The Drowning Pool

by Jacqueline Seewald

  “Never a voice?”

  “Not ever.”

  “Did you plan a confrontation with Bradshaw?”

  “I thought I’d wait it out, but I couldn’t.”

  “Something happened at the pool?”

  Her face began to redden. She stood up and began pacing again. He thought her a private sort of person and this must be proving difficult for her; yet she seemed to want to talk to him.

  “You know about that incident? That nosy-body lifeguard at the pool told you, didn’t she? No need to tell me. Rick used to make fun of the way she would eavesdrop and then throw disapproving glances at him as if she considered herself so morally superior.”

  Gardner changed the subject. “Did you go to the pool looking for Bradshaw that day?”

  “Yes. He’d dropped by the apartment after work to pick up a bathing suit and towel as he often did. Then he left.”

  “You didn’t suggest going with him?”

  “No, I rarely go to the pool. Rick preferred going alone anyway. I made my mind up to follow him there on impulse. I was bored and lonely. I thought it might help our relationship if I joined him for a swim.”

  “What happened at the pool?”

  “I think you already know. Besides, I’m answering too many questions.” Her tone was becoming noticeably wary; her luminous brown eyes burned with what must have been painful memories.

  “Forgive me, Ms. McNeill, but someone murdered your friend yesterday. We do need information. These are not idle questions.”

  “You think I had something to do with it?” Her eyes widened.

  “We believe he was killed at the pool club. That’s why we want to trace his movements when he was there. Again, what happened that prior day?”

  “All right,” she responded in a reluctant voice. “When I got to the pool, he was there but not alone. He and some virtually naked woman were splashing around and laughing together in the center of the pool. He was disgustingly familiar with her. I would never have let him treat me that way in public.”

  That struck Gardner as being true. Cheryl McNeill was young and attractive, but there was something of a ladylike reserve about her.

  “I was angry, but still under control. When Rick saw me, he got out of the pool. Then he started mumbling some words to the effect that I was following him around and spying on his activities. He could be terribly insensitive and cruel at times, a total bastard. I suppose that’s when I started shouting. I didn’t mean to. I was just so furious. I told him that I was going back to California permanently. I never have liked the East Coast and I hate living in New Jersey. God, the pollution makes L.A. seem like the Garden of Eden! Anyway, I guess I might have called him a few choice names. I started to leave but he came after me and began apologizing. He said he wanted to take me out to dinner that night, someplace intimate and private where we could talk things out. I refused to discuss it with him and left immediately.”

  “Did you forgive him?”

  “Eventually. He came back to the apartment soon after I did. He told me the woman I’d seen him with was just a slut who meant nothing to him. When I strongly suggested he was lying, he claimed he really loved me. Then he said he’d prove it was true. He was going to marry me. He said he wouldn’t let me go back to California alone. He was very passionate and I really believed him. Rick insisted that he just needed a few days to tidy up his affairs. He said he was through with other women. I promised to be patient and didn’t ask any questions. I honestly believe he meant to make a clean start.”

  If she were lying, she was very good at it because she convinced him. “You came with Mr. Bradshaw from California. Did you know his wife out there?”

  “No. I met him while the divorce was becoming final.”

  “What caused their break-up?”

  Cheryl lowered her eyes; long, silky lashes hid their expression. “He said she was frigid. He didn’t know until after they were married because he respected her demand to keep herself pure until their wedding night. It turned out that she was an ice queen. I guess the experience was what made him so bitter and cynical about women. Rick felt she’d made a fool out of him. That was one reason he decided never to remarry without a trial period.”

  “And you believed what he told you?”

  “I wanted to. Rick was such a fantastic salesman. By profession, he was a sales executive, a very successful one. That’s why they brought him out here: to improve the organization of the corporation in the East. He’d smile at you and you’d believe whatever he said.”

  “Did you hate him?”

