The pool had only three lanes, and every single one was stuffed with people. The right lane was for the slowest of the slow. Senior citizens floated around doing half-hearted water-aerobics exercises —a woman kept diving down to the bottom and flipping around as if she were trying out for a water ballet—and a few old guys were doing an extremely slow version of the crawl and miraculously managing to avoid hitting anyone. The middle lane was filled with extremely fast swimmers all splashing down from one end to the other and then doing powerful flip turns that sent large waves up over the edge of the pool. The far left lane was full of swimmers doing different strokes and moving along fairly well. Lydia knew her limitations, but also knew she wasn't quite ready for senior center, so she got into the far left lane.
After ten laps, she became bored. She started to watch the fast swimmers, pretending that she was there to watch them for her private-eye bosses. They each had a pile of high-tech gear, and there seemed to be a competition over who had the fanciest water bottle, goggles, and swim fins. She began to wonder idly who was the fastest, and who would pass the others. One heavily muscled tall woman in a black swimsuit was clearly going faster than anyone else, her hands topped by long red fingernails chopping through the water in front of her. Half the time she didn't bother to swim on the right side; she just swam up the middle passing everyone. There were a couple of guys, though, who were trying to keep up. One wore a tiny green Speedo suit and didn't bother wearing a swim cap on his bald head. There was a short, stocky woman in a blue suit who was going far slower than all the other swimmers and never stopped to let any of them pass. A few minutes later, a woman in a red Speedo with a lithe athletic build arrived, grimly putting on her goggles. Lydia guessed that she was going to give the black-swimsuit woman her first real challenge.
The red-Speedo woman jumped in and began to swim, her arms churning through the water. She was fast, faster even than black-swimsuit woman. But black-swimsuit woman didn't move over. Red-swimsuit woman passed her on the right, and when they got to the wall and both tried to do their flip turns they collided with a loud smack and a tsunami-sized wave. Lydia winced in sympathy and paused by the wall in the deep end to watch the action.
"What do you think you're doing?” Black-swimsuit woman was incensed. “You're not supposed to pass on the right, Morgan!"
"You wouldn't get over, slowpoke,” Morgan, the red-swimsuit woman, sneered. “What did you expect, Shari?"
Neither swimmer would back down. They continued to scream at each other. When Lydia peeked at the lifeguard, she saw that he was doing his best to ignore the confrontation, probably hoping it would dissipate on its own. The green-Speedo man fiddled around with his water bottle as if he was hoping to avoid the arguers. Finally Shari hefted herself out of the water and went to complain.
Morgan went back to her laps, angrily going even faster. She was easy for Lydia to keep track of because she continued to have near accidents all the way down the lane. She almost collided with a few other swimmers, including the green-Speedo man and the chubby woman, and they did their best to get out of her way after she glared at them. Apparently Shari didn't get the answer she wanted, because the lifeguard just shrugged and she returned to the pool with an angry splash. Lydia craned her head to see into the other lane as she swam her next lap, and she nearly collided with another swimmer.
"Sorry,” Lydia said. But the other swimmer, an elderly Chinese woman, just shot her a dirty look and continued swimming.
On the next lap back, Lydia carefully avoided the other swimmers, and almost didn't notice the splash of red at the bottom of the pool in the center lane. Without goggles it was hard to see, but she knew whatever it was hadn't been there on her last lap. Had someone dropped a kickboard? But kickboards normally floated. Taking a breath, Lydia put her head underwater and opened her eyes. Morgan, the woman with the red swimsuit, was sinking to the bottom of the pool.
Lydia came up sputtering. “Help! Help! Someone's drowning!"
The lifeguard got up slowly and frowned at her. If the swimmer was going to have any hope of surviving she had to be brought up fast. Lydia took a deep breath and dove down towards the bottom of the pool. But she didn't have enough breath to reach her. She resurfaced in the middle of the fast lane in front of Shari, the black-swimsuited woman.
"What are you doing?” Shari shouted at her.
