The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective (12 page)

“Finding dead bodies, people we know. I mean, Edith. We
know
her. She’s been to our house. And there she was, lying murdered on the floor.”

“It’s why I’m getting out of it,” Tree said.

“Except you aren’t out of it,” Freddie countered.

That unarguable truth reduced him to silence.

“Who could have done it?” Freddie, asking the question asked ever since anyone first bothered to investigate a murder.

“It wasn’t Vic Trinchera, because he’s dead, and it’s not likely Johnny Bravo since the FBI has him in custody.”

“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe any of this,” Freddie said.

Tree didn’t say anything. He turned the Mercedes onto Andy Rosse Lane and a moment later they were pulling into the drive beside their house.

“Clinton’s going to be ready to burst,” Freddie said.

“He’s probably already peed,” Tree said. “I can’t imagine he held it in this long.”

“Great,” Freddie said. “That’s really what I feel like doing at this time of night—cleaning up dog pee.”

“I’ll clean it up if he’s done something,” Tree said. “And I’ll get him out for a walk.”

“You’re an angel,” Freddie said.

Tree got out of the car and Freddie followed him to the door. He put his key in the lock and turned it, anticipating Clinton waiting on the other side of the door with a shoe in his mouth.

Except when he stepped inside, there was no sign of Clinton. He called the dog’s name, expecting the scrape of his nails against the hardwood flooring as he hurried to greet them. But there was nothing.

Tree turned on a light and Freddie gasped. The interior of the house had been ransacked.

And Clinton was gone.

________

They debated whether or not to call the police.

“If we call, we have to tell them about the dog,” Tree said.

“Yes, we would have to,” Freddie agreed.

Tree said, “I don’t want to do that.”

“You’re being irrational,” Freddie said. “Someone has taken the dog. Someone broke in here and took the dog.”

“I wonder about that,” Tree said.

Freddie tried not to look at him as if he was crazy—and failed. “What are you talking about?”

“Someone broke in here, yes, but did they find Clinton?”

“He’s not here,” Freddie said, trying to be reasonable in front of a husband who was sounding more irrational by the moment. “What makes you think they didn’t?”

“I don’t know, a feeling, something. He’s too smart to be taken away by just anyone.”

“Tree, he’s a dog—a very gentle dog.”

“Let me take a look around the neighborhood before we do anything. Maybe he’s hiding out.”

“This is crazy,” she said. “So much has happened already tonight. And now this. I can’t deal with anything else. I need to get some sleep. I’ve got an eight o’clock meeting, and I’m dead tired.”

“You go to bed. I’m going to have a look outside.”

“Tree, please.”

“I know. You’re probably right. If I don’t find anything, I’ll call the police in the morning.”

He went out and stood on Andy Rosse Lane, willing Clinton to appear from the shadows, tail wagging, delighted to see his pal Tree. But the shadows did not move. A warm ocean breeze enveloped him as he began walking toward the beach, trying to think of where Clinton might go if he got away from the intruders, thinking Freddie was right, that this was ridiculous. The dog was gone and Tree Callister, retired private detective, did not have a clue as to how to get him back.

The moon struggled out from behind a cloud bank, illuminating sand, glistening like diamonds. The sound of a rumbling sea came to him out of the blackness. Tree made his way along, calling out Clinton’s name. Only the whispering night answered. He came to a stop, hoping Clinton would come dashing out of the darkness—willing him to come.

But he never came.

After an hour or so, Tree, barely able to keep his eyes open, decided to turn around and start back toward Andy Rosse Lane. He tramped away from the shore and reached a low seawall. Maybe he’d sit down a moment and rest. He was so tired—and depressed, and angry with himself for leaving Clinton alone in the first place. If everyone wanted the dog, and thought Tree had him, didn’t it make sense that someone might come looking for the animal? He should have thought of that possibility—or at least taken it much more seriously—a whole lot earlier.

He slumped down on the sand, and then propped himself so that his back was against the seawall. Yes, that was much more comfortable. The wind had picked up somewhat, like a warm blanket wrapping itself around him. His eyes fluttered shut.

He dreamed.

Clinton on a sunny morning bounding along the edge of the surf, long spindly legs in awkward synchronization, ears flapping away—the joy of being a dog on a perfect day. And Tree was right there with him, a young man again, bronzed legs pumping hard to keep up. Exhilarating.

Something nuzzled against him. That familiar nuzzle. Tree kept his eyes closed and smiled inwardly. He knew Clinton would come back. All he had to do was believe, and Clinton would be there and everything would be okay.

He opened his eyes.

17

B
ut it wasn’t Clinton.

The pallid, somber face of Royal Canadian Mounted Police Sergeant Melora Spark loomed over him.

“What are you doing here?” Tree said to her.

“What am I doing here?” She appeared taken aback by the question. “Yes, well, what am I doing here? I could ask you the same question.”

Tree raised himself off the rough stone surface of the seawall. A shard of pain shot through his back. He groaned and looked around. Hints of dawn streaked the horizon. The breeze had cooled considerably. A seagull fought against it for a moment and then gave up and darted away.

Melora straightened up as Tree rolled onto his knees. She stepped back as he braced his hand against the top of the seawall and pulled himself to his feet. She took a couple of more steps back, as if anticipating an attack.

“I would like to know what you’re doing out here,” Melora said.

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like you passed out on the beach.”

“I didn’t pass out. I dozed off.”

“Isn’t that a little strange?”

