Retirement has never felt so deadly
Date Published: January 5, 2026
Publisher: Orrplace Press
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 from The Retirees:
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.
About the Author
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.
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