin' boats," she pointedly added. "They're not just doin' it for money, it's so you can dive safer. And I know
you
, sir, haven't taken that course."

Ketch
ruefully shook his head, his awkwardness gone now. These certification agencies... From the Fifties on, they'd admittedly done a lot to advance the sport and make it safer - certainly orders of magnitude safer than when Cousteau pioneered his prototype Aqua-Lung in the Forties - but it seemed to him that nowadays they always had a hand out, trying to nickel-and-dime everyone with innumerable 'specialty' classes and unnecessary certification levels and always looking for new ways to make money. They put him in mind of car dealers at times; or maybe labor unions, another institution perhaps outliving its usefulness.

"Always the instructor
, eh? What could a course like that teach me that I don't already know? I'm a divemaster, I can take care of myself, I carry a Spare Air. Me diving solo has to be safer than diving with the eight-year-olds they've started trying to suck in. What do they call that silliness, 'Bubble Blowers' or something like that?" Then, as he paused to catch his breath, a light bulb suddenly came on and he quickly backtracked. "But you're probably right," he said, sheepishly enough he hoped. "It's probably a sensible thing to do, especially at my age, and I should probably carry more redundant gear if I go solo. Are you qualified to teach that course, by any chance?"

She looked up at him in surprise.
"I think so. I could check into what I'd have to do."

"Well then, how about if you
do that and tell me when? I'll pay the going rate, whatever it is."

"Really? You're serious, right?
You're not funnin' with me?" Ketch shook his head and she continued. "Well, I know there's some classroom material, of course, and three dives. And I know you'll need some more gear. You sure about this?"

Ketch nodded.
"I am."

"Well
then, will you put off cleanin' your ole boat 'til after?" she inquired mischievously. "Never mind, I think you'll be okay this one time. But you can't get the tank tomorrow, I'll be closed. It's my day off and I'm supposed to go see my mama."

"Oh, that's right, I forgot
," Ketch said. "You know how it is with us retired folks. Like Mister Buffett said, the days drift by and they don't have names. Oh well, another time then. Now that I think about it, I might not be able to get back here before you close today. I have to prepare for a cookout at my place tonight."

"Oh yeah? What's the occasion?"

"No occasion, I just felt like it. We got some cobia today and I thought we could grill it up, that's all. The Captain's coming, and maybe some folks from the boatyard. No one was around when we docked, but I left notes for Mario and Len." He paused for a moment and took another drink. "Are you doing anything after work?" he casually inquired.