No Sunscreen for the Dead

by Tim Dorsey

  She met him at the door. “Let me see your eyes.”

  “Mom, I’m not doing drugs! You don’t even know what you’re looking for.”

  “What did you do all evening?”

  “Talked about the war and politics and listened to Buffalo Springfield. Can I go now?” He went into his bedroom and closed the door.

  Glenda pondered. He did seem okay. And now she was less sure than ever what to do about the Tofer situation.

  The Present

  A few minutes after noon, a white sedan cruised north on the Tamiami Trail past Jungle Gardens, where parrots were roller-skating. The driver finished a pastrami sandwich and wadded up the paper. The vehicle approached a run-down motel where there was usually plenty of parking space. But not today. Police cars, Crown Vics with blackwall tires, a crime scene van and another truck from the Medical Examiner’s Office.

  The detective parked and dabbed mustard off his mouth with a napkin. He headed toward an open motel room door where evidence techs streamed out with sealed evidence bags. Inside, the activity seemed to be tilted toward the back of the room.

  “I’m Detective Gannon. What have we got here?”

  Space was at a premium in the bathroom, and the medical examiner had to stand on the toilet, leaning over the victim with a penlight. “Another weird one. But judging from the duct tape on his mouth, and how he’s tied to the top of this humidifier, I’m ruling out natural causes.”

  “A humidifier?” said Gannon. “In Florida?”

  An evidence tech stuck his head in the doorway. “Some asshole sold my parents one.” The head disappeared.

  “Why does he look that way?” asked the detective.

  The examiner pointed at the humidifier’s removable reservoir bin, sitting in the bathtub. “Still need to run chemical analysis on the residue, but—”

  “Wait,” said Gannon. “The condition he’s in. It reminds me of something . . .” He stared at the floor a moment before snapping his fingers and looking up. “I got it. Those Mold-A-Rama machines at tourist attractions when I was a kid.”

  The evidence tech’s head was back in the doorway. “Mold-A-Rama? I loved those! You’d insert a quarter and look through a glass dome as two halves of the mold came together hydraulically and made a plastic souvenir.”

  A forensic photographer peeked around the corner. “Are you talking about Mold-A-Rama? I still have a plastic mermaid from Weeki Wachee.”

  “And I have an albino alligator,” said the tech.

  “Ahem,” said the examiner. “We have a body here. A little respect?”

  “Excuse me,” said Gannon. “You mentioned a chemical analysis?”

  The examiner used gloved hands to twist the victim’s head. Everyone winced at the crackling sound. “You weren’t far off with Mold-A-Rama. There’s a connection. Most of what was in that reservoir bin was probably Elmer’s Glue, from those gigantic jugs at hardware stores. Too thick in its regular state out of the bottle and would gum up the machine. But it’s water-soluble, so if you dilute it to the consistency of skim milk, the humidifier will evaporate it. Obviously, it voids the warranty and isn’t recommended long term. But if it’s a one-off homicide, then you’re good to go.”

  Gannon inspected the rewired light switch. “What’s this about?”

  “The killer knew his stuff,” said the examiner. “The humidifier would make the bathroom too moist to achieve his goals, so he wired in that automatic timer. Once the humidifier was empty, the timer turned on the ceiling ventilation fan to dry out the room so the vaporized glue could congeal and harden. Every surface in this room has a coating.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Need to get him on the table for that, but I’d bet either cutaneous suffocation from his pores being sealed, or generic asphyxiation from it clogging up his nose and sinus cavity. Either way, he was a victim of extreme rage.”

  “You mentioned some connection to Mold-A-Rama?” asked the detective.

  “Take a closer look at the bottom of that bin in the bathtub.”

  Gannon got on his knees. “Looks like the top parts of an alligator, dolphin, mermaid . . .” He looked up. “What the hell?”

  “They didn’t melt completely.” More crackling noise as the examiner pried a shoulder blade from the top of the machine. “The effect of those figures was more symbolic than anything, though they did add a little sheen across the skin to create the Mold-A-Rama appearance.”

