No Sunscreen for the Dead

by Tim Dorsey

  They parked in the shopping center.

  “Can I pick out some of the stuff?” asked Coleman.

  “Absolutely . . .”

  . . . The next day, the Ford Falcon pulled up to the first address on Serge’s clipboard. He pressed a button next to the screen door.

  Ding-dong.

  Serge tapped an impatient foot. After a couple minutes, a voice inside: “I’m coming!” Then a few more minutes, and a woman in a nightgown stuck her head out the sliding glass door. “Who is it?”

  “Mrs. Blutarski? It’s Meals on Wheels. May I call you Olga?”

  “You’re early.”

  “I’m in a perpetual state of being early,” said Serge. “All time has already occurred.”

  The woman stretched her neck toward the street. “Where’s your van?”

  “Traded it for a muscle car because we’re now Xtreme Meals on Wheels.” Serge held up an extra-large box of temptation and winked. “Have a surprise for you today.”

  “Okay, come on in.” Olga left the glass door open and shuffled slippers across the living room. She sat down on a sofa covered in a quilt depicting the national park system. “The rack of trays is against the wall.”

  “I can never get enough of those old TV-dinner trays!” Serge snapped one open and set it over her knees. Then he opened his box on the lacquered surface. “I know you usually have to settle for whatever they bring, but today we have a selection. “Chili dogs, tacos, egg rolls, pulled pork with red-hot Hog’s Breath sauce.”

  Coleman opened the cooler he was carrying. “Sparkling water, beer, hard lemonade, wine coolers.”

  Olga looked up at them like there had to be a catch. “You mean I can pick anything I want?”

  “The world is your oyster.” Serge laid out a paper plate. “And we have oysters in the car.”

  “You’re my new favorite people!” She began snatching items out of the box, then pointed at what she wanted from the cooler. “I used to love applesauce and mashed potatoes, but now that goddamn stuff is coming out my ears.”

  Serge turned on his pocket recorder. “Mind if I ask you a few questions while you eat? For the official archives, of course.”

  She chased a big bite of chili dog with Coors. “Knock yourself out.”

  “Tell me about yourself. What did you do? What makes you happy?”

  Now Olga was two-fisting, an egg roll and a chili dog. “My favorite was working for the USO during Vietnam. All those nice young boys drafted, and coming home in a daze. People don’t remember now, but there were no parades, and some were even spit on, if you can believe it.”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” said Serge.

  “The war wasn’t their fault, and most were the poor kids who couldn’t go to college,” said Olga. “I decided I needed to do something. I don’t know how much comfort it was, but I couldn’t just stand by.”

  “I’m sure it was a great comfort,” said Serge. “But I know what the sixties were like. Not many young girls would have thought of doing what you did.”

  She noshed away. “Came from a military family. My father was a tail gunner of a B-17 Liberator and he taught me duty and honor. His name was Wojciech, first generation from the old country, so he still spoke Polish. He enlisted right after Pearl Harbor because he said that was the price of freedom. They were on a bombing run and got shot down outside Warsaw. He bailed out but was captured. The Germans marched all the prisoners in a line through the city, carrying their parachutes in balls in front of them. All the townspeople were watching, and some woman on a balcony said in Polish that the silk in those parachutes would make nice dresses, and my father looked up and said in the same language, ‘Yes, they would make very nice dresses.’ The women were shocked with embarrassment and ran inside. Then the Nazis tortured my father. Some of the Allied planes that used to be painted green were now just a shiny bare-metal silver color, and they wanted to know why. So they beat my father and pulled out some of his fingernails, but he never talked.”

  Serge winced and shook with the willies. “Jesus! . . . But it’s obvious why they were silver. Paint adds weight, so it saved on fuel and gave the planes a longer range. They did the same thing with the space shuttle’s external fuel tank.”

  “The Nazis didn’t know that.”

  “And your father gave up fingernails instead of telling them such a small thing?”

