Saltwater in the Bluegrass (4 page)

“I told you earlier where I would be staying tonight. I’m sleeping here, got it?”

“First of all, I wasn’t checking up on you. I just wanted to see how you were, if there was anything I could do for you. You know, comfort my wife in her hour of need. The same thing any normal human would do when their spouse’s brother had just been killed in a horrible mining accident in some far off country.”

“And second?” Katherine asked sarcastically.

“There is no second, Katherine. Quit twisting my words, damn it. Why are you always trying so hard to piss me off?”

“Isn’t that a little bit much, over the top? Do you really think that I need to be checked up on or comforted?” Katherine asked.

“No, I’m sorry. I apologize. I’m sure you’re fine; you’ve got everything in control. You always do. Nothing ever bothers the great Katherine. I keep forgetting: you have no feelings, or at least none that ever show up, heartless balls of steel and all of that crap. What the hell’s wrong with you? What’s happened to you?”

“Are you through?” Katherine asked.

“Damn right I’m through.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to stop you in the middle of a full, all-out rant.”

“Screw you. Yes, I’m sure, Katherine. You are one for the books.”

“The books?” she said.

“I should have known you wouldn’t show an ounce of emotion. What was I thinking? Then again, I need to know. Did your heart even skip one single beat when you heard the news about your brother?”

“That’s quite enough.”

“I’m just getting started.”

“That’s enough.”

“I’m not going to insult you by lying. Maybe I was calling for me. Did you ever think of that? Maybe I’m the one who needs comforted. Lamar was my friend. He was like a brother to me. I can’t get over things like this as quickly as you, the fact that he’s gone. It’s killing me.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Maybe I need someone to talk too. Did you ever think about that?

No, I didn’t think so.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry, but was that all really necessary.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t say anything else. I appreciate you calling, really, I do. It was sweet. I know you and Lamar were close. I know you will miss him. We will all miss him, and, yes, I am grieving too.”

There was a long silence on the phone. “I don’t need this, not tonight. So you’re staying there tonight, in town at the high rise?”

Milford asked once again, already knowing the answer and somewhat glad by the previous tone in her voice that she was.

“Relax, I told you I was.” Then she hesitated. “I understand you’re upset. Is there anything else you need before I hang up?”

“No, Katherine. Sorry that I bothered you.”

“It’s not a problem. Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Maybe you will, I have a lot of things to do in the morning. I have to be at the track early.”

“Really?” Katherine said

“Yes, really. Goodbye, Katherine.”

The night would become a lengthy one for most workers of the company, but for Mrs. Katherine Whitworth Ingram, she would find herself sleeping like a baby.

Katherine was sharp,
intelligent, and it was high time everyone around her knew it. She had always been near the razor’s edge when it came to the business world and finance. She graduated in the early eighties with top honors from the University of Transylvania in Lexington, Kentucky. She had received her four-year degree in Finance with a minor in economics and banking structures. She had also taken classes in international law and computer language. Katherine was not one for volunteering, fundraisers, or social charity teas. She was not interested in playing east-end housewife or going to lengthy luncheons. She worked diligently on her career. She never understood why those around her were so bent on wasting their lives socializing with friends and families.

Political matters had been Lamar’s forte. When it came to money, though, Katherine was the one in the family who could make it, spend it, hide it, and gain from it. She knew the loopholes to hide money and assets. She knew that people who understood interest made it, and people who didn’t understand interest paid it. She knew how to appropriate and redistribute earnings to not pay company taxes, the margins derived from capital expenditures, the nets and gains of mutual funds, stocks, and bonds. She could make money work for her in ways most people could not dream of.

As far as Katherine was concerned, legal only meant that poor people had to do it that way. Years of social climbing and working their way to the top was just something that she had read the lower class of people did until they got fired or died trying. She had never intended on being anywhere but on top of her game.

The only two things she remembered learning as a child were the grass is greener on both sides of the fence if you own the entire farm and the watering hole, and if the early bird catches the worm, then own the worm farm.

Being ahead in the race always meant knowing who was running in the race, and Katherine took pride in that, along with always having a good last kick going into the final turn. This is the reason she employed strong arms.

Bowen was that strong arm. Joseph Willy Bowen had been brought into the company four years back. Katherine had made it clear to everyone, including Lamar, that Joseph was the right man for the job in Brazil and insisted that he be hired.

Katherine had met Joseph three years earlier when she had been in New Orleans overseeing surveillance work on a project there. Katherine always felt certain that it was a lot better knowing what the opposition was doing rather than sitting around anticipating what they might be up to, and Mr. Bowen had been highly recommended. Lamar hated the idea from the start. He hated the thought of bringing Joseph Bowen into the company but agreed with Katherine that his knowing the language would help in employee relations. Bowen spoke fluent Portuguese and would be a tremendous asset to the Brazilian mining operation.

In Katherine’s eyes, Bowen spoke a lot more than two languages. He was six foot four and two hundred and sixty pounds of pure nasty. A former college football player, known as “Willy B” at Tulane University, he was an expert in forcing the hands of workers at the mines through sheer terror and brute force.

His years of drive against the opposition made him perfect for the job. Then there was the fact that he would do whatever Katherine needed done and not ask questions. He had proven this time and time again, and Katherine paid him nicely for his extra services. He was a man in the closet that she could bring out and use whenever she needed without turning too many heads, especially Lamar’s.

At the Porto Alegre mine, Bowen was in charge.

Kristina, Lamar’s trophy wife,
had uncovered a lengthy trail of suspicion and betrayal by complete accident. It was something she would eventually become proud of.

An afternoon luncheon at Buzz Parson’s Bar and Grill had set the wheels in motion. One of Kristina’s favorite hangouts, Buzz Parson’s, on the banks of the Ohio River, had been the setting of many a Friday night drink fest.