  Gannon ran a hand through his hair as he considered the milky-white-encased victim. “I don’t even know where to start. What kind of suspect am I looking for here?”

  “One with a very interesting childhood,” said the examiner. “He turned this guy into the state’s largest roadside souvenir.”

  Chapter 9

  Later That Afternoon

  Serge lowered his binoculars.

  Coleman lowered his joint. “Why are we sitting here?”

  “Another nature watch.” Serge snapped photos. “For reasons unknown, this is where ancient genetic instincts cause them to gather each day just a few minutes from now.”

  “But it’s a restaurant,” said Coleman.

  “God works in mysterious ways.” Serge reached in a paper sack and pulled out a piece of fruit.

  “I didn’t know you liked to eat bananas.”

  “I’m not eating it.” Serge held it in front of his face and stroked the yellow skin. “I’m having a religious experience. All life is connected, and I just heard last night on TV that humans possess half the DNA of a banana, so I’m checking it out to see if I can pick up a family vibe.”

  “But religious?” asked Coleman.

  “Therein lies the rub,” said Serge. “Some people think you can only have a religious experience if you’re ordering others to stop whatever they’re doing that’s making them happy. On the other hand, you have the atheists. I’ve been to a lot of book and cultural festivals, and there always seems to be a booth for an atheists’ association. That’s the dumbest shit in the world. If you really don’t believe in something, fine, then just move along. I don’t believe in unicorns, but you don’t see me sending out fucking anti-unicorn newsletters.”

  Coleman stared at Serge holding the yellow fruit. “Feeling anything yet?”

  “Yeah, stupid.” He peeled it and took a bite. “Makes me want to rent a booth.”

  “My stomach has those hungry noises again.”

  “We need to be going inside anyway.” Serge opened the car door.

  The pair entered the restaurant, and a cheerful waiter approached. “Table for two?”

  “Yes, we’re here for the early-bird special,” said Serge.

  The waiter checked his watch. “You’re a little early.”

  “Isn’t that the whole point?”

  The waiter smiled. “By the time your food arrives, I’m sure you can get the discount.”

  “Beer,” said Coleman.

  Serge elbowed him. “We’re not even at the table yet.”

  The waiter seated them and handed menus. “I’ll get that beer.”

  Coleman looked around. “We’re the only people in the entire dining room.”

  “I need to document the full arc of the migration.”

  The waiter returned, and Serge ordered a Cuban sandwich, and Coleman was told they didn’t have buffalo wings or nachos.

  “Then a beer.”

  “I just set one down for you,” said the waiter.

  “It’ll be gone by the time you get back,” said Coleman.

  “Bank on it,” said Serge.

  They were left alone again.

  Not for long. It took all of ten minutes, like a slow-motion stampede into a Who concert, until every table in the room was full.

  “What just happened?” asked Coleman.

  Serge looked out the front window. “Shuttle buses.”

  Coleman quickly pounded his second beer and ordered a third.

  “Can you please stop the Belushi show this one time?”
snapped Serge. He jerked a thumb sideways. “These are proper people. They know not of your ways.”

  “Maybe they do.”

  “What are you talking about?” Serge turned as a platoon of waiters began pouring into the dining room with teetering trays of drinks.

  “Look at all those cocktails,” said Coleman. “And a bunch are martinis. That’s like solid alcohol.”

  “At four in the afternoon, no less,” said Serge. “And I thought they took naps because they were old . . . Plus a whole bunch of them are getting multiple drinks at once.”

  Coleman pointed at a chalkboard near the entrance. “‘Two-for-one special.’ I dig the early-bird thing.”

  Soon the room was full of laughter and dropped utensils. Meals served and consumed. Serge glanced toward the back corner. “There’s a rare couple not drinking. They should be lucid enough for my oral history.” He started to stand and sat back down. “Okay, relax and get a grip and don’t be off-putting like last time, because that’s wrong. A calm and normal first impression. Their nerves can’t take much at this stage. The key is to undersell.”

