No Sunscreen for the Dead

by Tim Dorsey

  The seniors were still on the move, pulling granola bars and trail mix from fanny packs. Click, click, click, click . . .

  “Now we have to catch up again.”

  They resumed trotting.

  “How can old people hike like this?” said a panting Coleman. “I just threw up in my mouth.”

  “Maybe if you didn’t have to hike with a duck head in front of you.”

  “I’m starting to get scared. The pill might not wear off.”

  The seniors had stopped at the foot of a wooden ladder and called behind them. “You coming?”

  “Right there!” said Serge, muttering. “This stupid costume.”

  They were all one group again.

  Coleman looked up. “Now we have to climb?”

  “It’s only twenty-five feet.”

  They reached a primitive wooden footbridge suspended by cables in the tree canopy.

  Coleman seized the railing. “I think I’m still hungover.”

  “No, the bridge really is swaying. Check out our friends up ahead . . .”

  Click, click, click, click, click . . .

  “Pop ash . . .”

  “Gold-foot ferns . . .”

  “Shoelace ferns . . .”

  “Butterfly orchids . . .”

  “False pennyroyal . . .”

  “Red blanket lichen . . .”

  “What’s this funky thing?” asked Coleman.

  “Pineapple air plant,” said a senior in a long-billed fishing hat. “They collect water in their bowls.”

  The retirees climbed another fifty feet up the observation tower for a panoramic view of the park’s prairies and cypress domes.

  “I’m staying down here,” said Coleman, dropping the duck head and bending over to clutch his knees.

  “Me too,” said Serge. “I feel stupid around these people. They’ve forgotten more about nature than I’ll ever know. On the other hand, I couldn’t be happier. I knew seniors had the answers, but these people are amazing. How can I ever pay them back?” He snapped his fingers. “I know! I’ll take them on a surprise second stop on this field trip! But first we’ll have to go by the store . . . They’re going to love this! . . .”

  Two hours later, deeper into the state.

  The giddy gang stood on the edge of an abandoned limestone quarry.

  Serge demonstrated like a baseball coach. “You have to swing your arm like this. Let the momentum do the work.”

  A petite woman nodded. “I think I’ve got it.”

  “Then let her rip!”

  A mild grunt as she threw.

  Whoosh.

  Quick steps backward. “My goodness!”

  “Okay, I don’t mean to be critical,” said Serge. “But you need to heave it a little more downrange—”

  “Dammit, Serge!” said Lawrence. “Don’t you think this is a bit dangerous?”

  Serge turned blankly. “What do you mean?”

  “First flaming Brillo pads and all kinds of Roman candles, then giant slingshots made from inner tubes, and exploding bags of flour.”

  “I know! Ain’t it great!”

  “And now Molotov cocktails?”

  “I specifically chose those little Coke bottles because I knew they couldn’t throw that far.”

  “That last one almost went off at Gertrude’s feet!”

  “She didn’t follow my instructions, but she’ll get the hang of it.” Serge turned and waved an arm toward the group. “Look, they’re having the time of their lives! Not to mention learning important counter-insurgency skills.”

  “Give me the gasoline.”

  “Who’s got the lighter?”

  “All right. Here goes nothing!”

  Grunt.

  “Ooo, shit!”

  “Just splash some water on it. My turn . . .”

  “Serge!” said Lawrence.

  “But I bought all these giant boxes of assorted fireworks that are the rage in Florida. See all the cool stuff through the cellophane display window? We’ve just gotten started.”

  Lawrence sighed. “Can you simply trust my judgment on this one and head back to the park?”

  “Normally, I wouldn’t do this,” said Serge. “But because it’s you, all right. I’ll just hand out all these leftovers for the gang to use on their own time . . .”

  Earl stepped out of the guard booth and waved at the passing shuttle bus full of foot-stomping residents.

  “. . . We will . . . we will . . . rock you! . . .”