She had once again proven that being in the right place at the right time does account for something, even for rich folks.

For the Ingram family, it was only the tip of the iceberg. Sitting at the table to the left of Kristina and her friends, Barbara and Sally, were two delivery drivers. Both drivers were minding their own business, looking at the menu, talking about how many stops each man had made and the usual banter about how badly they hated their boss.

“Mrs. Ingram, have you and your friends decided what you would like for lunch?” the drivers overheard the waiter say to a woman at the table next to them.

“Yes, we have, thank you. We will start with the— Scratch that. Bring us three more martinis. We’re not ready to eat yet.”

From the next table over, one of the driver who delivered in the area where the Ingram’s house was located said, “Excuse me, Mrs. Ingram. I have a letter for your family out in the truck. Would it be possible for me to give it to you here?”

“Sure, sweets, and while you’re out there I’ll order you and your friend here a couple of drinks from the bar.”

“No thanks. We’re still working.”

The courier returned with the international, overnight, priority letter from his truck, setting it on the table next to the basket of popcorn and peanuts.

“I need you to sign here on line 21, Mrs. Ingram.”

“You can call me Kristy, lover boy.” She took the pen from his hand, making eye contact with him once again.

“Sure thing Mrs. Ingram.”

Kristina was beginning to feel the alcohol in her, and it was still early in the day. She handed back the pen, picked up her drink, and said thanks. She didn’t bother to look at the address or the consignee to see whom the letter was actually for, and at this point did not really care. She took it from the table and leaned it against her purse that was on the floor next to her right Gucci high heel shoe. The three ladies went back to talking and laughing, louder and louder as the crowd in the restaurant continued to grow. Friday afternoons always quickly turned into Friday night at this place. To get a table inside on a Friday night, you had to get there early in the afternoon. The drinks and laughter continued through the day and into the evening. Now, everyone in the bar was feeling no pain except the unlucky patrons who had to leave due to jobs, appointments, meetings, or families waiting at home.

It would be another two hours before Kristina would pick up the letter from beside her purse and take a look at it. She rubbed her eyes and tried to focus as the small writing on the air bill that was behind the cellophane went in and out of view. The small letters that had been a blur when she had first picked it up from the floor were now coming into focus as her eyes adjusted to the light in the bar and to the size of the print.

It read, To Mrs. Katherine Ingram.

Kristina paused and then as she took another drink from her glass, said in a loud, drunken slur, “What’s that bitch getting.” She threw the letter down on the table, knocking over several drinks, one glass shattering as it hit the floor.

It was loud enough for most of the people seated in the restaurant to hear, much less the people seated nearby. As far as the management was concerned they were not going to tolerate loud, obnoxious behavior by anyone, even from the Ingram family. It was time for Kristina and her friends to call it a night. This was a family place.

The establishment had already called her a taxi. By the time the manager walked over and told Kristina and her friends that it was time for them to leave, the taxi was waiting outside in the parking lot.

Saturday morning,
prior to the accident,
was once again a story unto itself. By eleven o’clock, most of the cob webs in Kristina’s head were gone, leaving only a headache and a bad case of trench mouth as a reminder of the evening before. After drinking a large cup of coffee in bed and taking several eight hundred milligram ibuprofens, the morning was starting to take shape.

On the floor, next to the solid oak poster bed that Lamar and Kristina shared, lay the overnight letter between her designer blouse and pants. Kristina was starting to remember bits and pieces of the night and day before. As she placed her feet on the floor to get out of bed and stand up, the edge of the letter scraped lightly along the side of her right ankle.

Kristina had learned early on in her life that snooping into other people’s mail, especially her husband’s and his family members, was no big deal as long as you did not get caught. She had become good in her short-lived life of covering her trail, especially when it came to snooping.

Before opening the letter, Kristina had driven down the road to the Holiday Manor parking lot where a package drop box was stationed. Inside the box, she would find the appropriate supplies she needed. Sitting in her car, she began. First, she had removed the printed international air bill from behind the cellophane carefully to not tear it. Second, she looked for any marking printed on the envelope itself that might be a sign to the addressee that the letter had been tampered with. Third, she opened it.

Kristina could only imagine what Katherine could have been getting from a man in Brazil by the name of Sevil Ylime. There was only one piece of paper on the inside of the envelope, and it read as follows:

(DMIA1F50FMIOM101)

(DMIA2F50FM2OM101)

(DMIA3F50FM3OM101)

What did it mean? Why was it being sent to Katherine and not to Lamar at the office? What was it? Was it some kind of coded message? Who was Ylime, and why was it coming from Brazil when Lamar ran the mining operations down there?

This was something Kristina had thought Lamar needed to know. She had to tell him, but what was she telling him? Kristina decided first to make a copy of the letter and then seal the original back inside the new envelope. She drove over to the print shop, made the copy, threw the old envelope into the garbage can in the store, and then walked back outside and got in her car. She sealed up the letter in the new envelope, replacing the air bill, and then drove home. It was Saturday afternoon.

Lamar had been at the club all afternoon playing golf with other club members. Both Kristina and Lamar pulled into the driveway at precisely the same time. Lamar drove through the gate first, with Kristina following him up the long driveway to the house. As they arrived and parked, they began to say their hellos. Kristina grabbed the envelope, put it behind her purse, walked over and gave her husband a kiss and a hug. As they walked inside the door, Katherine was waiting for them with a very determined look.

Katherine had appeared out of nowhere, blocking the front entry way.

Before either had a chance to get inside the door or even say hello to her, Katherine in her gruff exterior voice said, “Where’s the letter that you signed for yesterday?”

“Oh, do you mean this one? The deliveryman ran into me yesterday down at Buzz Parson’s and asked me if I would sign for it. I was more than happy to do it.”