Dead in the Water

by Glenda Carroll

  I opened the bathroom door and moved quietly down the hall to the room that Spencer had just left. I paused. The three of them were still talking.

  I put my hand on the silver doorknob and slowly turned it. It gave a slight click. I pushed the door open, first an inch, then two inches, then wide enough to slip through.

  The setting sun created long shadows in the big room. Wall-to-wall carpet swallowed up the sounds of my rapid breathing and shuffling feet. There was a California king sized bed covered with a navy blue bedspread near the window. Sitting directly in the middle of the bed was Waddell’s red, white and blue swim bag.

  A grey towel was resting on top. I pulled it out. Underneath were two caps, one yellow, one red. I put them on the bedspread. Stuffed into the corner of the bag I could see the edge of a plastic sandwich bag. I reached in and gave it a tug.

  “What are you doing?”

  Spencer walked into the room and stood near the doorway. He moved toward the window and turned to face me. His body blocked the sun and his face was hidden in black shadows.

  “I…uh…The other day, Dick’s swim bag fell over in the trunk of my car. I think when I was putting things back, I stuffed in one of my tee shirts by mistake. I wanted to find it.”

  I strained to see his face.

  He walked over to the bed and picked up the bag. He looked down at the baggie I held between my thumb and forefinger.

  “That doesn’t belong to you,” he said and held out his hand.

  I dropped it into his open palm.

  “I’ll check on your shirt later. Now, your sister’s waiting. She’s outside. It’s time for you to leave.”

  Spencer’s eyes never left my face as he opened Waddell’s closet and put the swim bag on the floor way in the back behind several pairs of cowboy boots, tasseled loafers, and running shoes.

  Spencer followed me out into the living room. His phone rang and he walked into the kitchen to answer it.

  I was alone with Waddell’s sister.

  “Pamela, I…uh…have to confess. I went into your brother’s bedroom. I thought I had stuffed one of my old shirts into his swim bag by mistake before I dropped it off. I noticed a baggie with a few capsules in it. I don’t want to insinuate that your brother did anything wrong, but maybe they were the cause of his death. A bad interaction with, maybe, other prescription drugs he was taking. It might be worth getting them tested. I’d be glad to…”

  Spencer walked back into the room, glanced at me and then at Pamela.

  “You’d be glad to—what? Trish…it is Trish, isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “In the past and in my current business, I have had numerous dealings with lawyers. Some have been on my side; some not. Everything can be litigated. So it has become my policy…our policy… that neither Pamela nor I discuss anything unless a lawyer is present. Nothing against you. It’s just better for everyone.”

  “What took you so long?” Lena asked.

  We were flying down the freeway headed back to Marin. The visit was full of discrepancies. For starters, an outstanding swimmer with a squeaky clean reputation drowned, according to his doctors.

  “What’s with Spencer? He couldn’t get us out of there fast enough.”

  “Seems that he doesn’t talk to anyone unless there is a lawyer present. Understandable, I guess. I don’t think they have any real answers yet on Dick’s death. Oh, and he found me in Waddell’s bedroom. I was looking for…”

  “What? You were looking for what? A pill bottle with a skull and crossbones on it? No wonder they threw us out. I’d do the same thing.”

  “I saw the baggie. I had it in my hand. That’s when Spencer walked in. I think those capsules have something to do with Waddell’s death. I told Pamela as much and asked her to have them tested.”

  “I can’t believe you did that.”

  Checking the speedometer, I noticed that if I went any faster, we would soon be airborne. I backed off my 85 miles an hour pace and just hoped I hadn’t passed a highway patrol hiding by the roadside.

  “By the way, do you want to explain that comment you made about jail,” said Lena.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I kept my eyes on the road and ignored my sister. There is no way she would understand what it was like after mom died and our dad left. I was old enough to take care of her, but we didn’t have much money. Some of my friends—acquaintances, really—were burglarizing homes. They paid me to keep the things they stole until they could get rid of them. We needed the money, so I did it. Not the smartest of moves. Once I even went with them on a job. But I couldn’t take anything. Not one thing. My life of crime ended that night. Well, not quite and jail did come later.

