Tall sycamore and maple trees lined both sides of the street, shading shoppers as they visited the many restaurants, jewelers, dress shops, coffee shops and florists. I walked past the restored Art Deco Film Center and the tables and chairs outside the Rafael Coffee café next to it. As I passed a glass storefront I couldn’t help but look in at my reflection.
“Not bad,” I said quietly. “Not bad at all.”
“I agree,” said a young woman who had stopped to look at the display in the window. “I would love to surprise my boyfriend wearing one of those.”
I hadn’t realized it, but I was standing in front of a lingerie shop. On display were lacy bras and panties. The faceless manikin was wearing a black garter belt. I hadn’t seen a garter belt since I was in high school. And they sure didn’t look like what I was currently staring at.
“Do people still wear those?” I asked the girl next to me.
“Oh yes. They do. They most certainly do.”
“Maybe I need to check this out.” I opened the door to Sweet Nothings and walked in.
“Well, look at you,” Lena said as I entered the house. “Your hair, I love it.”
She walked in a circle around me, nodding her head.
“Very nice.” She glanced down at the pink and black shopping bag in my hand with the stylized initial SN in gold on either side.
“What’s in the bag? You went to Sweet Nothings, didn’t you?”
She reached for the bag. I tried to pull it away from her, but she was too quick. She grabbed the shopping bag from me and dug through the pink tissue paper.
“Let me see. What did you….well, well, what do we have here? New undies and just not your usual cotton undies. Do you have something planned with someone I don’t know about?”
“Give those back to me.”
She laughed and moved away, holding up a white lace bra and matching white bikini panties.
“New hair, lacy underthings. Sister, congratulations. You are back in the world of the living.”
Lena had two different outfits laid out on the bed. She reached down for the straight pencil black skirt, stepped into it, and pulled on a wraparound printed jersey and slipped on high, high heels.
“What do you think?”
“Don’t like it.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with it. It says professional, stylish but casual.”
“You look like a TV version of an executive assistant on the prowl. There is nothing about it that says creative. ‘I am creative.’”
“I don’t know why I’m asking you. Your fashion IQ is about 14.”
Lena turned this way and that, looking at herself in the full length mirror on the back of her door, then started to peel off the clothes.
“Did you ever remember the name of the company that you’re interviewing with?”
Lena reached down to a pile of papers scattered on the floor and picked up a notepad. “Yeah, it’s a very non-descript name. JL, Inc.”
Next, Lena stepped into a pair of tailored trousers and put on a snow white blouse and a pair of ankle length rock star boots.
“I like. Wear that artsy necklace you have from Italy and you’re ready to go. You still haven’t said what it is they make?”
“The only thing I could find on their website was a drink, a hydrator for athletes.”
“Aren’t there enough of those already? I would think the market is saturated. No pun intended.”
I picked up the deep red and burnt-orange necklace I had suggested from her dresser and draped it around her neck.
“There, that looks good.”
We both stared at her reflection in the mirror and nodded our heads in unison.
“From the brief conversation I had on the phone, they think their product is really unique and that athletes will see a tremendous difference in their performance and that their recovery time will be cut in half.”
“Well, be careful of their claims. They have to make sure they are true, which means they have to be tested,” I said. “I’m guessing the product hasn’t been introduced yet. At the office we get all these emails promoting new nutritional supplements and drinks for swimmers. I haven’t seen anything that says JL.”
“That’s not the name of the drink. That’s only the name of the company. Their first product was announced a few months ago. There’s a pre-competition and post-competition drink. It’s called RazzleD.”
“You’re kidding, RazzleD?”
“Yeah. Have you heard of it? You may have seen it at the open water swims.”
“Lena, who called you to set up the appointment?”
“The admin for someone named Matthews. Why?”
“Matthews? Was it Spencer Matthews—Dick Waddell’s brother-in-law?”
“I can’t remember his first name.”
“I bet it is. That means he and Justin Rosencastle are partners.”
“You mean the ‘Let’s go to a Giants game and I won’t show up’ Justin?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
Lena came over and sat down on the bed next to me.
“And how would you know this?”
“I might have mentioned to Justin that you were a web designer when he was talking about his company.”
“You talked to him? Really, I thought he was a done deal. And why did you bring me up?”
I stood up and walked over to the window.
“Trisha? You, me, both of us, said the guy was a jerk.”
“Those were your words.”
“Those were your words, too.”
She stared at me. “Do you have something to tell me?”
“I had dinner with him last night.”
She started to interrupt me.
“No, now just listen. He came by the office to apologize. Said that he was embarrassed that he really didn’t have the tickets when he asked me to the game. I realize that it is a dumb excuse. However, he wanted to make it up to me and invited me to dinner. I went. It was nice. He was nice. That’s it. That’s all. Go to the interview.”
“Maybe he wants to impress you so he set up this appointment with me. But he has no thought of really hiring me.”
“Maybe it’s as simple as he and his company needs a designer.”
Then, she started to smile. “It all makes sense now—the new hair style, the sexy undies—staying late at work—you’ve got something more on your mind than just baseball.”