  “He was my dad,” said Olga. “Next to that, me joining the USO was nothing.”

  “No, it was something all right. You’re a true hero.” Serge checked his watch. “But we have a lot more meals to deliver.”

  “Speed dating,” said Coleman.

  “Could I have another dog and beer before you go?”

  “All yours . . .”

  . . . A few houses down at the next address.

  Ding-dong.

  “You’re early.”

  The pair began serving another housebound resident.

  “You really have oysters?”

  “On the half shell. Cocktail sauce and crackers, too.”

  “And cocktails,” said Coleman.

  The tape recorder was turned on, and Nikos Pinopolis slurped off a shell.

  “. . . I was a policeman in Louisville. Just like my father and grandfather. It’s how we chose to serve.”

  “That’s so admirable,” said Serge.

  “Why? We’re all supposed to serve in some way,” said Nikos. “Doesn’t everybody know that?”

  “Not today,” said Serge. “Please continue.”

  “Anyway, I won a lot of medals in the annual marksmanship competitions. It was a really great police force, got along with the whole community. Then one day I’m walking my beat, chatting at the crosswalk with the little kids getting off the school bus. Suddenly these four armed guys come running out of the Farmers Bank. So I cut across the street, got down on one knee, and aimed my revolver. ‘Freeze! Police!’”

  “Four armed robbers?” said Serge. “Why didn’t you call for backup first?”

  “You’re not familiar with police procedure, are you?”

  “Familiar enough.”

  “Whenever you see a threat like that, you immediately oppose them regardless of odds.” Nikos spread horseradish on a saltine. “You put yourself between them and the citizens because the community is depending on you. It’s called the Thin Blue Line. So a gun battle starts . . .”

  “I still can’t believe you took on all four.”

  “Not as bad as it sounds,” Nikos said with offhand humility. “See, the thing about bad guys is they can’t shoot for shit. Give them rifles and it might be a problem, but short-barrel handguns aren’t very accurate at any distance. You have to know what you’re doing. The thing is to stay calm and not to hurry your shots.”

  “Sounds difficult when four guys are shooting back.”

  “Training,” said Nikos. “Today’s officers have Glocks and other automatics with much larger capacities. But back then, with a revolver, I had to make every bullet count. My first four shots all hit their marks, one for each robber. Two were killed, another went to the ground, but the last was only hit in the shoulder and still standing. And firing. So I dropped him with two more shots.”

  “That’s amazing you were able to stay composed. What courage.”

  “Hemingway basically said courage is the ability to suspend the imagination. It was a busy afternoon downtown, and I was focused on all the civilians, especially the children . . . And you’d think I would have noticed it, but my adrenaline was pumping too hard. After everything settled, I had this tremendous pain. I looked down, and son of a bitch! That last guy had gotten off a lucky shot, a ricochet off the sidewalk no less. Right in the knee. Couldn’t he have hit me anywhere else in the leg? But no, skipped off the pavement into the cap. No bouncing back from that to active duty, so it was a one-way ticket to a desk job my last seven years.” He pointed in the corner. “I’ve got my new titanium cane now, but that old wooden one standing there is what I used on th
e force. I’m not usually sentimental.”

  “How can we ever repay you?” asked Serge.

  “Leave the tacos.”

  “You got it.”

  Serge went back out to the car and opened the driver’s door. “We need to speed this up.”

  “Why?” asked Coleman.

  “The white van back there.” He climbed in and started the ignition. “He’s catching up.”

  The Falcon drove on. Down the clipboard list.

  “I was a schoolteacher, thirty years.” She pulled the pulled pork. “The school district in Mississippi didn’t have enough supplies for all the kids, so I bought stuff out of my own paycheck. We all did back then . . .”

  Next address: “Missionary in Africa. Spent most of our time just getting potable drinking water to the villages . . .”

  Ding-dong.

  “. . . I volunteered at a retirement home. Ain’t that ironic? . . .”

  Ding-dong.

  “. . . The fire department was my family . . .”

