Saltwater in the Bluegrass (16 page)

Three times successfully married and three times successfully divorced.

In his book, he was even.

To all three of his ex-wives, he had pretty much used the same words Dorothy would have said to Auntie M in today’s version of
The Wizard of Oz
: “Screw Kansas and the farm; took the dog.”

I spent most of Wednesday
morning with Kristina at Uncle Buddy’s place. She lay down after lunch, and I needed some fresh air. I needed to get out of the house and let what was taking place breathe a little. Kristina had continued to tell me more information about the Ingrams and her time with Lamar. I had not quite figured out why someone who had just lost her father was so eager to talk about something that could wait. Maybe her old life had stopped being interesting.

The more Kristina talked, the more my instincts honed in on the fact that Kristina was not sharing the entire picture. Too many pieces were being left out of the puzzle. She was trying her best to paint this poor little rich girl scenario for me

I left Uncle Buddy’s house.

On my way home, I decided to take a look at the accident scene. There were several questions I wanted answered quickly. Was this an accident? Had Buddy already been drinking, or could there be something to the fact that Kristina should have been in that vehicle?

By the report the police officers had given us at the house, I knew the direction and speed of the car; I knew the time of the crash and how the car had entered the canal, and I knew who was in the car. Apparently Buddy was driving north, by way of State Street, and had tried to pull on to Third Street to cross the bridge from the west side, facing traffic.

The autopsy was not going to be completed until around three thirty, so I stayed at the accident scene and took several pictures and tried to gather as much information as I could about the wreck. One thing was for sure, the facts were not adding up. I definitely needed to see that autopsy report and the car, as soon as it was pulled up from the canal.

By five o’clock, I was starting to put the pieces of the day back in order.

The autopsy had come in and was negative for alcohol. Uncle Bubby officially had not yet started his daily consumption when the accident happened. I was grateful for that, for the family, for Buddy. Any sign of alcohol at an accident scene, especially where death is involved and the tragic loss of the story becomes watered down with the most obvious of obsessions.

I was hoping to get a look at the Audi. I still had about fifteen minutes before the divers attached the cables. I spent the time looking over the pictures I had taken earlier.

As the crane pulled the car up to the surface, my first response was, why is the rear bumper dented in? According to the police report, the car had gone into the canal going forward. The front bumper should have been the only bumper bent in, due to impact of the guardrail and hitting the water.

The pieces of the day were beginning to fall apart. First, why had the guardrail not held if the vehicle was going only twenty-five miles an hour? And second, why was there damage to both bumpers?

I have always believed in the saying, “A picture is worth a thousand words.” That much is plain and simple. Then the skid marks jumped right out at me.

No one had seen them. No one had tied the two together. The skid marks were from the inside of the guardrail to the point where the car had left the ground next to the pier and entered the canal. Buddy’s car had been pushed through the guardrail and into the water. Then a closer look the skid marks showed that they were not from the Audi at all but from a much bigger vehicle.

The wheelbase width on a late model Audi is forty-seven inches, and the skid marks were fifty-two inches wide. It had definitely been a larger vehicle that had caused the wreck.

The police had missed it.

The Audi had taken a bath for a reason. By my calculations the wrong person was in the driver’s seat. No one had bothered to look for another car that afternoon, at least not one with a damaged front end.

No one had made the connection.

Heck, no one was looking.

Most cases down in these parts are wrapped up within an hour of their occurrence, and no one is ever the wiser for it. Old people die down in Florida every day. When it is an old drunk, no one takes the time to investigate.

There was no doubting the fact that Buddy was old and a drunk, but he was still family. He was always there for me growing up, when listening was all I needed someone to do.

I remember him helping Dad around the house on several occasions, not to mention the fact he had helped turn me on to sailing. To most people’s eyes, he was just an old barnacle of a man. He was not someone to scrape out of the way because he was just a few days from being all washed up. He had been much more to me, and I would miss him.