“Is it?” Tree said. “I guess I hadn’t thought much about it until you came along. Which reminds me. You still haven’t told me what
you
are doing here.”

“I told you before. I am investigating the murder of Vic Trinchera.”

“The killer is here on the beach?”

“Okay, if you weren’t so busy falling asleep on beaches, you would know that you are all over the news this morning.”

“Why would I be all over the news?”

“Could it have something to do with the fact that Johnny Bravo was arrested in Miami yesterday and at the same time they picked up you and your wife for questioning?”

“I see,” was all Tree could think of to say.

“Now that’s Miami. In Fort Myers, your name is on the local news as the person who discovered the body of Vic Trinchera’s attorney, a woman named Edith Goldman. Foul play is suspected, according to the police.”

“Yes, someone murdered her,” Tree said.

“Let’s put it this way, Mr. Callister, I find your actions and your movements highly suspicious for someone who is supposedly retired and professes not to be involved.”

“I’m not involved,” Tree insisted.

“Then what are you doing associating with a known gangster like André Manteau?”

“Who?”

“André Manteau. In Miami, he goes by the name Oliver Crimson.”

“He’s not a gangster. He’s an artist.”

That brought a derisive snort. “Just goes to show you what you know. Manteau is no artist. He is well known in Quebec as Le Manteau Noir—the Black Coat—the leader of a motorcycle gang, The Devil’s Headsmen.”

“Come on,” Tree said. “Don’t tell me Crimson heads a motorcycle gang.”

“He claims he’s out of it now,” Melora said. “He says he is living quietly in Miami concentrating on his art, but we suspect that he is still very much involved with The Headsmen. They have been feuding with Vic Trinchera and his mob for years.”

“What did they feud about?”

“André accused Vic Trinchera of stealing his dog.”

Tree said, “The dog you’re looking for.”

“The dog you are here on the beach trying to find,” Melora said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tree said.

“Yes, you do,” she said.

“Why is everyone so interested in this dog, anyway?”

“Why are you so interested?” she shot back.

Because in a short period of time he had fallen in love with the dog, and believed he was the only one who cared about his safety and well-being? Yes, that was the answer to the question, all right. Except now he had lost the dog, and how was he ever going to find him again with Melora Spark following him around?

Whatever his current confusion of feelings, he did not care to reveal them to a Canadian Mountie, so he shrugged, and said, “I’ve been dragged into something, thanks to Edith. Every time I try to extract myself, something else happens, and now I’m in deeper. The one thing everyone has in common, they want this dog. So I ask you again, Sergeant, what is it about the dog?”

Melora looked at him a long beat before she said, “I’m afraid nothing has changed, Mr. Callister. I’m still not at liberty to say anything to you about an ongoing investigation. I’m particularly reluctant to say anything to an individual I know is lying.”

“I didn’t know Crimson was a notorious Canadian biker.”

“But you have the dog in your possession. At least you did until you apparently lost him. Now you’ve been out most of the night looking for him.”

When Tree didn’t say anything, she added, “If you find the dog, you had better let me know. Whether you want to believe it or not, I can help. Otherwise, you are dealing with dangerous people, Mr. Callister, and you are in a great deal of trouble.”

18

T
he kitchen phone was ringing as Tree entered the house. The readout said it was Freddie calling from work.

“I’ve got the dog,” she said as soon as he picked up.

“You’re kidding. Where was he?”

“One of the neighbors found him in her back yard. I was frantic, not knowing what to do. There were all sorts of emergencies at the office. You weren’t here, and who knew what had happened to you. I was in a panic. I came out onto the street to look for you when our neighbor appeared dragging along a rather sheepish-looking Clinton.”

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am,” Tree said.

“I know, darling. I’ve been trying to call you. I didn’t want to leave Clinton alone, so I brought him to work with me.”

“He’s must have gotten out when the house was broken into,” Tree said. “He’s a smart boy, our Clinton.”

“Also very, very lucky,” Freddie said. “I’ll keep him here today and then bring him home tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Sorry I couldn’t stick around, but Clinton was back and things are crazy here.”

“I understand,” Tree said. “I love you.”

“I love you, and the dog loves you,” Freddie said before she hung up.

Feeling much better, Tree stripped off his clothes, shook the sand out, and stepped into the shower. He thought of turning on a television set to hear what CNN was saying about events of the previous night, decided he couldn’t face it, and got dressed instead.

He was in the kitchen making coffee when there was a knock at the front door. He groaned inwardly. Was TV news outside with a camera truck and some kid armed with a nice haircut and a microphone?

But it wasn’t a newsperson at the door. At least not a local newsperson. It was Kelly Fleming, the ex-wife and former Chicago television newswoman, chic and radiant as usual. No matter what happened to Kelly, no matter what indignities befell her, she would always look the way she looked now, as though someone polished her to perfection a moment before she stepped out in public.

“Are you going to stand there with your mouth hanging open, or are you going to invite me in?” Kelly said.

“I was just making coffee.”

“I don’t drink coffee,” Kelly said as Tree stepped back to allow her inside. “I don’t do anything that might speed up my body’s state of deterioration.”

“So far you seem to be holding up pretty well,” Tree said.

“You always were a good liar,”

“Was I?”

“I’ll take a glass of water if you have it,” Kelly said.

She followed him into the kitchen, saying, “You have a lovely home, Tree.”

“It’s not me, it’s Freddie.”

“She seems wonderful,” Kelly said. “You are a lucky man.”

“Yes, I am.” He ran cold water, filled a glass, and handed it to her. “Sure I can’t get you anything else?”