Phil Edwards - Retirement Can Be Murder

It was a warm day at Sunset Cove. Of course it was warm. They both had a thin film of sweat on their foreheads, but they weren’t hot enough to wipe it off. Jake didn’t mind sweating in khakis. Mel was wearing a skirt and she looked good. She wore her waist high like someone older, but she was young enough. She’d been talking for a while.

“And on this patch of grass here, we’re going to have the new garden. I’m told that we’ll have some flowers that are particularly rare in Sarasota.”

“What are the flowers called?”

“Oh, I don’t know what they are.” She gestured again. “I just know they’re rare.”

He started writing in his notebook, but she stopped him.

“Don’t write that down!”

“Why not?”

“Please Jake!”

“Why not?”

“It’s embarrassing.” She bit her lip. “I’ll find out what the flowers are called.”

“Don’t worry. All I wrote down is that the flowers would be rare, whatever they are called.”

She still got nervous around him. He didn’t like it — she should be comfortable by now. This month he’d stopped by twice a week, whether he needed to or not. Really he could come by every day, if he wanted to. It wasn’t like his beat had a lot of structure to it. He could always find something to write about, dress it up in fancy words, and send it to New York. Mel bit her lip again.

“Did your editor like the last piece?”

“The one about the movie room?”

“Yes.”

“I think it went all right. You know, instead of running the picture of Sunset Cove, we had to go with the one at the Palmstead Homes. Sorry. They had stadium seating. We had to use that, since Gary got a good shot.”

“Oh that’s fine.” She had a bit of an accent — sounds stuck in the back of her cheeks.

“But I’ll write about your new garden in the landscaping piece. I’ll say something about what it will look like once you finish.”

“Thank you Jake.” She touched his arm. He patted down his hair. The humidity down here, it made it flop up instead of staying combed back. She let go.

“You know, I still can’t believe New Yorkers would actually want to read about us.”

“Well, they do. I mean, once they retire from the city, this is where they’re moving. Right? Half the people in Sunset Cove are former New Yorkers, aren’t they?”

“I suppose.”

“And the people who are still in the city want to know what to expect when they move down here. Trends. Outlooks. Prospects. After all, they want the best years of their lives to be well planned.”

She laughed.

“I suppose. It just seems funny. I’d rather read about things up there, if I were them.”

“Well…” he said and trailed off. They both looked to the right. Someone went by in a vehicle that was larger than a wheelchair, but smaller than a golf cart.

“Are you from New York originally Jake?”

“Yup. I had a nice condo in Long Island City too.”

“You hated the weather?”

“Not really.”

“Then why did you come down here?”

“Just shuffling at the desk. What our readers wanted.”

He knew he should be asking her out. That way he wouldn’t have to come back again and think up another story that could include Sunset Cove. But he kept looking around. Took his notebook, wrote something short and quick. She smiled again. She had nice lips that looked soft. It was times like these he thought his boss might have been right. Maybe he really wasn’t aggressive enough for this job. When his boss had said it, Jake had yelled at him, shouted about professionalism and decorum. But maybe Thompson had been right to move him down here to this humid beat. There were four syllables in the word “Sarasota.” That was probably the most interesting thing about it.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, finally.

“Yes?”

“Yeah. For a follow up. You have to find out what type of flowers you’re getting. And why they’re so rare.”

“That’s right,” she said and smiled. She shook his hand and held it before walking back to her office. He started walking down the path. Another trip back home with nothing to report.

Palm trees, green grass, giant bugs — they all lost their novelty after a while. They were just part of the local color, but nothing to notice anymore. Still, he always tried to mention them in his articles. Except for the giant bugs. He walked on the path and was careful not to step on the grass. He was doing an article about landscaping after all. It didn’t seem right to mess things up.

He was getting closer to the parking lot when he heard it. A high sound, like wind hitting the side of a building. He reached in his pocket for the keys to his car. Got them. Then he heard the noise again. He looked back and then down.

The old woman’s head came up to his chest and not any higher. She was leaning over a walker, and the angle of her back was almost ninety degrees to her legs. Her body was a corner. She had long gray hair. Thin. Blew out in the wind. He’d never seen her before in his life. Of course he’d never seen most of the residents before. She was wearing a blue jean dress with long sleeves. It must have been hot as hell under there.

“Wait,” she cried. That was the sound. She’d been yelling to him.

“I’m waiting mam.”

“Sir, are you the reporter?”

“Yeah.”

“You are?”

“Yes mam.” More polite. “I’m Jake. How are you doing today?”

“I’m fine, thank you. Why are you here?”

“I was just working on a piece about your community’s landscaping. I heard each of the Rothschild condos is updating and expanding. All across the state. What do you think about it?”

He got out his notebook and pen. She stayed cornered over the walker and whispered something. He asked her to repeat it louder.

“I said that I have a story for your paper.”

“Yes mam? About the landscaping?”

“No.” She looked him in the eye. “I have a real story.”

He backed away a couple of steps. She was leaning in close and he could hear her tiny breaths. She looked up again — pale skin for such a hot place.

“You’ll come to my building,” she said. “I’m Room 112 in Building B.”

“Room 112 in Building B?”

“Yes. Please do meet with me. It’s very important. When will you be by?”

He rested his pen on the paper. He’d already written down her room number. It was like a contract.

“Well, I’m coming back tomorrow around nine. But I can’t be sure I’ll have time — ”

“Stop by then.”

She started to wheel the walker away. He didn’t chase after her. It wasn’t worth it, really. He’d stop by. She’d tell him something about aliens, or World War Two, or her son. A “real story”. It would be a normal morning. Hopefully he’d have gotten a date with Mel by then. He didn’t know what they’d do. Maybe they’d drive somewhere far away, where they couldn’t be interrupted. He imagined looking out at the water with her and whispering something nice about the waves.

He took a long run around the neighborhood when he got home. A warm day turned hot. He was sweating through his t-shirt and he climbed up his apartment stairs slowly. Tired. Seven miles was his longest yet. He let his watch beep and went inside to take a shower. After he took one, he’d finish up work for the day.

The apartment still looked new. It was small and the closet door was open. Most of the clothes were new — he’d had to buy new ones. The carpet on the floor was thick and blue. He kept his socks on, so he wouldn’t make sweat marks with his toes, and checked the cell phone quickly. Two calls — one from Gary and one from Thompson. Great. When he got out of the shower, he knew who he’d call first.