  The residents debarked in the parking lot of the clubhouse, but they didn’t disperse. It was the after-party. A trunk was popped and beer and wine handed out. Nothing remotely as wild as the other night. Just the park’s regular sunset social after another fun-filled day on the planet. A few pointed skyward as a honking V formation of Canada geese flew overhead. All was good.

  A lime-green MINI Cooper pulled into the parking lot, and the driver got out with a tray.

  “Heather?” said Lawrence. “What are you doing here?”

  “I baked cookies for your sunset gathering.”

  Coleman handed the duck head back to Serge. “I’m better now . . . Isn’t that the swim girl?”

  “Aqua-aerobics instructor, to be specific.”

  Coleman rubbed his stomach. “My body tells me it needs cookies . . .”

  And so it went, friendship and laughs and a setting sun you couldn’t pay for. As it went down, a few of the residents drifted toward the patio for a view out over the lake. They gathered along the railing.

  It became still and quiet as the natural wonder of the glowing sky took hold. The least little sounds appreciated. A bullfrog, a cawing seagull, a plunk in the water from a turtle.

  Then a new sound they hadn’t heard before. Not very loud, just different. What was it? Where was it coming from? More residents meandered out onto the deck. The sound grew louder . . .

  Ten minutes later, a wooden door opened. It was on the plywood shack that stored all the pool equipment.

  Serge stepped out and hiked up his duck costume. He froze.

  Staring back at him were two dozen completely silent residents of the park.

  Serge spread wings. “What?” He headed back to his car.

  The residents inched closer to see inside the dark shack.

  Heather stumbled out with tousled hair, cleared her throat at the sight of the group, and walked away in the opposite direction. Two old guys in the back of the group slapped high fives.

  The gathering continued a little longer and was about to break up.

  Suddenly, back at the guard booth, Earl quickly raised the entrance gate.

  An ambulance flew into the park.

  The residents watched it race by the clubhouse. They’d seen it many times before, and they didn’t speak. All eyes watched as the red-and-white vehicle rounded the lake and began slowing like a roulette wheel. Whose number was up this time?

  Paramedics stopped in a driveway and ran inside.

  “It’s the Duncans,” someone whispered.

  “Ike and Judy?”

  “They’re so young.”

  And, as many times before, the onlookers had two silent questions: Which one, and how bad?

  The second answer came first, when the coroner’s wagon entered the park, followed by three police cars.

  The group migrated to the near side of the clubhouse to continue their grave vigil on the pool deck. Two hours later, a stretcher came out, and the sheet was all the way up over whoever was underneath.

  Residents said prayers inside their heads.

  Then a second stretcher came out.

  Two? This they had never seen before. The collective thought: What’s going on?

  More vehicles arrived. First, the unmarked cars with the detectives, then a van: Crime Scene Investigation.

  Speculation took off like a grease fire. “Murder-suicide? Nah, not the Duncans.” “Robbery? Here? Are you kidding?” “Revenge? Who didn’t like them?”

  And righ
t when the intrigue seemed to have maxed out, a cobalt-blue Buick Regal pulled up to the guard booth.

  “Earl, are you okay?” asked the driver. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Earl opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  “What’s going on. You’re acting really strange.”

  Earl just raised the gate. The driver shrugged and drove into the park.

  The crowd at the railing of the swim deck was still riveted on the trailer with all the emergency vehicles. Someone on the edge of the crowd nudged the person next to him, pointing at the Buick slowly rounding the man-made lake. Then that person nudged the next, until word swept down the entire railing in seconds.

  The trailer was ignored, as all eyes now followed the blue car.

  “Doesn’t that belong to the Duncans?”

  “But if they’re alive in the car, then who . . . ?”

  Chapter 28

  Boca Shores

  The residents solemnly watched the Buick approach the scene. A police officer stepped into the road and held out a hand for them to halt. He walked around to the driver’s window and shook his head, pointing for them to go back. Then the driver showed his license, and the officer turned toward his colleagues with an urgent waving gesture.

