Dead in the Water Read Online Free PDF Page A

abilities from my last job, but the incredible way (or so I thought) I tiptoed between the sparring healthcare executives, union leaders and frontline workers.
    “It probably won’t be full time. But, it would be a big help. Tomorrow morning? Could you start then?”
    I nodded.
    “One more thing. I need another delivery done today. It’s about an hour away.”
    Since there was nothing else on my very blank calendar, I agreed to make the run.
    “Some swim items were left at the event yesterday. They need to get back to the family.”
    “Do you usually do a door-to-door delivery service for lost and found? I think it would be the swimmer’s responsibility to watch over their own things.”
    “Normally, that’s what happens. But the office needs to get them back to the Waddell family.” He paused.
    “The Waddell family, as in Dick Waddell, the swimmer who died?”
    “Yes, that’s the one.”

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    4
    The hour’s drive out to Martinez, birthplace of joltin’ Joe DeMaggio, the famous New York Yankee ballplayer, home of naturalist John Muir and of the recently departed swimmer Richard Waddell was surprisingly relaxing—radio on, weather warming up, a bottle of water and saltines within my reach. Waddell lived in a quiet suburb—small one-story homes with flat roofs and well kept front lawns. The neighborhood was sandwiched between two shopping centers with trees used as a vision and sound buffer. Nice, simple, not overly fancy or memorable. Since most people were at work, the neighborhood streets were empty.
    As I parked, I wondered what I had gotten myself in for. What do I say to these people that just lost an important part of their family?
    I had put Dick Waddell’s swim bag in the car trunk, but it had fallen over and everything was scattered. What a mess. Half-used sample packets of sunscreen and shampoo had oozed out and were mixing together in the trunk. As I scraped up the sticky lotions, I noticed a small baggie with two white capsules in it and three gel packs. The gel packs I’d seen before. Lena used them all the time before a swim to keep her energy up. But never the capsules. I picked the baggie up and held it at eye level, rubbing the capsules between my thumb and forefinger through the light plastic bag.
    Maybe this had something to do with Waddell’s death.
    I could help the family. I could give the baggie to Dr. T and ask him to test the capsules. It might answer some questions. Questions they haven’t even asked yet. Maybe, it could even save other swimmers. I didn’t want to see anyone else die.
    I looked at the baggie again. I could hear Lena’s voice echoing in my head, “Stay out of it.” She was right. Dick Waddell, his death, these capsules had nothing to do with me. It was none of my business.
    “I have to put you back,” I said to the baggie as I stuffed it and the rest of the gear into the swim bag.
    I followed the walkway that curved around to a front door located on the side of the house. I rang the bell and counted ‘one Mississippi, two Mississippi’—if I got to ‘three Mississippi,’ I was going to leave the swim gear on the front step. But, no such luck. A man wearing khaki trousers with creases so sharp they’d cut paper, a snappy blue blazer and rich brown leather boat shoes, opened the door.
    “Hi, I’m Trisha Carson…from the Nor Cal Swimming Association. These were left yesterday, at the open water swim. They belong to Richard Waddell.”
    I stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do or what else to say.
    “Come in,” said the man. He introduced himself as Spencer Matthews, Waddell’s brother-in-law. Deeply tanned with brown wavy hair, Spencer was surprisingly short, probably under 5’4”. I was taller than he was.
    “I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Waddell,” I said.
    Spencer led me into the living room. “Sit down, sit down,” he said. “The family is still at the hospital. I just got back here myself. Terrible tragedy. Excuse me, but I’m on