Read Online Dead in the Water by Glenda Carroll - Free Book Online
Authors: Glenda Carroll
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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.
“You the official photog?” he asked.
“No. I’m the evaluator for the swim.”
“All right. Good for you. Hey, what happened last week? With Waddell? Was it a heart attack?”
I shrugged my shoulders. The water was now covered with swimmers heading this way.
“I knew him.”
So I’ve heard, I thought.
“Right,” I said, peering through the viewfinder of the camera.
“No, I mean I knew him before.”
“Before what?” I put the camera down and looked at Justin.
“Before he came to California. Before he went to college in Texas. When he was growing up in Nevada. Hey, gotta go. Here comes my swimmer.”
He just confirmed what Pamela and Spencer had said. With that, he walked to the end of the finish chute, to wait for his teammate, probably a human popsicle by now.
Swimmers started piling out of the water and swarming up the beach. I walked through the crowd taking photos and ended up at one of the booths giving out free drinks guaranteed to replenish, refuel, and reload the depleted swimmers. Behind the counter were Menton’s daughter, Daisy, and the nerd. They were getting ready to pass out samples of the revitalizing drink.
“Hi again,” I said to Daisy.
“Hey,” she mumbled and moved out among the swimmers, grateful for some nourishment.
Once the results were up and the awards distributed, the warm sun finally pierced through the fog. I saw Mike Menton again. This time his arm was around the small woman with the dark hair from the Lake Joseph swim. The black tight fitting wetsuit that hugged her curves was pulled down to her waist, exposing a purple bikini top. I thought she was connected with Dick Waddell. Now it was Menton. Quite a looker. Rubenesque. Not your typical long lean swimmer’s build.
Her damp hair clung to her forehead and neck. With wide, deep dark eyes and a sultry smile, she looked more like a potential Playboy of the Month than a swimmer. She and Mike were posing for photos for a friend, each holding up their medals.
Maybe he’d be more open to a conversation since the swim was over. I waved and tried to get his attention. He looked over in my direction but didn’t see me. I inched a little closer and snapped a picture. Maybe he’d talk to me if I offered him a photo.
“Hey, Mike,” I called and waved again. With that, a smile froze on his face and he walked over to me, took my elbow and forcibly pulled me down the beach.
“Look, I’m not going to
“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.
“You the official photog?” he asked.
“No. I’m the evaluator for the swim.”
“All right. Good for you. Hey, what happened last week? With Waddell? Was it a heart attack?”
I shrugged my shoulders. The water was now covered with swimmers heading this way.
“I knew him.”
So I’ve heard, I thought.
“Right,” I said, peering through the viewfinder of the camera.
“No, I mean I knew him before.”
“Before what?” I put the camera down and looked at Justin.
“Before he came to California. Before he went to college in Texas. When he was growing up in Nevada. Hey, gotta go. Here comes my swimmer.”
He just confirmed what Pamela and Spencer had said. With that, he walked to the end of the finish chute, to wait for his teammate, probably a human popsicle by now.
Swimmers started piling out of the water and swarming up the beach. I walked through the crowd taking photos and ended up at one of the booths giving out free drinks guaranteed to replenish, refuel, and reload the depleted swimmers. Behind the counter were Menton’s daughter, Daisy, and the nerd. They were getting ready to pass out samples of the revitalizing drink.
“Hi again,” I said to Daisy.
“Hey,” she mumbled and moved out among the swimmers, grateful for some nourishment.
Once the results were up and the awards distributed, the warm sun finally pierced through the fog. I saw Mike Menton again. This time his arm was around the small woman with the dark hair from the Lake Joseph swim. The black tight fitting wetsuit that hugged her curves was pulled down to her waist, exposing a purple bikini top. I thought she was connected with Dick Waddell. Now it was Menton. Quite a looker. Rubenesque. Not your typical long lean swimmer’s build.
Her damp hair clung to her forehead and neck. With wide, deep dark eyes and a sultry smile, she looked more like a potential Playboy of the Month than a swimmer. She and Mike were posing for photos for a friend, each holding up their medals.
Maybe he’d be more open to a conversation since the swim was over. I waved and tried to get his attention. He looked over in my direction but didn’t see me. I inched a little closer and snapped a picture. Maybe he’d talk to me if I offered him a photo.
“Hey, Mike,” I called and waved again. With that, a smile froze on his face and he walked over to me, took my elbow and forcibly pulled me down the beach.
“Look, I’m not going to
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