  Two detectives rushed over to the car. The couple was courteously escorted over to one of the unmarked Crown Vics and placed in the backseat. The detectives got in the front. The car sat.

  Back behind the clubhouse: “What are they doing?”

  “Looks like they’re being questioned.” A woman raised bird-watching binoculars. “One of the detectives is taking notes.”

  The residents at the patio railing began a fierce volleyball game of conjecture. “Murder suspects? Nah, not the Duncans . . .” Nobody was going anywhere. Not missing any of this.

  A half hour later, the doors on the Crown Vic opened. Paramedics knelt down outside the car and gave the retired couple a quick checkup, considering the wholesale shock of all they had just been told. Stethoscopes listened, and blood-pressure bulbs pumped. The couple turned down the two Xanax tablets they were offered. The EMTs stood and gave them a clean bill.

  The detectives were deferential again as they walked the couple back to their Buick. They were handed business cards and asked if they could avoid traveling out of town for the next few days.

  Ike and Judy Duncan got back in the front seat. The car started, but didn’t move for a few minutes.

  One of the detectives walked back over. “Is everything okay?”

  Ike slowly looked toward all the crime scene activity flowing in and out of his trailer. He turned back to the detective. “No.”

  “I understand,” the detective said sympathetically. “It’s still sinking in. Please call the number on my card if you need anything, day or night.”

  The Buick began moving and hit a peak five miles an hour as it passed the swimming pool, and everyone scrambled toward that side of the deck. The car eased over into the nearest parking space at the clubhouse and sat still again. Residents came pouring around the side of the building and surrounded it.

  “Can everyone move back and give them some air,” said Lawrence. “They’ve been through a lot.”

  The Duncans stepped out of the car. They were happy to be among all their friends. At a time like this, it’s what they needed. And their friends needed answers. But they just didn’t want to push. “Would you like us to get you anything? Water?”

  A resident pointed with his cane. “What the hell is that?”

  Fiercely bright spotlights came on along the road outside the park, the closest that Earl would allow the satellite trucks.

  “The reporters are here,” said Lawrence. “Let’s get the Duncans in the clubhouse so they can relax.”

  They entered the hall, and the large-screen TV was on next to the bingo board. Local news.

  “. . . This is Veronica Dance reporting outside the sleepy retirement village of Boca Shores near Sarasota, where police have just discovered the bodies of two senior citizens who appear to be the victims of a grisly double homicide . . .”

  On-screen, a 1996 DeVille with grocery bags filling the backseat approached the park’s entrance. One of the residents simply returning from an uneventful trip to the supermarket. The car slowed at the guard booth, and Veronica ran over with her microphone.

  “Excuse me, how do you feel about the murders in your quiet retirement park?”

  “Murders?”

  “Are you worried that the killers might strike again?”

  “Killers?”

  A camera aimed into the backseat.

  “What’s in the bags?”

  “Leave us alone!”

  The car raced inside the park, and Earl came out to block the camera lens with his hands.

  The news crew retreated back across the street without breaking narration. “Often a pair of deaths in one of Florida’s retirement communities turns out to be a mercy killing due to a long-suffering terminal disease, followed by the suicide of the surviving spouse. But a confidential police source is telling me that has been ruled out, as both victims sustained trauma—”

  Inside the clubhouse, Judy Duncan began sobbing inconsolably into her hands.

  “Someone turn that goddamn TV off!”

  “. . . Who could be the next victim of these savage night stalkers? Sarasota, lock your doors! . . .”

  A plug was jerked from a wall socket, and the flat screen zapped to black.

  Ike put an arm around his wife’s shoulders as she raised her tearful face. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  As gently as Lawrence could: “Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

  “No,” said Judy.

  “Then you’re staying with us.”

  “We don’t want to impose.”