  The question didn’t seem to throw her. “You can’t love someone without hating him a little sometimes. But I really did believe Rick when he said he loved me and was going to marry me.”

  “Do you happen to know the name of the woman you saw him with in the pool?”

  “April Nevins—at least that’s who Joan Walling said she was.”

  “You know the Wallings?”

  “Yes. Rick was Martin Walling’s boss. In addition to working for the same company, they seemed to have a lot in common.”

  “For instance?”

  “Like Rick, Martin was divorced. He and Joan have only been married around six months.”

  “How did Bradshaw and Walling get along?”

  “Just as you’d expect, very well. Of course, they were both salesman, so it’s hard to separate appearance from reality. But I always thought that Martin admired Rick very much.”

  “Are you and Mrs. Walling friends?”

  “Not really, but they’ve had us over and we’ve reciprocated.”

  “Do you remember how Mrs. Walling happened to mention Miss Nevins?”

  “She was at the pool the day I blew up. Joan witnessed the whole scene. I guess she called to dig around for information. Anyway, she dropped by the next evening.”

  “By herself?”

  “Yes. She and Martin don’t seem to spend much time together.”

  “Unusual for newlyweds, isn’t it?”

  “Not if you know Joan and Martin. He belongs to a lot of organizations and things, claims it’s important for business. Mostly men’s groups. And Joan’s quite independent. Mostly keeps to herself. In fact, before that evening, I never realized she was the nosy type. They’re very different people, she and Martin, but then they do say opposites attract, don’t they?”

  “Actually, I’ve always thought that like people have a greater tendency to come together,” he responded. “But that may just be the cynical eye of a policeman.”

  Bert returned and he rose to his feet.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. McNeill. We may have to call on you again.”

  She let out a deep sigh. “I understand.”

  Outside the apartment, Gardner turned to St. Croix. “Did you find anything?”

  “Except for a lot of expensive clothes that we couldn’t afford on a cop’s salary, no, not one damn thing.”

  “And her story? I know you were listening; what did you think of it?”

  “You’re the one who’s supposed to have all the answers so why ask me?” She began walking away from him. He moved quickly to catch up with her.

  “A man keels over at a concert performance. The conductor calls for a doctor who finds the man has died of a massive coronary. From the balcony, a little, old lady shouts out: ‘Give him some chicken soup!’ The exasperated doctor says: ‘Madam, the man is dead.’ The old lady calls back, ‘so what can it hurt?’”

  Bert shook her head. “Is that supposed to be funny? What does it have to do with our case?”

  “People think differently. Sometimes, the way they think isn’t logical. Take Ms. McNeill for instance. She doesn’t appear to be taking her boyfriend’s death hard. Yet she claims she loved him. It almost seems as if she knew about what happened before we told her.”

  “You got nothing there,” Bert said, “just conjecture.”

  Gardner felt St. Croix’s quick anger, the way he’d hav
e felt a box cutter blade. “Don’t suppose you’d care to talk about what’s really bothering you?”

  Bert narrowed her hard, electric eyes. “I don’t follow you.”

  “Look, we can’t work this way. I’m not trying to force the issue. It’s just that when cops aren’t working as a team, it can be dangerous.”

  “Maybe I just don’t trust small town cops.”

  “If you really feel that way then why did you come out here to work? Why didn’t you stay in New York City? I know you had a good record there.”

  “Let it alone,” Bert said.

  “You hate it out here?”

  “You really don’t quit, do you?” Her eyes blazed.

  “What? You haven’t found happiness here in beautiful suburbia?”

  “I made a mistake.”

  Gardner didn’t know what to say. The shuttered eyes, the clenched jaw, the bitter tone of voice testified to St. Croix’s inaccessibility. Her secrets were her own and she would be a hard person to know.

  “It’s all changing and especially here. Plenty of middle-class people of all races are moving into the suburbs. This area is becoming more multi-cultural all the time.”