If this accident had been a professional job, and it was starting to appear that it was, then the vehicle used had probably been ditched after its use. No fingerprints or paperwork would have been left on the vehicle. No information in the vehicle was going to help me find the person or persons responsible. They were probably on there way out of the state by now.

My first lead was no longer going to be who had done this, but why, and the why was going to lead me back to Kristina. Uncle Buddy died for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now there was going to be someone to blame and someone to pay. I would make sure of that. There were going to be a lot more questions for Kristina, and this time when we talked, I was not going to sit back and listen to any more of her I-am-the-victim-here nonsense.

It had been a long time since I had seen Kristina. I did not know her as an adult. The little girl I remembered was named Kristy. She had grown up, and more had changed than just her name. I was not crazy about her name or her game.

I was feeling sick to my stomach, just like I had been hit by a wave.
Wednesday evening
had finally worked its way across the darkness of the state and was gone. Lightning danced across the sky for most of the night, keeping me entertained. Thursday morning was now making an appearance, and shadows where decreasing. It would not be long before the harbor once again came to life. I had tried to get some sleep but found it to be one of those nights where sleep does not come. So, after several hours of trying, but instead, listening to my body sweat, I kicked the sheets back and got up. I put on a pair of khaki shorts and walked upstairs. It was a full moon. I spent the rest of the night sitting up on the deck, stretched out, listening to the quiet sounds and staring off into the distance. The high pressure system was gone, replaced by a balmy tropical low. Breezes from out in the Gulf Stream had been blowing in most of the night, cutting the thick humid air in the harbor, and finally it was starting to cool off.

The tides were working themselves back out to sea. It was still early, around five, but I figured since I was already up I might as well make some coffee, eat breakfast, and start making plans for the day. I turned on the weather-band radio to listen to the upcoming forecast. There were several alerts being posted, for possible gale-force winds by afternoon, but for now the seas were still one to two feet off shore, still manageable for small craft and fishermen, up to three miles. Clouds had drifted in and out most of the evening but had still brought no rain. I went back up on the deck, sat in my favorite chair, and read the newspaper. Being well rounded, well it’s just another one of those lessons handed down by generations of Stringers. Today’s local paper had become a bad habit, filled with grief and unhappiness. I sometimes wondered why I even bothered. One story told of a man found dead in his apartment garage, one story was describing a women who had died after being shot, and another story was concerning four construction workers rescued after an Atlantic Boulevard drawbridge they had been working on suddenly opened, leaving them hanging on for their life. At least this article had turned out with a good ending.

By seven thirty the dock was busy.

Other people around the harbor had heard the weather reports and were scurrying around their boats, tying down the hatches, checking their riggings, mooring lines, and securing their down lines. Some were just walking the dog, jogging, swimming, or just relaxing as I was and not worrying about things. Most people down here keep a pretty good grasp on their emotions when it comes to the weather. You have to figure that down here in these parts the weather comes and it goes, and nothing is going to change that.

The night before was still replaying in my mind as I jogged up to the pier and back. Even with the echoes of amplifiers ringing in my ears and the fact that Buddy had been killed, I was able to get a decent run in.

Mandy was also on my mind. I’m not sure why, but then again, I know exactly why.

She was one of those girls with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair, cute as hell, but dangerously looking for a husband, ready for love in all the wrong places. Sad to say, I have played that game before—right out of college. I didn’t need this happening again. Not at this time in my life.

Mandy didn’t quite get it when we returned to the dock and I said,

“Good night” instead of “Your place or mine.”

I enjoyed the walk but just was not in the mood to wake up with the I-will-call-you-in-the-morning routine, and with Buddy’s death so fresh in my mind, I had too many other things I needed to sort through.

Everyone goes through changes trying to find out the truth. I am really no different. Maybe it is the fact that most things need to be baked in the oven a little longer before you can get a real sense of the taste.

I was not sure what kept gnawing at me. It seemed that around every turn I kept discovering that Kristina, as she wanted to be called, was a large part of the overall problem. Someone had wanted her dead, for whatever reason, and Uncle Buddy had taken the plunge in her place.