  They walked over to the corner booth. “I’m Serge! This is Coleman! We’re taking retirement big! I have a white belt!” Serge began jumping in place. “Did you hear the latest on bananas? Isn’t that insane? I also heard that our best telescopes are still picking up background radiation noise from the Big Bang, because it’s so far away. They also said if you’re watching TV with a snowy picture, one percent of what you’re looking at is the Big Bang. Isn’t that a trip? Last night at the motel, Coleman came out of the bathroom and saw me staring at static and asked what I was watching, and I said, ‘Everything!’”

  Coleman nodded. “He’s really smart.”

  “Dammit!” Serge lowered his eyes and kicked the carpet with the toe of his sneaker. “I’m still doing it. Please erase that first impression.” He turned and walked away five paces, then came back demurely, shuffling his feet with chin tucked to his chest, speaking in a low monotone. “I’m Serge. This is Coleman. I seek your wisdom in an underselling manner . . .” He looked up with a wince. “That comes off weird, too, doesn’t it? . . . Sorry, but those are your only two choices right now. Can we join you to break bread?”

  Despite another gone-astray introduction, Serge was surprised once again to find a couple that was happy to have conversation company. They scooted over to make room in the booth, and the man shook Serge’s hand. “I’m Ethan and this is Sarah, the Gotliebs.”

  “Well, the Gotliebs, where do you hail from?”

  “All over,” said Ethan.

  “We’re military,” said Sarah.

  “Met when I was stationed at Maxwell Air Force Base in the fifties.”

  “Maxwell?” said Serge. “That’s Montgomery. It would have put you in the middle of the bus boycott.”

  “It did,” said Sarah. “What exciting times those were.”

  “Hold on!” Serge pulled out a pocket recorder. “If you don’t mind . . .” He pressed a button. “Go!”

  “After Rosa Parks refused to move to the back of the bus, the boycott began, and sympathetic people with automobiles carpooled the bus riders who needed to get to work. A lot of people don’t remember the stuff about the taxis.”

  “Never heard of the taxis,” said Serge. “And I’ve read all about this.”

  “When the city saw all these car pools, they tried to put a stop to it by passing racist laws declaring them taxis, which had to be a certain color, and follow this regulation and that, until it pretty much ruled out everyone giving rides to the boycotters,” said Sarah. “Police pulling vehicles over, making people get out and walk or face arrest. So a bunch of us wives at the base banded together and decided to step in and give them rides. Now the city was dealing with the U.S. military, and they were unofficially advised through back channels not to mess with us, and we got the people to work. Looking back, it was a little more dangerous than we realized.”

  “Wow, you were there fighting the good fight from the beginning! You’re my heroes!” said Serge. “What made you decide to retire in Florida?”

  “Fell in love with the place during my next assignment down here,” said Ethan.

  Serge pushed his voice recorder closer to Mr. Gotlieb. “What assignment was that?”

  “I flew a U-2.”

  “Wait,” said Serge. “Not during 1962?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Lord above!” said Serge. “You flew reconnaissance during the Cuban missile crisis?”

  “It wasn’t called that then,” said Ethan. “We were just doing our jobs.”

  “Coleman, this is what I’m talking about!” said Serge. “All these great Americans living among us that never get any recognition other than incontinence jokes . . . Oops!” He covered his mouth and turned back to the couple. “Sorry, my bad. You didn’t need to hear that they make fun of you behind your back.” He pounded a fist on the table. “Pay them no mind!”

  “Uh, the shuttle bus looks like it’s ready to leave,” said Sarah.

  “Forget the bus,” said Serge. “Today, you’re riding in style.”

  “I think we’ll be fine with the shuttle,” said Ethan.

  “Nonsense,” said Serge. “Where do you live?”

  “Boca Shores.”

  “What a coincidence! I love that place! Do you know the Hornsbys?”

  “Buster and Mildred?” said Sarah. “Sure.”

  Serge placed a hand over his heart. “Dear personal friends of mine. Buster served at the Chosin Reservoir.”

