Swim

by Jeri Kean

The Shady Acres community pool was often described as Sparkling! by realtors, but as Full of hairballs! by anyone who swam laps in it, especially the teenagers on the Shady Acres Abalone Swim Team.

This morning it was indeed sparkling, and surrounded by bright green grass, majestic palm trees, neat rows of white recliners and colorful umbrellas–all in the down position. Just the tableau to inspire any real estate agent–except for Astrid Carmichael, who sat at her window across the park, rewriting the flyer on number sixty-eight for yet another open house.

There was no breeze, but the water rippled faintly, bumping a soggy toy against the blue tiles of the deep end. As the surface settled, so did the long Miss Clairol Cinnamon hair, furling around the gently bobbing head of a body floating in the center. Face down, arms outstretched, she wore just one running shoe and one sleeve of her polyester USA Swimming hoodie–the other waving feebly at the murk below.

At 9:14 am, Bonnie Parker pulled into the parking lot, swearing at the teens who had apparently snuck up on the roof again to fling that lump of lost-and-found towels in the water. Priority one was to remove them before Dooley arrived to check up on her, as he did often under some thin pretense, such as needing to change a lightbulb or pick up an expense form. If Dooley saw the towels in the pool, he would accuse her of shirking her responsibilities as pool manager. Letting the gate clang shut behind her, she set down her handbag, grabbed the pole hook, and dropped it on her foot.

“Oh fuck.”

*

A crowd gathered on the grassy knoll outside the pool fence as the emergency team packed up their equipment and the police took over.

“Who could have done this?” was the constant remark, followed by shrugs, furtive glances, and platitudes about motherhood, community spirit and the killer margaritas she used to make.

Astrid Carmichael backspaced over the text describing number sixty-eight. How to mention the pool, but not call attention to it now that it was going to be in the news? Recreational facility? Clubhouse? She sat back, took a long draught of coffee, and wondered for the umpteenth time whether the events of last night would make it easier to finally sell that wretched house. Aquatic annex! While typing, she told her phone to call Barbara B.

“Hello Barb? Astrid. How are you, dear? Listen, would you mind if we postpone our visit to that darling Zimbardo in Shady Acres? We have painters in there today. How’s tomorrow?”

Someone started an engine and the crowd got louder. “Pardon me? These neighborhood songbirds! I can’t hear a thing.”

Propping the phone on her shoulder, she slid the window shut. “Great! On the early side? I’ll be taking offers on another listing all morning. Say, five?” She looked in the mirror, absently fingering her spindly hair. “Fabulous! No, that’s a.m. I want you to experience the serene park atmosphere,” she said, retrieving a blouse from a hamper of dirty clothes. (Dooley should be passed out by then.) “I’m loving my view as we speak.” She shook out a pair of slacks. “You’ll never live to regret an investment in Shady Acres! Bye bye.”

She thumbed the phone off and upended the hamper. Where the hell was that wig?

*   

In spite of being the tallest person in any crowd, Mildred Jarndyce stationed herself beside the chain link fence to get the best view. Wearing curry yellow slacks, a puce blouse and a pensive frown, she watched the huddle of men in uniforms conversing on the pool deck near the changing rooms. The EMTs had fished out the body, and it lay face up under a tarp, the water still seeping across the concrete and dripping into the pool.

On the far side, she saw Astrid Carmichael tottering across the grass, a bright scarf over her hair. Her heels kept catching in the sod, which reminded Mildred of Dooley O’Flaherty in his Auntie Mame halloween costume. She sighed, remembering that Halloween night, how he clung to her arm, his beer breath warm in her ear, whispering that she was the only person tall enough for him to lean on.

Astrid had made it around the pool and elbowed through the crowd. “What happened?” she said, mistaking Mildred’s wistful smile for a welcome.

Mildred looked down at her from under a white visor. “How could this happen at Shady Acres?”

“Who is it?” Astrid said, bracing for the inevitable evasion; a vigorous ambulance chaser, Mildred always had an angle.