  Lena didn’t need to know any of this. I looked in my rear view mirror and kept driving.

  6

  Friday evening before the next open water swim, Lena, dressed in sweats and wrapped in a comforter, was stretched out on the couch. She had come down with a bad summer cold. Her nose was red and her voice had dropped three octaves. The closest she would come to water was drinking a cup of hot herbal tea. That meant I was going it alone.

  I checked and rechecked everything I needed for the next day. I had the evaluation form, the name of the event director, a copy of the open water guidelines and directions to get to the swim. I was even bringing a digital camera in case I needed to visually document anything. I put everything on the kitchen table. Then I moved the lot to the table by the front door. When I shifted the papers and camera for a third time, Lena said, “What are you so nervous about? You’re not even swimming? You are going as an evaluator. That’s it.”

  “Well, I want to do it right. Everything perfect.”

  “This is no big deal. Most of these swims have been running for over ten years. The event directors are pros. Talk with them if you have a question. Just follow that check-list you showed me. Before you, they used to have volunteers do the evaluating. I’ve even done it once, a few years back. It’s not that hard.”

  “But you’re a swimmer. You know how things run. Who do I call if there is another accident?” I said, still walking around the living room with the folder in my hand.

  “Not gonna happen,” said Lena. “Last weekend was a once in a lifetime event. What is wrong? You can do anything. I’ve seen you.”

  “I didn’t expect to go to this swim without you.”

  Lena laughed. “I’m your security blanket? I thought you were my security blanket. Okay, here’s the down and dirty about the Cold Water Clash. It’s a one mile swim around the Santa Cruz pier. It’s in the Pacific Ocean. It’s crowded and the water’s cold, like the name indicates, about 60°. End of story.”

  With that, she struggled off the couch, a box of tissues under one arm and the comforter thrown over her shoulders.

  “I’m going to sleep. That’s what you should do. You need to be at the swim when they open registration and that’s around 7:00 or 7:30 a.m., right?”

  I nodded. She disappeared into her bedroom. The hamster sprinting around its wheel was back in my head.

  I pulled out of our driveway at 5:00 a.m. I’d been pacing the floor since three o’clock in the morning. My head was throbbing but I managed to get dressed, grab the ever ready box of saltines, a bottle of water, and head for the door. Stress was doing nothing for my sleep patterns, but I was losing weight, whether I wanted to or not. Darkness enveloped our small neighborhood. The sliver of moon was hazy with an uneven circle of mist surrounding it. Mt. Tam was still lost in the pre-dawn darkness. Except for the swishing of automatic sprinklers, and the clear trills of the early morning birds, all was still. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I did one last review of what I had with me.

  The folder? Where was the swim evaluation folder with all my information?

  I ran back into the house, grabbed it off the kitchen table and darted back out again. A deep breath, a drink of water and a nibble of a cracker and I backed out of the driveway, keeping
the headlights off until I reached the street. I was on my way heading about 90 miles south to Santa Cruz, the location of the next open water swim.

  Fifteen college-age lifeguards, dressed in wetsuits, were gathered in a circle in the fog on the beach next to the Santa Cruz boardwalk, a classic seaside amusement park that dates back over a hundred years. They listened intently to each point of the safety briefing being given by the event director dressed in a warm stadium jacket and knit cap.

  “We’re expecting about 350-400 swimmers, including about 50 kids under 18,” he said. “Some are completely comfortable with cold ocean swimming. For others, this will be a shock. Today’s water temperature is not quite 60° and the sun won’t be out until about noon. We could have some hypothermic swimmers, especially those not wearing wetsuits.”

  The director carefully went over where the rescue paddlers would be stationed along the course and what to do if a swimmer wanted out of the chilly water. I listened from a few feet away. Impressed with the depth of knowledge and planning, I checked off one box on the swim evaluation—pre-race briefing for safety personnel.