I kept thinking that I had to find out why. Not for me, and especially not for Kristina, but for my uncle. I had always thought dying was a necessary thing people do, part of life and all, but dying by mistake for someone else, well that just sucks.

By nine o’clock I had taken a shower, finished the newspaper and my coffee, picked up, and made my way over to the funeral home. I had told Kristina the night before that I would help her with the arrangements for the funeral since I had probably been the closest family member to her dad in the last couple of years. I sort of felt an obligation to him, and, well, it was my way to say “So long” to the old man.

I arrived over at Stratford Funeral Home and waited outside. Nine ten, nine fifteen, nine twenty, nine twenty-five, and still no Kristina. I finally decided to walk inside and talk to the director of the funeral home and see if he had heard from her.

No one inside had heard from her, so I told the director that I would be back in thirty minutes and to tell her to wait if she came in. I called the house. There was no answer.

I got back in my car and drove over to Uncle Buddy’s house. As I pulled up the driveway to the house, I started to get one of those inside-the-gut feelings. I should have gotten it sooner. As I walked into the house, I immediately knew what was going on. Kristina was gone.

This ungrateful little girl had left town, and not even a tear had been shed for her father. As far as I could tell, she had made a plane reservation the night before. I walked through the house and found some paper that had been scribbled on and left on the kitchen counter.
Delta Flight #214 to Atlanta and then on to

Louisville.

Leaving Fort Lauderdale at 6:30 that morning.

There were also two other numbers on the piece of paper. Pompano Taxi Service was written below the first number, and by the looks of the area code on the second number, it was from out of state, probably Kentucky. She had probably made arrangements to meet someone.
By noon I had made all
the arrangements with the funeral director. I called each of the family members I thought would want to know, including the three exes.

As bad as some storms get, there is still a calm spot right in the middle of its path. I figured it this way—arguing with an ex was like wrestling with a pig in the mud. After a while, you realize the pig is enjoying it. I imagine Buddy had enjoyed being with each wife at one time.

I finished my calls and headed back down to the beach club. I had two stops to make before I returned home. I ran by the florist shop on Second and Bay Point and made arrangements for flowers to be sent to the funeral home. Then I drove over to Spit’s Tavern to let some of Uncle Buddy’s friends know what had happened to him and to buy them all a drink in his honor.

Some traditions still remain, and even though most of these old men were, one way or another, lost at sea, they had still been friends to Uncle Buddy, and I felt they needed to know what had happened. Things were starting to happen fast.

I headed for the office.

By three o clock, while looking across my cluttered desk, I finally found it in my busy schedule to start getting upset. Matter of fact, I was beginning to get pissed.

Why was Buddy killed? Scratch that. Why was someone trying to kill Kristina? Why had she run out so fast when I was the only person who would help her? This didn’t make sense. Then again, why had she run out before the funeral service for her father? It showed no class at all.

The more I thought about what had happened, the more upset I became. I started thinking about what she had and had not said. I was getting more and more uneasy as the questions unfolded. After several hours of thinking and replaying the possibilities, I finally came to the conclusion that it was time for a road trip. In my line of work, I have concluded that when you want to find out where someone is going and for what reason, just follow the trail, follow the explanations. They’ll leave a trail behind. Kristina had left plenty of breadcrumbs in her wake. Unfortunately, they were all leading me up north. Somewhere I didn’t want to go.

I spent Thursday afternoon getting all my affairs in order on the assumption that I might be gone for awhile. With my seafaring experiences, I knew what duties I needed to perform in closing up the
Brenda Kay II
before leaving town. I made sure all the riggings were fastened and all the swing-down-ropes were secured and all of the hatches were closed and latched. I canceled the newspaper, paid a few bills, found storage for my 1963 Corvette, and went by the office and left a new note on the door and a new message on the answering machine. I called and left a message on Mom and Dad’s phone in case they called and could not get a hold of me, and then I cleaned out the refrigerator, made sure all the windows were closed—you know the usual things before leaving for a trip of any substantial length of time.