  From the surrounding crowd: “We’re all your family.” “We’re here for you.” “Do we need to run to the store for anything?”

  Ike shook his head.

  A door opened and a bright spotlight filled the hall. “. . . Are you hunkering down in here in terror? . . .”

  Earl yanked the TV people back outside and slammed the door.

  “I— . . . I— . . .” Judy covered her mouth.

  “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” said Serge.

  “No, I need to get it out.” She placed trembling palms on a table. “We just flew back into Sarasota-Bradenton and picked up our car from long term. It was such a great time, a family wedding up in Braintree, Massachusetts, that we decided to stretch into a weeklong reunion. All the grandchildren were there. And now we come home to this. Oh my God! The poor Baldwins!”

  “Who are the Baldwins?” asked someone on a mobility scooter.

  “Please,” said Lawrence. “Let her go at her own speed.”

  “That’s okay,” said Judy. “Anyway, we were talking with some old friends before the trip. We’ve known the Baldwins since when, Ike? . . .”

  “Before I was in the army.”

  “. . . We kept telling them how beautiful Florida is, and they should visit. But they said they couldn’t afford it. I told them, nonsense, they could stay at our house for the week while we were up at the wedding. That we’d spend another week together when we got back. We were all looking forward to it, catching up on old times, the whole thing planned, shopping at Saint Armands Circle, visiting Mote Marine, the botanical gardens, a sunset cruise, and Mel always loved golf, but all the courses are frozen up there right now. I said everyone plays year-round down here, and that convinced him—” A hand went to her mouth again. “Dear Lord! If I hadn’t mentioned the golf, they might still be . . . still be—”

  More sobbing.

  “You can’t be doing this to yourself,” said Lawrence. “There’s nothing anyone could have foreseen or done.”

  “I realize,” said Judy. “I’m just thinking of all the other times we spent together. You know how two couples have that chemistry? Now I’ll never see
them again.” She turned her head toward a blank wall.

  Lawrence stood and faced the rest of the group. “I think it would be best now if we got them over to my house so they can wind down from this.”

  Everyone nodded and stepped backward to loosen their human circle of stress.

  They left the hall, and good old Earl was already waiting outside with a six-seater golf cart. They climbed in, and he pressed the pedal for silent electric power.

  Ike looked back at his Buick. “What about our luggage? There’s valuables.”

  “I’ll grab it after I drop you off,” said Earl. “You just take your mind off everything this evening.”

  They made their way inside the Shepards’ trailer, tentatively, like walking on the moon.

  “Just make yourself comfortable on the couch . . .” Nancy’s voice trailed off as she entered the kitchen. “Can I get you anything?”

  “I don’t have an appetite,” said Ike.

  “Me neither,” said Judy.

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  “Lunch,” said Judy. “More like brunch.”

  “You have to eat something. I insist.”

  Nancy prevailed on the concept of soup. They sat around the kitchen table with steaming New England clam chowder. Large spoons clinked bowls, a clock ticked.

  Ike and Judy exchanged a knowing look. They guaranteed us that this could never happen. We can’t tell anybody.

  Chapter 29

  The Next Day

  Trailer-park residents began filing into the clubhouse hall shortly after noon.

  Folding chairs had already been arranged in a grid for their viewing pleasure, facing the large-screen TV on the front wall. Some residents brought cushions, others entire chairs, because the stiff plastic ones provided by the park weren’t all that.

  Serge entered the hall with his trademark zest for another day breathing on earth. “What’s on the menu?”

  “Our regular Wednesday matinee movie,” said one of the regulars.

  “Oooo! I love movies!” said Serge. “Which one is it? . . . No, let me guess. The Graduate? Blue Velvet? Last Tango in Paris? Birth of a Nation? City of God? The Third Man? Fellini Satyricon? Truffaut’s 400 Blows? Kurosawa’s Dreams? This Is Spinal Tap? E.T.? Am I close?”