  “I didn’t like the way the captain came on to me with that bogus rap jive about how much I was going to learn from you. I’m not a novice. I don’t need training. I mean, this is a hick town police force in a place where the local industry is sweet shops. I resent the attitude of superiority. I could show all of you a thing or two. There isn’t much I haven’t seen or had to deal with.” She squared her shoulders and set her angular jaw, a handsome woman with skin the color of mocha cream and an aura of determined pride.

  Gardner didn’t doubt Bert could handle just about anything. Merely the physical size and power of the woman would intimidate most lawbreakers. Yet Gardner had the feeling she was like a time bomb, just ticking away and waiting for detonation. He had a choice: either figure a way to defuse St. Croix or else stand back and avoid the explosion. The latter would be the sensible, safe course of action, but Gardner knew better than most that all of life was uncertain and entailed risk.

  “Are you hurling a challenge at me?” He kept his tone quiet, non-threatening.

  “No, just stating facts.”

  “Generous of you.”

  There wasn’t much point in telling Bert that he hadn’t always lived or worked in the suburbs, that he started his career patrolling the streets of Newark—mean streets that looked a whole lot worse than pictures of Berlin after it was leveled in l945. He recalled a statement of past Mayor Ken Gibson that if you wanted to know where other cities were going, all you had to do was look where Newark had already been. But no, there wasn’t any point in trying to explain.

  THREE

  Kim slept late, which was unusual for her. She dreamt about her friend Lorette Campbell, whom she hadn’t thought about for several months. It was a strange dream. In it, they were back on campus taking an English class together as they once had done.

  Halfway through the lecture, Lorette turned to her. “It’s such a shame we can’t do this anymore. I hate being dead.”

  Kim woke up with a start. She found herself sweating and at the same time chilled. Such a creepy dream. Lorette was dead, murdered. Probably it was visiting the pool club last night that had precipitated the nightmare.

  She felt a sudden longing, a need to talk to her mother. She reached for her cell phone and scrolled down to her mother’s number. The answering machine picked up. It seemed Ma wasn’t available at the moment. Kim left a brief message and clicked off. She didn’t much like talking to machines. Too impersonal for her tastes.

  She had the whole day ahead of her and wasn’t certain quite what to do with it. She wanted to be with Mike but knew he was working. Besides, after their discussion last evening, it might be better if she gave him some space, no matter what he might say to the contrary. Too bad about the murder at the pool; she wouldn’t have minded lounging there herself today. Under normal circumstances, she couldn’t think of a better place to relax.

  Kim looked at herself in the mirror and decided a haircut might be in order. Her hair was getting long, the dark mahogany falling in thick waves. She usually wore it pulled back in an austere chignon at work, and during hot weather like this, in a ponytail around the apartment.

  The phone rang; she assumed it was Ma calling back but it turned out to be Mike.

  “So what are you doing on your first day of vacation?”

  “Not much of anything so far. I might sit in the courtyard and read a novel for a while. Soak up some sun.”

  “How about spending the evening with me? I’d like to take you and the girls out to dinner.”

  She smiled. That was thoughtful of him to want to include her. “I’d like that a lot.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up as soon as I get off work. The girls will be home from day camp by then. We can all chow down and share our day.”

  “You don’t think it might be awkward between us?” she asked in a tentative manner.

  “Who says we have to agree on everything. I’m not that insecure. Besides, I intend to be very persuasive.”

  “You really think you can change my mind?”

  “I know I can. I’ve got plans.”

  Funny how just hearing his deep, masculine voice thrilled her straight down to her toes.

  So he planned on courting her. Well, she could certainly do with a bit of that!

  * * * *

  “Where to?” Bert asked.

  “How about April Nevins’ apartment?”

  But they did not go directly there. It was lunchtime and they were both hungry. They drove out to Route 9, and Gardner fittingly stopped at the La Reine Diner just a mile from the garden apartment development complex. Too bad he couldn’t be with Kim for lunch. Well, he was looking forward to the evening.

