No Sunscreen for the Dead by Tim Dorsey

Author:Tim Dorsey
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2019-01-14T16:00:00+00:00

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.

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