"Woman at the bottom of the pool. Help me,” Lydia said, pointing down.
Shari looked down, horrified. They dove down together. Lydia was determined to make her breath last this time. It was truly a matter of life and death. She reached Morgan just after Shari and together they hauled her back up to the surface. Lydia's lungs were burning as she sucked in a lungful of air, and the lifeguard at last jumped into the pool to help them with the rescue.
The lifeguard dragged Morgan's limp body out of the pool and began to give her CPR. Lydia and Shari and the other swimmers gathered nearby in the deep end. As ghoulish as it was to watch, it seemed more heartless and horrible to continue swimming. Through the windows she saw one of the guards talking on the phone, probably to a 911 dispatcher. She hoped it wasn't too late. Morgan was a powerful swimmer, and Lydia wondered what had gone wrong.
The EMTs arrived a few minutes later. One of them stepped in to take over CPR, and the lifeguard stepped wearily away.
"Pool's closed, everybody. Sorry. No more swimming today."
The swimmers, one by one, got out of the pool and collected their possessions. Only Morgan's red water bottle, swim fins, and kickboard were left. They looked so lonely. Lydia got her towel and wiped her face. If she had an accident, she would want someone to take care of her stuff. She doubted the pool would know what to do with it, and would probably just throw it all away. She reluctantly bent down and picked the things up. She would ask one of the swimmers who knew Morgan what to do with them.
The women's locker room was unnaturally hushed. The swimmers whispered to each other in the shower and by the lockers. Shari, despite her earlier fight with Morgan, looked the most heartbroken as she sat with her head in her hands on a bench. The chubby woman with the blue suit was sitting with her.
"It's okay, Shari. She didn't die because you had a fight."
"I shouldn't have pushed it, but I hated how mean she got."
The chubby woman shrugged. “She wasn't being very thoughtful."
Lydia tried to pretend she wasn't listening as she fumbled with her combination lock.
"Thanks, Kathleen. I guess I'll get dressed.” Shari pushed herself up off the bench and walked toward the shower.
Kathleen watched Shari go, shaking her head
"Do you think she drowned?” Lydia asked her.
The chubby woman looked at Lydia in surprise. She had beautiful bright green eyes, and looked more attractive without her bathing cap. “I don't know. Morgan was a very good swimmer."
"I wish I'd seen what happened."
"That lifeguard wouldn't notice if we all died in there, I always say. Too busy watching the baseball game."
Lydia showed her Morgan's stuff. “I picked up Morgan's things. It didn't seem right to leave them lying there. Do you know who I should give them to in case Morgan doesn't make it?"
Kathleen sighed. “Since Paul isn't her husband anymore, I'm not sure who it should be."
"Paul?” Lydia said, confused. Kathleen acted as if she should know who everyone was.
"You know, that bald guy in the green Speedo. He was Morgan's husband."
* * * *
Lydia didn't have to wait long to find out Morgan's fate. An obituary appeared a few days later in the New York Times. Morgan Raymond had been a graphic designer and was just thirty-eight when she drowned accidentally at the Metropolitan Pool in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. She left behind one sister, Guinevere Raymond, in Long Island City. Lydia read the obituary through several times before picking up the phone and dialing a familiar number. Homicide detective Daniel Romero of the New York Police Department wasn't jus
t good at his job, he was also someone Lydia knew personally. He would answer her questions.
After they had taken care of the preliminary greetings, Lydia got right to the point. “How can the cops tell if a drowning death was accidental?"
Romero groaned. “Don't tell me you were at the Met Pool. I thought you didn't exercise."
"I may stop now that I know how dangerous it is."
"What do you know about it? Did you see something?"
Lydia turned to look at Morgan's measly pile of possessions sitting on her counter. They smelled strongly of chlorine and something else Lydia couldn't quite place. She had stuck them in her bag after she had forgotten to hand them over to Shari or Kathleen, and now she felt obliged to deal with them. “She was fighting with another swimmer before she died, and apparently her ex-husband was in the lane, too."