  Surrounding the circle of guards were their 10-foot long bright red rescue paddle boards and their red rescue tubes. I pulled out my camera. The black wetsuits and red rescue boards contrasted sharply with the molten grey sky and matching grey ocean. The makings for a good photo.

  On the other side of the pier, swimmers were lined up on the sandy beach almost back to the sidewalk, waiting to register and pick up their swim caps and timing chips. This was not the typical California beach scene advertised on billboards. Instead, swimmers looked like they were dressed for a 49ers football game in December: gloves, warm hats, snug boots, fleece jackets and pants.

  I walked around the crowd and stood behind the volunteers registering the swimmers to hear what they were saying.

  “Identification? Do you have your membership card? Did you sign the liability release?”

  Pretty smooth, I thought, but they could add another volunteer or two to help with registration. That would speed up the process. I looked at the evaluation checklist and took off one point for “ease of registration” and added a note as explanation.

  Off to one side, a group of swimmers caught my attention when they all started to laugh. In the middle was Mike Menton, his arms stretched over his head, straight as an arrow, one hand on top of the other. The small woman in a wetsuit who had collapsed at the Lake Joseph swim, stood off to one side, talking to a group of men. To Menton’s right, sitting in the sand and bundled up under a blanket, was his daughter. Where was the nerdy boyfriend I wondered? As if on cue, he walked up to the girl carrying a cup of hot chocolate.

  When the crowd around Mike broke up, I slowly walked over.

  “Different conditions from last week,” I said to him.

  “Yeah, almost ten degrees cooler,” he said. “You swimming?”

  “No, I’m Trish. I work at the Nor Cal Swimming Association office. Just started. You left a message there this week.”

  “Oh, right,” he said. “Waddell. How tragic.”

  “Do you have a couple of minutes? I’m new to this world and have some questions about the open water scene.”

  “Sorry, I don’t have the time,” he said looking past me, maybe at some swimmers at the other side of the beach. “There’s nothing to say. I don’t know anything about his death. Besides, I can’t talk now. I’m in pre-race mode and trying to stay warm. All I wanted when I called was Waddell’s address.”

  With that he quickly moved away from me. No glance back. Just walked off.

  I looked at the daughter and her boyfriend at my feet. “Are you Daisy?”

  She stared at me.

  “Didn’t I talk with you earlier this week? I tried to leave a message.”

  “No, not me. Must have been someone else.” And she turned her back, pulling the blanket up over her shoulders.

  “Great family,” I thought as I walked away.

  From the center of the beach, the event director used a bullhorn to call the swimmers together for pre-race instructions. Although most were familiar with the generalities of the open water instructions, each swim was different and they crowded close to hear.

  “Water temperature today is 58°. At the end of the pier, it could reach a balmy 60° in spots.” There was a collective groan from the swimmers, most not wearing wetsuits. “I asked for warmer water but I guess nobody was listening,” he said.

  The crowd smiled and the speaker continued. As he described the course and the procedures for requesting help in the water, I checked off boxes right and left; so far, so good.

  “Although the water is calm, not much in the way of current or swell, there are breaking waves right at the shoreline where you finish.” He pointed to the water’s edge and right on cue, a powerful four-foot wave seemed to appear out of nowhere and crash on the beach. Another groan from the crowd.

  “So once you stand up, look behind you. There could be a wave ready to break and knock you over. That’s it, folks. Have a good swim.”

  Then the swimmers began to move along the beach to the starting line. They passed under a pier that smelled of rotting seaweed, heading for a lifeguard tower about five minutes away. Some swimmers trotted through the numbing water, trying to get at least a small part of their body acclimated. Others ran into the ocean, ducked down, gasped, ducked down again, then made their way back to the beach.

  I recognized the man walking right in front of me. I tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me, I saw you at the Lake Joseph swim. You’re Cody Stephenson, Dick Waddell’s coach, aren’t you?”