Mildred shook her head, “She was such an incredible mother.”

Astrid tried the direct approach, “I heard it was Kitty.”

“Poor Dooley!” said Mildred, with a jolt of pleasure at saying his name. “This is going to cost somebody.”

“So it is Kitty, then?” Nonchalant behind her sunglasses, Astrid scanned the shrubbery in the area where she’d spent time the night before.

“They didn’t even bother with CPR. Now that’s dead.”

“Certainly.”

“She was such a. . .an asset! The woman was an asset to her community.”

Spotting a yellowish puff draped on the branch of a mulberry outside the fence, Astrid sidled toward it. “I know just what you mean, dear.”

Mildred followed, scanning the crowd for Dooley, “What will this do to our property values?”

“Shady Acres is resilient,” Astrid said with a wave at the surrounding Zimbardo designed homes in their chalky palette of five board-approved colors, while a handsome, Asian-looking detective climbed the fence, reached over with a gloved hand, and plucked the puff from the branch. Astrid gave a little hiccup.

“Your dad must be squirming in his grave,” observed Mildred. “Someone will have to compensate all of us homeowners.”

“At least he’s safe from frivolous lawsuits,” Astrid snapped, as the detective stuffed her favorite wig in a plastic evidence bag.

“No doubt,” said Mildred with regret. “I’d better go home and check on Brad. Then I’m off to Serendale to play nine holes with a client.”

“I wouldn’t have thought a client of yours could manage to swing a club.”

“The neck brace does cramp his drives.”

“Who’d you pin that one on, the maid?”

“You can’t be too careful with floor wax. She was lucky her mother owned that house in Jalisco — talk about property values…”

“Don’t let me keep you when Serendale is having such beautiful weather. Now there is a prime location. I’d love to get you and Brad in one of those estates.” Turning away, Astrid slipped her iPhone out of a pocket and whispered, “Bottom feeder!”

Texting, Oops!, she wondered why Mildred went toward the cul de sac when the Jarndyces lived on the opposite side of the park – but clients awaited. She thumbed on — Multiple offers! Stuck in Serendale 4now. 🙁 – Let’s resched! Shady Acres swarming w/buyers! Gotta show u this gem b4 sum 1 grabs!

She hit send and started another – Good news and bad. Take ten more gs off 68 Shady A. Big obstcle rmvd! Expln ltr.  

*

On her way home to pick up her car, Mildred took a detour, stopping at a house on the edge of the park, where she knocked on the door.

Around the neighborhood, phones rang and the talk was more frank, and peppered with names, the most frequent being Xena — as in — “You don’t suppose Xena had anything to do with this — do you?”

Especially frank was the conversation between Abalone moms Kelly and Gianna, who until recently had served together as Swim Team Directors.

“You think it was Xena?” said Gianna, piling loaves of sandwich bread into her cart.

“No way.” Kelly checked the date on a sixteen-pack of buns. “You think?”

“Well it wasn’t me. I swear. How many of these do you need?” While handing her the rest of the bread, Gianna stole a sidelong glance at her friend, “It wasn’t you, was it?”

“Me! It crossed my mind. That’s all, really. I see a few more in back – Thanks. So how much can you dislike someone before they start to call it a motive?”

Having denuded the shelves, they moved away from the bread aisle.

“Maybe she just fell in, though,” said Gianna without conviction.

“She was drinking.”

“You peeked.” Gianna stopped at the egg display. “I bet it was Dooley.”

“But to be that wasted? One thing you can say about those two –t hey can hold their liquor.”

They paused in the act of clearing the display of free-range-no-antibiotics-cruelty-free eggs to shake their heads.

“Those poor kids. How many are there?”

“Let’s see, the big twins — Philly and Benignus, the little twins — Iggy and Aggy.” Kelly spread out a finger for each child. “That’s four. There’s a few in there with F names–Frankie, Fossie? — I never can get them straight, then the little one with the matches. Six or seven I think, by now.”