Romero sighed. “Morgan was a world-class swimmer. She won medals up the wazoo in college and was apparently an Olympic hopeful at one point. She was a strong swimmer, at home in the water. Someone would have had to forcibly hold her down in order to get her to drown."
Lydia frowned. “And if she was such a strong swimmer, how could it have happened accidentally?"
"She probably went into cardiac arrest and drowned. Or she could have had a cramp. I don't know."
Lydia went silent, thinking. She hadn't seen anyone hold Morgan down, but during those last several laps she hadn't been paying attention. Surely that would have been noticed in such a small pool. But then again, she would think someone would notice a heart attack, too.
"Stay out of it, okay? Her family and friends are broken up and don't need you sticking your nose into it."
Lydia sniffed, offended. “Thanks for the information,” she said and hung up on him. She hated his stuffy attitude. Despite his warning, she decided she would deliver Morgan's things to her sister. Perhaps having them back would give her comfort. Lydia made a call to information, and discovered that Guinevere Raymond of Long Island City was indeed listed.
Guinevere sounded surprised to hear from Lydia, and not that interested in repossessing Morgan's swimming things. “She had them with her when she died?"
"Yes. I don't want to keep them. I just thought her next of kin should have them back. It would be no trouble for me to drop them off at your place."
"Okay. I guess so.” Guinevere gave her her address and Lydia wrote it down. Once Morgan's things were disposed of, she told herself she would let this one go. No one wanted her involved, and everyone agreed it was one of those terrible accidents that just happened inexplicably sometimes.
* * * *
Guinevere lived in one of the new fancy condo buildings that were going up all over. They had a special buzzer system that only took Lydia five minutes of fumbling to figure out. Once she was buzzed in, she made her way to the gleaming elevators and took one up to the sixth floor. Everything was shiny and new, but looked cheaply made, as if it was already prepared to be brought down to make way for something even newer. Morgan's sister was waiting for her outside her apartment door. Something she saw in Lydia seemed to reassure her, and she stepped back and invited Lydia into her place.
The apartment looked as if its owner had walked into one of the chain furniture stores and ordered everything out of the display. The furniture was arranged and the posters on the wall were framed, but nothing looked as if it was ever sat on or enjoyed. There were hardly any personal touches to tell you who Guinevere might be.
"I'm so sorry for your loss,” Lydia began as she sat on the edge of the plump white sofa. “The obituary didn't mention any other family...."
Guinevere shook her head and played with a simple gold chain around her neck. “We lost our parents while we were in our twenties. And the rest of our family was never close."
"Are you a graphic designer, too?"
"No. I'm an accountant.” Guinevere looked around the room in a way that made Lydia nervous. She seemed uncomfortable in her own skin. “You were there in the pool when she died?"
Lydia nodded. “So was her ex-husband, although I didn't know it at the time."
Guinevere twisted the necklace violently so it cut into her neck. “Paul. He broke Morgan's heart when he took up with Shari. She never forgave him."
The pool was beginning to seem like some sort of soap opera, and Lydia was having trouble keeping the relationships straight. Lydia took out the small bag she'd brought and handed it over. “These were her things from the deck of the pool. I didn't want them to be thrown away."
Guinevere looked at the objects sadly. “Thanks."
* * * *
In the spring in Williamsburg they had pollution instead of pollen. Instead of flowers, they had trash. Instead of giant flowering trees, they had skinny anemic ones that grew the best they could in their tiny spaces in the sidewalk. But the industrial neighborhood turned hipster community across the river from Manhattan was home to Lydia McKenzie. She breathed in the not-so-fresh air, grateful to have a rent-stabilized apartment in her increasingly expensive and trendy neighborhood, and went off not to exercise, but to get a trim.
"Why so glum, Sugar? Tired of the red already?” Georgia Rae asked as she put the apron around Lydia's neck. She was the owner of the salon and also Lydia's best friend.
