Clearwater Journals

Clearwater Journals

  By Al Rennie

  Copyright © 2011 by Al Rennie

  Image Credit: Photographer—Toni Frissell

  Cover Credit: Rita Toews—probably the most patient cover creator ever!

  Formatting Credit: L.K. Campbell—just great!

  Dedication

  For my wife—Marsha

  How does she do it?

  A few Reader Responses to Clearwater Journals after it appeared on free e-books

  (Rated Number Two on their Top Ten List of all genres with more than 11000 “hits” in eight weeks.)

  What a riveting story with bouts of wry humor. Again Please.—Bruce

  Excellent read with more twists and turns than a road through the mountains. Enjoyed every minute!—Kingstonbears

  A really well written book. Loved it a bunch. Hope he does another soon. Maybe a series???—Wa6ype

  A truly fun read, great sense of humor and a good plot. I recommend this author with pleasure.—Evelyn

  Excellent writing, fast paced, liked it a lot.—Toerien

  Gripping story, believable characters. Would definitely recommend. Very well written. Thoroughly enjoyed it.—Rachel Caldicott

  Put my life on hold until I finished it. Great read! You live the character’s emotions and you can’t be sure of the outcome until the last page.—Charles Hough

  Could not put it down—Alta De Lang

  Table of Contents

  Crazy Things Happen In Paradise

  Something to Think About

  A First Date in Paradise

  We Have Visitors

  The End of My First Date in Paradise

  I’m A Cop Again—Well, In A Way

  Killing Time

  Interdigitating

  Another First and Options

  We Make a Connection

  Mia and the Jaguar

  We Visit the Scene of the Crime

  Mia’s Short Fuse

  Mia Leaves Home

  The End of an Almost Perfect Day

  Bulls in the Pasture

  Langdon’s Condition

  I Get Back To Work

  The Storm

  Sometimes, Life Is Excellent

  Mia and Phyllis—An Odd Tag-Team

  The Dream

  The Next Day—We Take a Drive

  Well—That’s Interesting!

  Just When You Think …

  I Meet the Parents

  New Rules Of Engagement

  We Put On Our Game Faces

  We Meet With Langdon Again

  Langdon—My New Best Friend

  One Step Forward—Two Steps Back

  Joe Holiday—Boy Hero

  Hi Ho Hi Ho—It’s off to Work I Go

  Crime Scene

  We Visit Mia in the Hospital

  Life Takes a Definite Turn—For the Worse

  Another Surprise

  I Go Into Hiding

  What Happens Now?

  Another New Twist

  It Just Doesn’t Stop

  Kemp Blows a Fuse

  Toby’s Gym and More

  I Don’t Get Killed

  Another Day—Another Problem

  I Meet Eddie

  Cooper and I Have a Heart To Heart

  A Change in Mia’s Condition

  Back In the Saddle—Again

  Back to the Hospital

  I Have an Unexpected Visitor

  Fate Pitches In

  Shootout in Little Beirut

  What’s going on?

  The Gold Medal or the Big Needle

  The Aftermath

  Crazy Things Happen In Paradise

  “So you used to be a cop in Canada?”

  “Yeah, in another life a long, long time ago.”

  I was talking with a cute young waitress named Mia at the Clearwater Beach International House of Pancakes—IHOP. I had started to come to IHOP regularly for my main meal of the day and Mia was the reason. The other two places that I used to go to were nearer to my room, but the chance to see Mia had made walking the extra distance seem worthwhile. I hadn’t really said anything of consequence to her for the first week or so. I just enjoyed watching her. As the days passed, she seemed to take an increasing interest in me. I wanted to believe her attention was the result of my innate charm. More probably, her interest had grown in proportion to the generous tip I always sacrificed for her.

  After a while, when we finally did more than the serve and volley of ordering a meal, we made casual conversation—the weather—hurricanes and evacuation routes, Clearwater events, tourists and fishing. A week or so into that routine, she accidentally placed the wrong order in front of me. She apologized profusely claiming she had other things on her mind. Her embarrassment was evident. I teased her about being a blonde and having a mind to have other things on. And the verbal exchange started. She passed off my blonde insult with a quick wry smile and a verbal shot about single males eating alone every day at the IHOP—round one to Mia.

  From that first short exchange, we began a daily ongoing banter that I thoroughly enjoyed. It was innocent. We were having fun.

  Example: Did you hear about the two blondes who decided to drive to Disney Land? When they saw a sign that read “Disney Land left”, they turned around and went home.

  Mia seemed to look forward to our verbal sparring as much as I did. Often, when I arrived for my meal, she would have an opening quip about tourists or Canadians. I soon realized that my stock of blonde jokes was running out pretty fast. I made a quick visit to the local library’s Internet service, and my cup overfloweth. There were enough jokes to keep me going for years.

  Very soon, I began to consider my meal at the IHOP as the highlight of my day. I eagerly anticipated my walk along the beach to talk with her. The meal became almost incidental. No matter, I thank God that more than pancakes and waffles were on offer. I also realized that I really missed Mia on her days off.

  On one memorable late afternoon, the relationship took a turn. It was rainy—cooler than it had been for over a week. There were not as many people in the restaurant. Mia took her break and arrived at the side of my table with a mug of coffee in her hand. She asked if she could join me. This was a first. Our interaction had always been “on the fly”. We had never sat down and looked at each other while discussing anything. I could see no harm in her sitting with me. In fact, I felt a tingle of fearful excitement at the prospect. Living on your own can be lonely. I nodded and mumbled that sure, she could join me. She sat down. At first, there was an awkward silence. There were no jokes, no shots, just silence.