  Ding-dong.

  “. . . A janitor. I know what people think, but it was satisfying. Even met the president. I worked at NASA in one of the hangars, and Kennedy came around one day while I was sweeping the floor and asked how I was doing, and I said, ‘Great. I’m helping put a man on the moon.’ . . .”

  The Ford Falcon was on its way to the last address on the Xtreme Meals on Wheels clipboard. Dusk arrived. Three-wheel bikes, power walkers and pelicans.

  Serge spotted a friend heading up a driveway. With a grave expression.

  He jumped out of the car. “Lawrence, where are you going?”

  “To check on Mrs. Butterfield.”

  “Good God! Is something the matter?”

  “No, it’s a regular check, but it’s getting sad,” said Lawrence, making purposeful strides. “I’m close to the family, and they asked me to look in each day. She’s getting right up there against that dreaded nursing-home decision they’ll have to make. They feel guilty.”

  “I’m sure it’s a tough time all around,” said Serge. “I’ll eventually have to make that call on Coleman, probably sooner than later.”

  “Candace is a piece of work, independent and funny as hell, but she’s in early dementia and has a year, tops, left at the park here,” said Lawrence. “But I’m happy to make the checks because they cheer her up and give her someone to talk to before she goes to bed.”

  “Forgive me for saying, but you’re walking faster than usual,” said Serge. “Something is wrong.”

  “I can’t put my finger on it,” said Lawrence. “She just seems different. There’s a little jumpiness, and a bit more forgetfulness. I asked her about it, but the dementia is getting in the way. It’s early stages and doesn’t seem to hamper her otherwise, except it always seems to get worse when I ask what’s changed.”

  “When did this start?”

  “When she got a new caregiver a month ago,” said Lawrence. “She needs help with some of the small things during the day, and there was a nice older woman named Beatrix. Now a young guy named Gil. I’ve met him. He seems okay, and I’m sure he’s doing a good job. I think it’s just that Candace related better to a woman and someone closer to her age.”

  “I’m sure that’s it,” said Serge. “But what about the service company that sent him?”

  “Impeccable reputation,” said Lawrence. “I called to ask about the new guy, and they said they thoroughly vetted him. Excellent record. If anything is going on, it’s something else.”

  They arrived at the trailer, and Lawrence led Serge onto the screened porch and through the sliding glass doors.

  “Candace . . .”

  “Oh, hi, Lawrence. Great to see you again.” She was sitting back in a recliner wearing socks with kittens on them. Then she saw Serge and startled. A quick, nervous snip: “Who’s that?”

  “Just a friend, Candace.” Lawrence knelt next to her chair. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Couldn’t be better.” She turned on the TV with a remote. “My family told you to ask, didn’t they? I don’t know why they keep talking about a nursing home. I’m fit as a fiddle.”

  “They just care.”

  “Care, schmare. This is my home.”

  “How are things with your new caregiver, Gil?”

  “What? Why?” She jumped again. “He’s fine.”

  Lawrence glanced at Serge. An old black-and-white episode of I Love Lucy came on.

  “What do you talk about with him?” asked Lawrence.

  “Him? Who?”

  “Gil?”

  “What about Gil?”

  “What do you talk about with him?”

  “Not much. He’s too young.” Candace pointed with a knitting needle. “This is one of my favorite episodes.”

  Lucy and Ethel threw cream pies at each other.

  “You would tell me if anything’s wrong?”

  “Of course,” said Candace.

  “Do you need anything?”

  “I need you to tell my so-called loved ones to forget about the nursing home.” She turned up the volume on the set as Ricky arrived and took a pie in the face. “Everyone thinks I can’t take care of myself.”

  “Okay, then. We’ll be going.”

  “I’m sorry if I was being short,” said Candace. “You’re a good friend. You understand. I just want to live in my home.”

  “I do understand . . . Come on, Serge.”

  They left the trailer, and Lawrence stared back at the porch and sighed. “What do you think?”