  The air conditioning provided a welcome relief from the sweltering heat outside. Bert chose the rear booth and slid into the gunfighter’s seat, back to the wall. Gardner, sitting opposite her, smiled at her degree of caution.

  St. Croix wasn’t stupid or reckless; Gardner found that reassuring. A heavily perfumed waitress brought them some menus then swiped their table with a few strokes of a dirty cloth.

  Gardner caught sight of himself on the mirrored ceiling. He saw his own thoughtful, calm gray eyes reflected back at him. There was nothing exceptional about the light gray summer suit that matched his eyes, or the sprinkle of gray at the temples of his dark brown hair, which made him look deceptively more like an accountant than a cop. Only the hard lines and sharp angles of his face gave him a certain air of granite strength.

  After they ordered, Gardner sat back and relaxed in the coolness. The waitress returned quickly with two frosted glasses of iced coffee. About then, Mike heard a commotion in the front of the diner and twisted around to see what was causing the disturbance. There were three boys arguing with a man he recognized as the manager. Then he saw the gun, black and shiny. Bert was fast on her feet. For such a big woman, she could move with surprising speed and agility. She zeroed in on the scene, impressive Smith & Wesson 327 TRR8 revolver drawn.

  “I’m a police officer; what’s the trouble here?”

  The manager, visibly shaken, glanced at the badge Bert flashed.

  “I told these punks never to come back here again. Every time they show up, they buy a lousy coke, then hang around and bother the customers and my waitresses. Now they come here with a gun!”

  The boys exchanged looks, the weapon holder giving the other two a cocky smile.

  “Drop the pistol, kid.” St. Croix spoke with easy authority.

  The boy ignored her and continued to point his weapon at the manager, arrogantly surveying Bert as his two friends moved slightly away.

  “What if I don’t like giving it up, bitch?” St. Croix moved toward him. “Hey, keep away, you get me pissed, something bad could happen to you!”

  Bert brought the side of her left pa
lm down on the boy’s extended arm, the movement hard and fast. Then she followed up with one sharp kick to the knee. The arrogant expression disappeared from the boy’s face, replaced by one of agony as he fell to the floor and began moaning. Bert picked up the boy’s gun and holstered her own.

  “Damn, it’s not even real.”

  “It’s just a toy, officer. We were going to play a little joke on the prick manager is all,” one of the other two boys said nervously to Bert, his pock-marked face reminiscent of craters on the moon’s surface.

  “Assholes, you got no sense at all. I want the three of you out of here right now. I’ll keep your little toy. Don’t ever try anything like this again, and never come back here.” Her voice softly insinuated all kinds of harm.

  “My knee! I can’t walk!”

  “You’re lucky it wasn’t your groin.”

  The two boys helped their companion to his feet. He was still breathing hard and moving unsteadily but managed to leave fast enough.

  “Thanks a lot, officer,” the manager said, a grateful smile spreading across his thin lips. “Anything you want is on the house. It’s the least I can do.”

  St. Croix frowned. “I pay my own way,” she responded. “If those kids show up again, call us right off.”

  Back at the booth, she shoved the toy pistol across the table to Gardner, who examined it with interest.

  “Damn thing looks like a real Luger,” she said with contempt.

  “Sure does,” Gardner agreed, turning it over in his hand. His opinion was confirmed: St. Croix was very comfortable in situations that demanded immediate and violent action.

  “You never told me, is Bert a nickname?”

  “Short for Roberta. My mother favored that name. Had an Aunt Roberta once upon a time.”

  * * * *

  Bert glanced at her watch when they reached the apartment of the Nevins woman. It was just six p.m. The apartment was located on the ground floor and she could see into the front window, but it was dark inside. She heard voices. The lights went on as soon as she rang the bell the second time. Still, no one came to the door. Impatiently, she rang the doorbell again. Finally, a woman’s voice with a shrill edge called out to them.