“Maybe,” I said as I walked out of her bedroom.
But, I was puzzled. Why hadn’t Justin mentioned that Spencer was his partner? He had the opportunity. Odd, that’s what it was. Odd.
21
Bill had been right. The new Russian River swim was small. Only fifty swimmers showed up. Maybe the rest didn’t want to battle their way north through the sprawl of Santa Rosa, a well-known traffic stopper. Lena and I decided to drive separately since I had to be there early. I was the fifth car in the large shaded parking lot. I walked across the lawn to the steep sandy beach and watched the timing crew plug in their computers and printers and inflate the yellow finish arch. Although this was a small low key swim, the timers wanted to try out some new equipment. They thought this would be the perfect venue.
The air was still warm, 85°, and the sun was hanging low in the deep blue cloudless sky. According to the swimmers getting out of the river after a quick dip, the water temperature was in the low 70’s. A perfect combination for the laid back group on shore.
I sat down at a picnic table and looked over the notes Bill had left me. Everything was straight forward. There was only one thing out of the ordinary.
No businesses promoting their products at this swim.
Okay—got it.
The check-in table was ready to go. About ten yards away, volunteers were cutting up bananas, slicing watermelon and filling the large water coolers with sports drinks for after the swim.
As athletes began to trickle in, I heard, rather than saw, Terrel’s black Charger pull into the parking lot.
Then hand in hand, Lena and T walked past the changing rooms toward the grassy area where swimmers were spread out on beach chairs and towels. Terrel rarely came to a swim. Today’s exception was obvious. He was here to watch over my sister.
“Hey, Lena,” I called.
She gave me her typical floppy wrist wave and Terrel nodded his head. He walked over when Lena stopped to talk with some friends.
“You didn’t think I could take care of her?” I asked.
“You’re busy during these events. You can’t see everything.”
Terrel had a point. If I was doing my job, I wouldn’t have time to keep an eye on my sister.
Since a half mile swim, which is a relatively short distance, was planned, quite a few swimmers new to open water had signed up. They nervously paced back and forth on the cool grass, sometimes walking down to the river’s edge, wading up to their knees, and then out again. I had my evaluation sheet and was halfheartedly going down the list. This was more an observation than an eagle eye approach to what they did right or wrong.
In thirty minutes, the event director and his crew were ready to start.
“Time for the pre-race briefing. Everyone gather round,” he said through a bullhorn.
That soft summer evening air and warm sun were coma-inducing. No one wanted to move. Then slowly, the swimmers stretched, left their beach towels, and walked over to the event director. As they crowded around him, I saw Mike Menton, directly opposite. He looked at me without recognition. Beside him was Daisy’s boyfriend, the scrawny, pale Nick.
The director described the course and urged the athletes to head for the yellow buoys. The water level was down and the river was shallow. If they strayed too much off course, they would actually be able to stand up and walk. The new swimmers, crammed as close to the director as possible, seemed to breathe out in unison. Not so bad. They could take a break if needed.
The winding course would lead the pack under a bridge.
“Stay away from the bridge piers. And don’t, let me repeat myself, don’t cut the corners on the return leg. Limbs of trees and shrubs are underwater, right off the shoreline ready to snag anyone looking for a shortcut to the beach,” he said.
While talking, he pointed to the bridge and the shoreline in the distance. As the eyes of the swimmers followed the announcer’s arm in the direction of the water, I saw Terrel get into a kayak with another paddler. So much for keeping an eye on his girlfriend.
I walked over to Lena. “That’s a first,” I said gesturing toward Terrel who even from 500 yards away looked extremely uncomfortable.
“I’m not sure he knows how to paddle,” she said as she handed a water bottle back to the swimmer standing next to her. “I don’t know why he’s doing that. All he said was that he wanted to see what went on at these swims.”
The announcer gave the five minute warning and the crowd pulled on their caps and goggles and headed into the river. This was an in-water start and it was divided into two waves—under 40-year-olds were first; the over 40’s were in the second wave. The first group waded into the roped-off swim area that was used during the day. They ducked under the water and the long line of blue and white buoys and swam toward the start line.
The river glistened like a polished green mirror. Sharp edges of the pine trees reflected perfectly. Then, there was a piercing blast from the starting horn, and the green mirror shattered as the group sprinted away, kicking up water. I could see Terrel in the head kayak next to the lead swimmers. He had already given up paddling, leaving that chore to the other kayaker. His paddle was resting on his knees as he scanned the swimmers. Somewhere in that group was Lena. And if I knew Terrel, he had already spotted her.
The second group moved into starting position, treading water until the starting gun fired. After seeing a swim from an evaluator’s point of view, I knew everything was on track. I walked over to the first aid tent. There were two well-padded cots, an extensive first aid kit and two nurses who were swim team members. No ambulance today.
“Are you expecting anything out of the ordinary?”
“Not really,” said the nurse with a ponytail. “I’ve done swims here before. We might get some scratches from underwater branches; occasionally, someone will step on something sharp at the water’s edge, but this should be fairly tame.”
