Page 4 of Snowbirds
Smirking, Chris typed,I wasn’t fired. I’m in Arizona.And then he waited for his phone to ring. Within seconds, the device vibrated in his hand.
“What the fuck? What are you doing inArizona?” Morrison demanded, somehow making Arizona sound like it was the Amazon rainforest, or maybe Mars.
“HR decided I had to use my vacation hours. McBride said it was nonnegotiable.”
“But… Arizona.” Morrison’s voice rose in disgust on the last letter of the state name. He sounded so outraged that Chris almost laughed.
“My folks live here now, moved down a few years ago. My mom happened to call right after McBride gave me the ultimatum. She caught me at a weak moment, I guess, suggested a visit, and I agreed.” Chris released a sigh. “I enjoy my folks, and they even found somewhere for me to stay so I’m not underfoot at their place.”
The last thing he needed was confirmation that his folks still had a sex life. Chris shuddered. He was bored though. He’d been on vacation for less than three days and was already going stir-crazy. How the hell did people actually retire?
“But you’re bored.”
Yep, smart.
“I’ve been here for three days, and I want to chew my own arm off. I’ve seen about all the mostly naked octogenarians that I can handle for one lifetime. For a fifty-and-over community, there’s a surprising lack of fifty-year-olds. And I don’t play golf. It’s possible that I’m a little bored,” he admitted.
Chris felt bad defaming the residents but honestly, there was a time and a place for naked, and it wasn’t when you were pushing eighty-five. When he’d said something to this effect, his dad had called him a prude—but nicely.
“So, you’re at some kind of nudist retirement community?” Morrison asked.
“I’m sure it’s not official policy,” Chris said dryly, glancing around at the occupants of the loungers spaced out on the grass in the common areas between modular homes, RVs, and the Olympic-sized swimming pool.
If residents weren’t sunning themselves or swimming, they were playing golf. Some still worked as far as he could tell, but every morning so far, there’d been a line of folks waiting to get into the clubhouse at five thirty a.m. And all the residents appeared to own a golf cart, even his parents. Just how much golf could a person play? Admittedly, there were also painting and drawing opportunities, yoga classes, Pilates, and various book clubs.
Hobbies. He had to stifle a yawn just thinking about them.
What he needed was a good mystery to investigate. Something interesting to sink his teeth into. He could be his generation’s Hercule Poirot. Maybe he needed one of those mystery-in-a-box games. Shutting his eyes, he suppressed a shudder.
“Are you near the Grand Canyon?” Morrison asked. “Are you going there? I’ve never been.”
Chris opened his eyes again. “I am nowhere near the Grand Canyon. I wish. Instead, I’m at seven-fourteen Sunrise Surprise West in, you guessed it, Surprise, Arizona.”
“How long are you gone for?”
“Around three weeks.” Another twenty or so days and a few hours in change after HR had their say. But who was counting? Him. He was counting.
Chris’s words were all but swallowed by the low rumble and roar of several motorcycles heading past where he was hanging out and on up Roadrunner Lane. He watched as they slowed down and turned into the driveway of a house across the street and slightly around the corner from his parents’. Chris could only see it now because of where he was sitting on Frank-the-Neighbor’s tiny patio.
Two of the motorcycles were the three-wheeled trike kind. Five older dudes and one older gal, all of them in leathers, dismounted. They all stretched and rolled their necks before heading for the front door. Chris noted that between them, they had enough exposed tattoos to finance a small country. The lead biker raised his hand and knocked. He couldn’t hear the banging from where he was sitting, but the man had a determined expression on his face. All of them did.
“I should have driven down, but I stupidly decided to fly,” Chris added morosely. What had he been thinking? He was trapped in senior citizen hell. The aging motorcycle gang was the most interesting thing he’d experienced so far.
Here he was, soaking up the sunshine most Pacific Northwesterners craved at this time of year. Appropriately dressed in cargo shorts and a t-shirt, slathered in sunscreen, blinding people with his white legs—and all he was doing was feeling sorry for himself.
Across from Chris, the neighbor’s door remained stubbornly closed. The woman stepped to the side of the stairs and triedto peek through the window. She must not have been able to see anything because she just shook her head and started back toward the bikes.
“I suppose I could rent a car for a day trip to the canyon. Dad says it’s about three and a half hours from here. If I do, I’ll send you some pictures.”
“It’s not as good as seeing it in person.” Chris heard a shuffling sound he couldn’t figure out. “Fucking Dennis Paulter is a tool. Why did he have to be the guy McBride put in your place? I should just put in for a real transfer to the feds, fuck this ‘being loaned out’ shit again.”
Chris slowly shut his eyes for the briefest of moments. They cooperated with the local FBI office on a regular basis, but why was Morrison being sent there now? Was Paulter making important staff decisions while Chris was away? The highlight of most days was Morrison bursting into his office, and Paulter better not do anything to upset that. Ivan always arrived with some new bit of trivia or department gossip that hadn’t made its way up to him or with the spiciest Sichuan tofu or phad Thai Chris had ever tasted.
And a goofy smile that Chris refused to find endearing.
“Do what he says, Morrison. Paulter doesn’t have the kind of patience I do.”
“And no sense of humorwhatsoever. Right now, I’m cooling my heels, waiting on Radisson, the ultimate asshole.”