  “Perfectly normal reaction,” said Serge. “Her self-respect and independence are threatened.”

  “I guess so,” said Lawrence. “I just hope I’m still that feisty when I reach her age.”

  “You’ll outlive us all,” said Serge. “Listen, I just remembered I have to be somewhere with Coleman.”

  “Sure.”

  “You still look worried. Don’t.”

  Lawrence headed one direction toward his trailer, and Serge drove off in the other.

  The Falcon pulled into a nearby shopping center.

  “Serge, what are we doing at the Baby Emporium?”

  “Life comes full circle.” They went inside and paced the aisles.

  “A sippy cup,” said Coleman, pointing at stains on his shirt. “I’ve been needing one of those.”

  Three more aisles, and Serge found what he needed. “Coleman, let’s go. Coleman? . . . Damn!”

  Serge retraced his steps and found his pal with his mouth hanging open, staring up at a spinning mobile with flying elephants.

  “Coleman.”

  “Whoa! This thing’s a stone trip.”

  “Coleman!”

  “Yeah?” He turned. “What are you doing with a teddy bear?”

  “It’s not just a teddy bear.” Serge turned it around and opened a small control panel. “It’s a nanny cam.”

  “What’s that?”

  Serge marched toward a cash register. “You stick it on a shelf, and it records secret digital video to see if the babysitter is stealing silverware or having sex with her boyfriend while the unsupervised baby begins that long-distance crawl toward the highway.”

  They headed back to the park. Coleman puffed a joint and spun an elephant mobile stuck to the ceiling of the Falcon. Candace’s trailer came into view.

  “The lights are out. I think she’s asleep.” Serge turned. “Stay here. I can’t have you crashing around and waking her up. She’s jittery enough as it is.”

  Coleman filled the sippy cup from a flask.

  Serge crept toward the trailer. The screen door was unlocked but no such luck with the sliding glass. He deftly popped it out of its track and slipped inside the dark living room.

  Serge let his eyes adjust while searching for the perfect spot. Over the TV, a shelf with family photos and Beanie Babies. He checked the batteries in the teddy bear, turned it on and gently set it in place.

  From down the hall, “Is someone there?”


  “Shit.” Serge ran out the glass door, snapped it back in the slot and took off.

  Chapter 18

  The Next Morning

  The Savoy Arms was a beachfront landmark, built in 1926 with all the fanfare of Mediterranean Classic design. Stately to this day. Mornings featured mimosas and Bloody Marys on the wrap-around veranda under the wooden paddle fans. The idle rich browsed the shops filled with Swiss watches and yachting clothes.

  But not this morning. The uniformed staff stood in a serious line along the front of the mahogany concierge desk. Whispers. On one of the upper floors, detectives came and went through the door of room 614. The bodies were still in the bed, and their clothes still on the floor.

  The woman was known to police and hotel staff as a high-end escort, and the man had just been identified by the wallet in his pants. The pistol rested in his lifeless hand.

  Murder-suicide was the initial finding.

  A detective named Cheadle leaned over the bodies. “This isn’t right.”

  “What’s not right?” asked his partner, Sussman.

  “There’s no logic here.”

  “That’s why they call it a senseless crime,” said the partner.

  “You know how you just get the sensation that a scene has been staged?” said Cheadle. “I’ll bet my paycheck that there’s no gunshot residue on the hand holding the weapon.”

  An evidence tech approached. “Preliminary test is positive for gunshot residue.”

  “That shoots your theory to shit,” said Sussman.

  “It just means the real killer placed the gun in his hand post-mortem and fired,” said Cheadle. “Which means there’s a third bullet.”

  “Except there’s not,” said Sussman. “Only one bullet in each of the victims. And the guests in the other rooms were all quite certain they only heard two shots about five seconds apart.”

  “Check the gun.”

  Sussman slipped on a glove. He removed cold fingers from the pistol and examined the chamber and magazine. “Only two bullets missing.”

  “Then whoever did this used a second gun.”