“Better hit the meat counter — I see a football mom. Should one of us call Xena?”

“That would be awkward.”

They parked their carts and gazed through the glass at all the meat.

“Somebody has to warn her so she can burn the evidence,” said Kelly. “I mean, she probably didn’t do it, but you never know what might be lying around — that might give someone the wrong idea if they don’t know her that well.”

“You call her.”

“Me?” Kelly’s cheeks flushed. “What would I say?”

“Kitty drowned in the Shady Acres pool. Where were you last night?”

“No way.” Kelly turned to the butcher, “Do you have any more bacon in the back? It doesn’t look like enough, maybe six pounds? Great. I can feel you staring.”

“Chicken much?”

“Why me?”

“Could I have some tri tips please?” said Gianna. “About five whole. Thanks, Billy. Also five pounds of extra lean ground beef, grass-fed, hormone-free. Yep, still water polo season. Think about all those people on death row who didn’t do it. Think of all the people who — okay maybe they did it — but are basically good people that just kind of, apparently lost it. How fair is that?”

Kelly accepted a voluminous white package from the butcher, thanked him and knit her brow as Gianna made a subtle chicken wing gesture with her elbows. “Ok, I’ll call her!”

“I’m going to need a second cart again,” said Gianna, balancing tri tips among her heaped groceries. ”Maybe I’ll just throw in a couple gallons of milk and come back tonight. You think it was Dooley?”

“Let’s hope so,” Kelly said, absently jamming packages of hot links here and there.

“Who else could it be?”

“Besides you? Ha. How many fingers you got?”

*

When the knock came at the door, Philomena O’Flaherty was bellied up to the kitchen island at the Dupree’s house across the street, one ear crammed with the earbud from Millicent’s iPod.

“I’m se’sy and I know it,” she sang, milk pink with cereal glowing in her open mouth. The other bud was crammed in the ear of Millicent Dupree, who occupied the next stool in the same attitude.

Philly’s twin, Benignus, had snuck out early, avoiding his father — whose presence on the couch, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, portended a crabby morning — and was now wave boarding at the school yard, taking care to avoid the man asleep on the lunch table, and keeping a wary eye out for bullies.

The other five siblings were as follows: four year old twins, Aggy and Iggy –sitting on the kitchen counter eating off-brand sandwich cookies and drinking melted margarita ice from highball glasses; Faustine, 9 — upstairs on the toilet reading a tattered Hustler filched from grandpa’s study; Dimas, 2 — in the playroom wearing a damp swimsuit, sound asleep in the laundry basket after an all night South Park marathon with the enigmatic Francis, a little older than him, who slept face down on the carpet.

Xena Romanoff woke to a close up view of the fabled six-pack of Ash Winters, all around badass and devotee of extreme sports, one of which they’d indulged in recently. The phone was ringing– Ra ra ah ah ah, Roma roma ma gaga!

She rolled off the bed, stood up and grabbed her wadded up shorts, and dug in the pocket for her iPhone.

“Hey Kelly.”

“Xena, I have some news. Are you at home?”

“Are the swimmers okay?”

“You should sit down.”

Wearing nothing but a suntan and one tiny mermaid tattoo, Xena surveyed her downtown Alta Vista studio. The sea of clothes and damp towels reeked of Coppertone and sodium hypochlorite.

“Kay.”

“Kitty’s dead.”

Jeri Kean has been studying pulp fiction since she first stumbled on Robert B. Parker’s Spenser novels as a middle schooler. An avid fan of Patricia Highsmith, she lives in Silicon Valley with her collection of manual typewriters and her Mastiff, Sabine.

Sabine, Jeri Kean’s Mastiff, is an intrepid muse for a writer. According to Kean, Sabine, a flinty observer of human and dog behavior, has yet to show her belly to anyone. With her plucky, up-for-anything outlook, she brings a touch of magic to any adventure.