  We just sat there like two very different beings from very different worlds, considering those many differences as we looked at each other across the Formica tabletop. For whatever reason, confronted with the mental fantasy that I had created through the recent weeks, I did not know what to say. Perhaps it was the mutual awareness that we had just transcended some invisible boundary and moved into the new territory of a relationship that kept us quiet.

  I smiled.

  She smiled.

  She was better at that game than I was. Too quickly, I began to feel even more embarrassed and awkward. Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea after all. I didn’t know what she expected. Flip banter was one thing; intelligent and meaningful conversation was another. Finally, just as I was about to say something about the weather, she broke our uneasy silence.

  “You know that my name is Mia,” she said quietly as her sharp blue eyes found something to intently study on the tabletop. She didn’t smoke, so she picked up her coffee cup and took a silent sip. I realized that although I knew her name, I had never said it to her.

  “I know that,” I said nodding to the small plastic nametag attached to her waitress smock above
her right breast. “And I’ve heard other people call you that.”

  She took a quick glance down to the tag and nodded and looked back capturing my eyes, “Oh yeah, after awhile you kind of forget it’s there. So what’s your story Joe? You can’t be a tourist unless you got a lot of money and are here for the season. But if you had a lot of money, I don’t think you’d eat here as regularly as you do—unless there’s something here more than the food.”

  “Probably not,” I said smiling at her and wondering how she knew my name, “but you guys do make a very good waffle.”

  “I guess, but after a while you can hardly even look at one. And the smell almost makes me gag.” She made a face, and took another quick sip from her coffee cup. Her intelligent blue eyes never released me. “So again, if you don’t mind too much, what’s your story?”

  “I don’t mind at all I guess. I’ve been in Clearwater for almost three weeks now, and the only person I have had a sustained conversation with is the guy who works for the property management company that checks up on the old house where I live. The woman who owns the place, Mrs. Reilly, according to the property guy, is a bit of a flake. She still lives in the house, but I don’t usually know she’s there and even more rarely actually see her. The fishing boat owner I work for from time to time is not what you’d call a conversationalist unless fishing is the topic. I know squat about fish or fishing.”

  I realized that I was rambling—a nervous habit. Still, I blabbed on, “And the security work I sometimes do on Sand Key is pretty lonely stuff. You just sign rich people in and sign rich people out. Every so often, you walk around the property. But if I tell you my story, you have to tell me yours. Agreed?”

  “Well, that will be a short one sure enough, but yeah, okay, I agree.”

  So I told her.

  “Why Clearwater?” she asked.

  “I visited here before when I was a kid. My folks brought my brother and me to the area a few times. And I liked the place. It’s warm. I like the beach and the gulf. That’s gulf not golf. No snow, no ice. It’s kind of a nice change from home.”

  “So what kind of cop were you? Traffic, a motorcycle or cruiser cop or what?”

  “No, I was a detective attached to the Major Crimes department. I was moving along through the ranks—taking courses—that kind of stuff.”

  “So why did you stop being a cop? Were you undercover and the bad guys found out you were a cop and now you have to hide out?”

  She seemed to know about as much of how police forces work as someone who spent too much time watching television.

  I smiled. I guess I could have shown her the scars, but I shrugged that one off.

  She would have made a pretty fair interrogator. Her eyes never left me. But she was way too fast to jump to wrong conclusions.

  “Yeah, well, maybe I’ll save that mystery for another time. But I will tell you that I was married in another life—no kids; and here I am.”

  But she was tenacious. For the next fifteen minutes she conducted a succinct Q&A. She got most of my life in a nutshell, but I held back the stuff about my brother as well as how my chosen career came to an abrupt end.

  “What about your story now?” I asked.

  “I got to go back to work,” she said with a quick smile as she rose from her chair with her empty coffee mug. “If you really want to hear my dreary story, I get off at nine. I’ll meet you right outside. Oh yeah, your bill is at the cash register. And I still want to know why you aren’t a cop anymore.”

  I quietly finished what I could of my now cold meal—chicken strips—hot or cold, they taste about the same. It’s difficult to eat and tell your life story at the same time. I felt strangely discomfited by the abrupt ending to my meeting with Mia, but there was nothing I could do about that. Her quick smile was a warm touch. I watched her as she started serving another table. It was as if I didn’t exist and our conversation had never happened. There was no doubt about it. She had certainly surprised me. Then I had to ask myself—was this a date? I didn’t know whether I would return to meet her at nine or not. Yes I did. Was she just messing with me or was she sincere? I mean I had to be at least ten or twelve years older than her—maybe more. Did she want something from me? Was she setting me up for something? And if this was a set up, what was that all about? All the innate cop suspicions that I believed had died long ago rose up in me with cynical lone wolf wariness. I wasn’t afraid. I was curious. I dropped a generous tip on the table and went to the check-out counter.

  The overweight middle-aged woman, who managed the restaurant, was usually a naturally pleasant woman. She most often greeted me with a friendly smile. This time, there was no smile. She mutely looked at me as if part of my meal was still stuck to my face. She handed me my check. I paid; thanked her—nothing—and left.

  Something to Think About