Retirement has never felt so deadly
Date Published: January 5, 2026
Publisher: Orrplace Press
Ocean’s Edge—where retirement has never felt so deadly.
Disco is dead, there’s a serial killer on the loose, the coffin dodgers
are solving cold cases, and only the neighborhood cat knows where all the
proverbial bodies are buried.
When sharp-tongued sugar heiress Diana is ousted from the empire she helped
build, she retreats to a posh 55+ paradise expecting peace, maybe even a pool
boy. Instead, she finds a ragtag group of retirees with a knack for solving
cold cases—and a disturbing knack for attracting new ones. She quickly
finds herself entangled with this quirky yet capable team of senior sleuths: a
psychic, tarot-reading twin duo, a retired detective, a conspiracy-minded tech
guru, and a nurse who might just talk to animals.
Among tarot cards, a talking cat, and dark web dives, this misfit crew
uncovers more than just bingo night secrets. Because in a place this sunny,
the shadows run deep, and someone at The Ocean’s Edge has blood on their
hands.
As the group begins investigating cold cases, darker truths emerge, uncovering
clues that tie back to mysterious pasts, hidden traumas, and residents with
more secrets than memories.
Hilarious, heartwarming, and deliciously twisted, The Retirees is a witty,
tightly woven, charming, cozy mystery that reminds us it’s never too
late for redemption, reinvention, or revenge—and that sometimes the most
unexpected heroes come with walkers, wisdom, and wildly colorful
personalities.
EXCERPT
Prologue
Mr. Anderson
Disco is dead—not just musically or lyrically. Disco is actually dead. To be fair, disco did make a comeback for a time. Musicians and DJs enjoyed mixing seventies and eighties melodies with a hacked mash-up of manufactured noises, mumbo jumbo, or whatever they pawn off as music these days. They’d add vocals, edit with computer programs, and label it retro.
Disco is dead—literally. Centered in the clubhouse ceiling, a thirty-inch disco ball hangs delightfully, ready to dazzle all who enter as light dances across the round styrofoam spectacle. The tiny mirrored squares reflect light, creating shimmering art along the walls as the sun rises through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The elderly residents revere this flamboyant orb like the Romans revered Venus, the Goddess of Love, every first Saturday of the month. That’s when the disco dance shindig kicks off, but if you ask me, these coffin dodgers would dance until dawn beneath this stupid silver sphere every day that ends with the letter y if their bodies would allow.
A bloody butcher knife protrudes from the right side of the silvery globe as blood pools below. Blood flows slowly from the dead body beneath it, like a tiny river, toward the front entrance. Home builders in South Florida cut every corner to save a dollar, so you won’t find an establishment with level flooring south of Orlando. The body lies dead on the dance floor, eyes wide open, staring up toward the mirrored ball dangling from above. Even in death, the body continues to worship that giant glittery meatball.
I could captivate you with a story about how this all came to be. I’d love to share it with you. I’m always the first to stumble upon the deceased. I’d be eager to explain everything to the police in meticulous detail when they arrive. I’m perceptive, hypervigilant, and a perfectionist. I notice everything but say nothing. Like wallpaper or antique furniture, no one fully recognizes my charm, character, or priceless value. This group of mismatched septuagenarians pays little attention to me. They’re self-absorbed and enamored by boring, trifling bits of bygone eras. So I generally keep to myself. Occasionally, someone will offer a “Hello” or “How are you today?” It’s mostly small talk. Often, I don’t bother answering their questions. Most mornings, I hold my head high and concentrate on my morning routine, striding by and settling down by the window to watch the hummingbirds enjoy their breakfast nectar at the feeder.
My name is Roger, but I’m known around here as Mr. Anderson. That’s what they call me, anyway.
To fully understand my story in the present, it’s essential to update you about my past. My mom gave me up when I was barely six weeks old, and an old man named Monty took me in and cared for me. I grew up feeling happy and loved. Recently, he passed away from what the police described as natural causes. I’m skeptical about that. Let’s put a pin in this for now. We’ll come back to it later.