  Ethan gave his wife a glance that said, These are pretty odd characters, but if they know Buster and Mildred . . .

  And so another retired couple hitched a ride back to a trailer park in a Ford Falcon. Serge cranked up Ray Charles on the radio.

  “. . . O beautiful for spacious skies . . .”

  Serge twisted all the way around to face his passengers. “How’s it going back there?”

  “Could you watch the road, please?”

  “I’m right on it.” Serge gripped the wheel and leaned with focus. “You’re worth the extra effort. Did I mention you’re my heroes?”

  “It’s come up a few times.”

  They pulled into the entrance of the trailer park and stopped at the guard shack.

  “. . . Let’s play Jeopardy! . . .”

  Earl hitched his pants and stepped out. “Oh, you guys again.”

  “. . . I’ll take palindromes for two hundred, Alex . . .”

  Earl checked the backseat. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Gotlieb. I’ll let you in.”

  He went back in his booth and raised the gate arm.

  “. . . What is ‘A man, a plan, a canal, Panama’? . . .”

  The Falcon circled the artificial lake and pulled up to another manufactured house with bamboo wind chimes and a Gaelic yard gnome. A little-used Buick sat in the carport. A piece of string ran down from the carport’s ceiling to a tennis ball that touched the Buick’s windshield. It told the Gotliebs when to stop.

  “Would you like to come in?” asked Sarah. “I can get you something to drink.”

  “Yes!” said Coleman.

  “She doesn’t mean it that way,” said Serge. “But yes, we would love to come in.”

  The couple led their guests up to the screened-in front porch. Ethan began sliding the glass door. “I’ll have to warn you it’s a bit snug inside.”

  “We’ve been to the Hornsbys’,” said Serge.

  They entered.

  “Whoa!”

  “He warned you,” said Sarah.

  “Are you opening a restaurant or something?” asked Serge.

  “Looks that way, doesn’t it?” said Ethan. “This salesman pitched us on a new kitchen, and we figured we’d treat ourselves.”

  “You do realize that the oven and all these other appliances are commercial grade for restaurants and not designed for residential use.”

  “We do now,” said Sarah. “It didn’t loo
k like this in the brochures. By the time we realized what was happening, we were just dealing with the installers, and the salesman wouldn’t return our calls.”

  “Don’t forget the hidden charges,” said Ethan. “It was like buying tires, more than twice the original price, and it was all tucked into a contract that we couldn’t get out of.”

  “Most of this over here used to be the living room,” said Sarah. “But what are you going to do?”

  Serge grinned. “You can start by giving me the salesman’s business card.”

  Tampa

  A frozen personal pizza from a vending machine rotated in the lunchroom’s microwave. Body-pierced people at the health-food kiosk ordered sesame-turkey wraps. Benmont Pinch removed the top slice of bread from a sandwich and nudged a wayward pickle slice back in line with the herd.

  Sonic sat down across from him with a tray of vegan. “How’s it going?”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Fire.”

  “What do you think of us older people at the company?”

  “You guys are radically cool.”

  “Seriously?”

  Sonic nodded with emphasis. “You’ve got life all figured out, and you’re happy in your own skin.” He took a sip of soy milk. “No tats or piercings, and you wear your pants strange, regardless of what they say. You’re like a rebel.”

  Benmont inflated slightly with pride. “People did used to say I reminded them of James Dean.”

  “Who?”

  Benmont was good at changing subjects. “Did your nickname always used to be Sonic?”

  “No, it used to be some variation of Ass-Hat until I took control.”

  “So how’s your day?”

  “Got off the phone with some guy in Fort Myers whose credit card just filled ten tanks of petrol in France—” He suddenly pointed up at one of the flat screens. “They’re playing it again.”

  Benmont turned around. “Playing what?”

  A Naples news station was broadcasting live from a middle-class stucco house with dozens of onlookers and crime tape.

  “Double homicide, another retired couple,” said Sonic. “Nasty stuff. They’ve been playing it all day. Can’t believe you haven’t heard.”