  “I was,” he said. “Terrible accident. He was a gifted athlete.”

  I introduced myself.

  “We spoke earlier this week at the Nor Cal swim office. I took your message.”

  Cody nodded.

  Well, he died doing what he loved,” I said.

  That sounded so inadequate. But I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Do you think that is true?”

  “What, that he was doing something that he loved? Yeah, I do. He loved it and honestly, I think he feared it. He changed from when he first came to the pool.”

  “How so?”

  There was a long pause as a group of swimmers walked by us.

  “The only word I can think of is ‘desperate.’ Have you ever worked with an exceptional athlete?”

  “Not me. I hardly do any sports at all.”

  “Well, some don’t have the best social skills. They have spent their life practicing and competing. Making friends, having a comfortable family life often comes second. When Richard saw that the one thing in life that he did extremely well was gradually—and I do mean gradually—beginning to fade, he panicked. He was still faster than 99% of the men in his age group, but that wasn’t enough. Not only did he hate to lose, he had to be first. He was compelled to be first.”

  “How could he enjoy swimming if that’s how he felt?”

  “That’s what I’m getting at. I don’t think he could. On the surface, he tried to give the impression of being laid back, relaxed. The cowpoke from Texas. But it was a cover up. Look, this is between you and me, okay? It’s only a theory. He was a good man. I’ll miss him.”

  We walked toward two red flags stuck into the sand that marked the starting line. The swimmers positioned themselves as close to the invisible line as they could get, but not be over it. Santa Cruz boardwalk was in full ‘go’ mode behind the athletes. Kids screaming on the Hurricane, a roller coaster with neck-popping turns and the Double Shot, a 125’ tower that plummets riders to the ground like a diving airplane without an engine.

  “I don’t know what I’d rather not do more,” I said to Cody. “The roller coaster or go into that cold water.”

  He was just about to give me his take on the choice, when the bullhorn gave an ear-shattering blast and hundreds of swimmers ran down the beach yelling, jumped into the chilly Pacific Ocean and s
tarted swimming. They were headed for the end of the pier. I managed to get a few photos of the first group plunging into the water. Cody disappeared in the crowd of onlookers at the water’s edge.

  “Where do they finish?” I asked a man standing next to me carrying a stadium jacket and a pair of boots that belonged to a swimmer who probably wished he was still wearing them.

  “They round the pier and finish on the other side, where the briefing was held,” he said. “The fastest swimmers are out of the water in about 20 – 21 minutes.”

  We started the walk back. Under the pier, I could hear sea lions barking and smell the rotting kelp.

  “Don’t tell me there are sea lions out on the course?” I asked.

  “They hang out right next to the pier toward the end and are very territorial. This is their way of saying, ‘I’m bigger than you and can swim faster than you. My ocean…get lost.’”

  “Charming. Why do people do this? The water is so cold. There are things—living things that bite—in the water.”

  “Guess you’re not an open water swimmer? It’s fun, really, and it gives us all something to talk about,” he laughed. “I’m Justin, by the way. Justin Rosencastle. I’m usually out there with them, but I have shoulder problems. Can’t swim. I came to support one of my teammates. I also have a booth at these swims that gives out after race refreshments.”

  I must have done a double-take.

  “What?” he asked looking at me. “When I said my name, you seemed to recognize it. Do we know each other?”

  “No…I…ah…knew a Justin Rosen in high school…the names are similar.”

  He was a medium-sized man and the afro from his high school team photo was long gone. His head was shaved. He had a short well-trimmed goatee, broad face, pale eyebrows above light blue eyes—eyes that sometimes looked surprisingly vacant. His nose had been broken a time or two. By the time we reached the other side of the pier, the lead swimmers were heading for the finish line and the beach.

  “This race is over before it begins,” I said. I pulled out the camera and walked over to the finish chute, ready to snap the first swimmers approaching the beach. Justin followed me.