More about me. I have a few friends—well, only one, actually. Her name is Carol, and she’s the nurse here at The Ocean’s Edge. Sometimes she sits beside me and shares stories about the cakes and pies she helped bake when her mom owned a pastry shop in Jensen Beach. I love her as much as I adore Key lime pie. The others tend to shy away from me when I pass by, ignoring me as though I have nothing important to offer. That’s simply not the case. I’m a good listener and a great companion. Heck, I was a brave sailor and navigator of the often treacherous Florida seas in my youth.
Nevertheless, I’ve lived here for nearly sixteen years, longer than most of these kooks. I’m much more than just a spectator; I’m a music enthusiast. I enjoy music that evokes emotions—love, heartbreak, or bliss. I’ve come to appreciate their fascination with Frank Sinatra and Cher; after all, they are legends. I genuinely believe in doing things “My Way,” and I believe there is “life after love.” However, some of the Motown funk that these folks enjoy feels too dated for me. I don’t understand why some old-timers remain so stuck in the past.
Taylor Swift is my favorite artist. I truly admire a self-made woman. She’s folksy, she’s pop, and she writes her own music. Her lyrics are relevant and resonate with the moment. She might even be more talented than—dare I say—Diana Ross or Donna Summer. For the record, I’m also a big fan of Michael Jackson’s musical talent. However, I can no longer idolize him—you know why.
Over time, I’ve come to recognize that people often return to the moments in their lives when they were happiest, and music from that era elicits all those significant primal feelings: joy, freedom, and happiness.
I’m the curious type, although I fully understand that curiosity kills. I’ve got countless secrets I could share. I know where all the proverbial bodies are buried. However, no one cares to listen, mainly because they’re too wrapped up in neighborhood tittle-tattle or their mysterious geriatric ailments that seem to multiply daily. Most likely, it’s because no one at The Ocean’s Edge can fully comprehend my language. And for the most part, I understand their apprehension. Why would any of these old geezers take the time to get to know me? I’m just a cat.
Available Now for Pre-order
The Retirees
http://www.amazon.com/Retirees-Retirement-never-felt-deadly-ebook/dp/B0FHG3HZSM
About the Author
Florida. Leah is an Amazon #1 best-selling mystery novelist of The She Shed.
She has written 14 books and sold over 100,000 copies worldwide.
Leah donates the profits from her books to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation.
Upon learning that her daughter Ashley was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis
(while still in the womb), Orr knew she wanted to do something special. With
some input from her mother and three daughters, it was decided that she’d
write books to benefit the CF Foundation. The Orr Family has raised over
$1,400,000 in the past 22 years to help find a cure.
Leah’s mission to help cure Cystic Fibrosis has been featured on ABC’s
Health Watch, NBC Today South Florida, ABC Today South Florida, CBS South
Florida, CBS This Morning Virginia, NBC The 10! Show Philadelphia, Fox 4 News
Morning Blend, The Daily Buzz, and Lifetime TV’s The Balancing Act. She
has also been featured in publications such as Forbes Magazine, Medical News
Today, The Boston Globe, The Miami Herald, and The Sun-Sentinel. Her daughter
Ashley was also a recipient of Oprah’s generosity in The Big Give.
Popular mysteries by Leah Orr include: The Executive Suite, The Bartender, The
Champagne Toast, The She Shed, and The Fruitcake. Her popular children’s
books include: Messy Tessy, It Wasn’t Me, and Goodnight, Molly.
Orr and her husband were recently nominated as one of Florida’s Finest
Couples by the CF Foundation and included in “In The Spotlight” on
CFF.org. Leah was also nominated as one of Broward County’s top 100
Outstanding Women. Orr grew up in Boston, MA, and graduated from the
University of Miami.