“Let’s hope,” said the other nurse, pushing up her sleeves. She walked with me as I headed toward the director, a tall well built older man with a grey mustache. He was standing on the beach watching the disappearing swimmers through a pair of field glasses.
We listened to the scratchy voices of the lifeguards over the radio, checking in around the course.
“The first wave has rounded the first buoy and is on their way to the second,” said a man’s voice.
“Here they come,” said a girl’s voice. “Looking good.”
“I’m at the back with the last swimmers,” said another voice. “No problems.”
I looked at the race director. “Piece of cake,” I said.
With the sun dipping lower in the sky, the water took on a silver sheen. Birds flew overhead, soaring from one side of the river to the other. A peaceful early evening quiet settled over the water.
I heard the metallic click of the radio again and hollow static. “I’ve got a swimmer waving her arms. We have a paddler going to get her out the pack and bring her to the rescue boat.”
“Can you tell what’s wrong?” asked the director. He sounded calm but alert.
“Not sure. She was one of the slower swimmers. Maybe the distance was too much for her. I can see her better now. She looks okay. She climbed onto the rescue boat under her own steam, so she’s probably fine.”
I stood next to the event director. We couldn’t see the swimmers. They were at the other end of the course around a point of land. All we could do was stare in that direction.
The rescue boat checked in.
“We have a swimmer on board, race number 342, female. She was in the second start. Said that both her legs cramped up. I’m going to bring her back to shore. Rescue Boat Two will take my place.”
Within five minutes, the power boat came into view.
“I’ll get her and walk her into the first aid tent,” said the nurse.
“Is it okay if I go back out with the boat?” I asked.
“Sure,” said the director.
I jogged down the steep sandy beach and caught up with the nurse. We waded into the warm knee-deep water. The boat pulled into the shallows and the nurse and I reached up, took hold of the swimmer’s damp arms and guided her out of the boat.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she said, grabbing onto to us. “When I felt both legs cramp up, I didn’t know what to do. It took my breath away. I started to panic and swallow water. I’ve never been pulled before.”
The nurse reassured her as they walked up the beach toward the first aid tent.
I introduced myself to the two-man crew when I climbed onboard.
“I’m from the Nor Cal Swim office. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to see the rest of the swim from the water.”
“Fine. Let’s go.”
A dark, cool shadow from the bridge above fell across the boat as we headed for the pack of swimmers at the far end of the river. One lifeguard standing next to the boat driver picked up a pair of binoculars from the seat and scanned the water, checking out the placement of the paddlers and the athletes.
“Leg cramps, like what that girl had, sounds like a normal occurrence…nothing out of the ordinary. Right?”
“It happens. With a little more experience, she’ll realize how to handle the panic and the cramp. Next time, she’ll be fine,” the boat driver said.
I could see the lead pack of swimmers heading toward us and a kayak close by. Probably Terrel. Off to the other side of the course was Rescue Boat Two.
The radio crackled again.
“We have another swimmer who needs help. A paddler is on his way…wait a minute. Two more
swimmers are waving their arms. Now a fourth.”
“What’s going on?” said the director over the radio. His voice had risen an octave.
“I can’t tell right now,” said the voice. “Paddlers are on their way.”
The lifeguard with the binoculars glanced from swimmer to swimmer in the distance waving their arms. “What is happening?” he said quietly.
“Can you see a kayak?” I asked.
He handed me another pair of field glasses. Further down the river, I located three of the swimmers in trouble. Two were hanging off one paddle board, a third had just been given a red rescue tube.
And the fourth—the fourth was Lena. My view shrank to a half dollar sized circle and a struggling Lena was right in the middle. Waving one arm, she seemed to be breathing heavily, gasping almost. Small waves rolled over her shoulders. She tried to float on her back to relax. Then her body went vertical in the glittering water. She was sinking.
An arm moved across my field of vision and grabbed her. It was Terrel on the kayak. He pulled her close to the side of his small boat and held onto both of her arms. His face was calm as he talked to her. She tried to respond, but I could tell he didn’t understand what she was saying. The other kayaker picked up his paddle and waved it frantically back and forth.
“Oh…that’s my sister. She’s in trouble. You’ve got to get her.”
Our rescue boat bolted forward, picking up speed. The driver flipped on the boat’s lights and siren as we accelerated toward Lena and Terrel.
“We have a Code 3,” he said into the radio.
Through the binoculars, I saw a paddler come up beside Lena and slip a rescue tube under her arms. She slumped over the thick red tube laying her face on it. It took us three long minutes before we reached the lifeguard holding onto my sister. She was gasping for air as she was lifted onto our boat. Terrel was right behind and climbed on board, keeping his eyes pinned on her.
“Lena, what happened?” I asked.
“Can’t breathe. No air,” she wheezed.
Her lips were swelling, her eyes were almost swollen shut. Her face was frighteningly pale.
“Terrel, what’s wrong with her?”
Dead in the Water Page 13
