Death in the Sunshine (Retired Detectives Club, #1)(2)

Live in the moment, she tells herself, repeating the bullshit psychobabble the police doc said to her when she’d asked for their advice on retirement. Be the change.

She takes a deep breath. Says out loud, ‘Okay then.’

Walking under the archway into the park, she follows the stone pathway past the pickleball courts and the bocce area, and heads past the splash-zone fun pools and hot tubs to the largest lap pool. Everything’s quiet. There’s no one else here, just as she’d hoped.

Focus on the positive, on every win no matter how small. That’s what the police doc had said. Maybe she should stop being so damn cynical and give it a try. Push herself more to feel something. She supposes it couldn’t hurt.

Moira forces a smile. ‘This. Is. Going. To. Be a good day.’

She feels an idiot saying it out loud.

The police doc said that she shouldn’t expect to be okay right away. Stay present, they’d said, don’t beat yourself up if things aren’t perfect.

Yeah right. She shakes her head again. One thing she’s sure as dammit learned in her fifty-eight years is that nothing is ever perfect.

She keeps walking. Up ahead there’s a blue jay sitting on the gate to the last pickleball court. Smiling at him, Moira tries again. ‘This is going to be a good day.’

It’s easier second time around; almost feels like it could be true.

Taking it as a small win, she pushes open the white gate beside the high hedge that screens the pool and fixes the latch behind her. She follows the path around the end of the hedge. The pool comes into view.

‘Oh Jesus.’ Her breath catches in her throat.

Heart pounding, she rushes forward. At the last minute she sees the blood splattered across the stone patio, and just manages to stop before she treads in it.

She takes a breath, feeling her training kicking in and her brain click into work mode. As if on autopilot, she tugs the phone from the pocket of her hoodie and dials. As the call connects she scans the scene, taking in all the details.

‘911. State your emergency.’ The female voice sounds tinny and distant.

‘There’s been a death at Manatee Recreation Park, Ocean Mist district, at The Homestead. The body is in one of the swimming pools and it looks like—’

‘Wait, what? A death in a pool at The Homestead?’

‘Yes, that’s what I said.’ Moira doesn’t know why the despatcher isn’t listening properly – that’s their job, after all. Despatchers are trained to stay on-script; work through their questions and stay calm. This one has deviated off-script from the start and sounds rattled. Moira frowns. It’s not professional. She needs them to do their job. ‘The victim is a young woman. There’s evidence this was a violent death. At first look I’d say that the victim was—’

‘Homicide? At the seniors’ retirement community?’ There’s shock in the despatcher’s voice. ‘But that’s never—’

‘You need to get first responders out to me now,’ says Moira. ‘I need police and medical. Can you do that?’

‘Yes, I . . . for sure.’ The girl on the emergency line sounds like she’s found some of her composure again; there’s just the slight hint of a tremble in her voice now. Moira hears the sound of typing, then the girl says, ‘Okay, I’ve despatched medics and police to you at Manatee Park. Their ETA is twelve minutes.’

‘Good.’ Moira checks the time, and works out when the blue lights will arrive. She scans the pool area, and then looks out across the lawn. There’s no sign of anyone or anything else here. She looks back towards the woman in the pool as she speaks. ‘Before you ask me, I don’t think I’m in danger. I’d say whatever happened took place a number of hours ago. I’m happy to stay here and wait for the first responders to arrive.’

‘Don’t hang up. Please stay on the line.’ The 911 despatcher sounds flustered again. ‘Can you tell me your name, ma’am?’

‘Moira Flynn, I’m a resident here.’

‘And the person you called about, are you sure they’re—’

‘She definitely looks dead, and it doesn’t look like an accident.’ Moira steps around the blood and closer to the edge of the pool. The young woman is floating on her back in the middle of the water. Her eyes are open, and her long black hair has fanned around her head like a dark halo. There’s blood smeared over her chest and across the top of her pale yellow dress, but that isn’t the weirdest thing.

The weirdest thing is she’s surrounded by thousands of floating dollar bills.





2


PHILIP


Philip always gets a rush from attending a crime scene, and today’s no exception. His first sight of the blue lights at the end of the street brings with it the familiar adrenaline kick, and right away he’s feeling more alert and on his game. He’s ready.

Getting as close to the roadblock as he can, he manoeuvres the Toyota into a gap at the kerb and switches off the engine. He takes a moment to study the scene. Outside the entrance to the Manatee Recreation Park there are two patrol cars, an ambulance and a meat wagon. The wagon’s rear end is flush to the archway entrance of the park. Philip’s been a detective in the Thames Valley for over thirty-five years. Wherever you are in the world, a turnout like this means one thing: a dead body.