"I like the red. It's just that woman who drowned. Something about it feels wrong."
"You need a massage or something to help you relax."
"Have you got a new masseur named Sven hidden in the back?” Lydia shut her eyes as the water from the sink flowed over her head and did her best to let her clenched muscles relax.
"No. But Susie could give you a manicure on the house. She's practicing her technique."
Lydia's nails were a mess. She had been studiously ignoring them lately, hoping they would miraculously look better on their own. “I could stand that. But no press-ons. I need to be able to type."
After Georgia had snipped a little here and there and blow-dried Lydia's hair, Lydia sat in the chair as Susie knelt in front of her and massaged her hands. Lydia could see how regular manicures could become addictive. They were so unnecessary and decadent.
"Oops,” Susie said with a grimace. “I went over a bit with the purple passion.” She whipped out the nail-polish remover and dabbed at Lydia's nail. The smell of the acetone was strong.
"How can you stand that smell all day?"
Susie shrugged. “You get used to it, but you have to be careful. It can mess with your head."
Lydia was intrigued. “By smelling it?"
"Or swallowing it. I hear some people do that for fun."
Lydia wrinkled her nose. She was always shocked at what people would do for an easy high. “Ugh. That has to taste terrible."
"Yeah. Causes hallucinations."
Susie waved her hands and the fumes hit Lydia again. It oddly reminded her of the pool. The smell there should just have been of chlorine, so why would she associate acetone with swimming? She watched Susie spread the purple across the surface of her nail and remembered those red talons cutting though the water.
* * * *
As soon as her nails were dry, Lydia punched Romero's phone number into her cell phone. “Let's just suppose that someone were to drink nail-polish remover. What would happen?"
"I'm no poison expert...” Romero began, “but I do know that's a street drug."
"But too much would poison you, right?"
"Sure. Probably send you into cardiac arrest."
"There's no way they would have tested Morgan Raymond for that, though."
"We already ruled that death as accidental. What are you getting at?"
"But if someone poisoned her, how could you find out?"
"Someone would probably have to figure out how they did it and go from there. The poison would have had to work very quickly."
"Did the husband get anything in the will?"
Romero was silent. Lydia took it as a yes. “Seems mighty suspicious that her ex was swimming with her at th
e time and inherits something. I thought the husbands were the first ones you guys checked."
She smiled when Romero abruptly hung up on her. She heard the next day that they'd arrested Paul and were doing an autopsy on Morgan. She imagined that they had also been to Guinevere's to pick up the water bottle. The picture of Paul in the paper made him look like a scared rabbit. Justice had been served, but the more she thought about it, the more she wondered if they had really caught the killer. She didn't think a man would think to use nail-polish remover to poison someone. Maybe he had an accomplice, and she was getting away with murder.
Lydia had no idea where Shari lived, so she went to the one place that she knew she would show up: the pool. She staked out a bench in the locker room and waited. Eventually Shari breezed in and began to put her black swimsuit on. Her nails were now bright blue.
"Excuse me—I don't know if you remember me...” Lydia began.
"You're the one who first noticed Morgan!” Shari gasped.
"If she hadn't been wearing a red swimsuit...” Lydia said modestly.
"It was just too terrible,” Shari said with a small sob. “She was my best friend and an amazing swimmer. But I can't believe that Paul would kill her."
"When did you two start dating?"
"Long after he and Morgan split up. It really wasn't working, though. Paul was a little too possessive."
"Do you know if anyone else was upset with her lately?"
Shari shook her head. “I thought it was just an accident until they arrested Paul. But it's weird, there was a swimmer last year...” Shari stopped abruptly.
"What swimmer?” Lydia asked
Shari looked around as if she was afraid of being overheard. “The swimmer died suddenly, just like Morgan."
Lydia's heart started to beat faster. She was beginning to sense something big lurking under the surface. “Who was she?"
"Just another swimmer. She was really fast, though. She was training for a triathlon."
EQMM, June 2008 Page 18