The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective (19 page)

Tree shook his head and said, “Emmett, I never called you.”

Hawkins returned to one of the leather easy chairs. “Please do sit down,” he said.

Tree seated himself across from Hawkins. Clinton made himself at home on the bamboo floor. “So what can I do for you, Emmett?”

“Perhaps it’s what I can do for you, Mr. Callister.”

“Is it?”

Hawkins formed his delicate white fingers into a tent and said, “I don’t know if you’re aware of my close relationship with Edith Goldman.”

“I was aware that you were adversaries.”

“That’s the way it might have seemed, but in fact we were close friends. If I may say so, I was something of a mentor to Edith.”

“I didn’t know she needed a mentor,” Tree said.

“Since her untimely death,” Hawkins continued, “I have been entrusted with handling certain of Edith’s affairs.”

“When you speak of her untimely death, you mean her murder, don’t you?”

Hawkins’ face showed that he found the word “murder” unpleasant. “Yes, a tragedy to be sure,” he said.

“Any idea who would have wanted to kill her?”

The tented fingers disappeared and reformed themselves into small fists, as if Hawkins might be willing to fight Tree over the question. But he answered courteously, choosing his words carefully. “If you are a defense attorney in this town, you can never be sure who or what you’re going to run into,” Hawkins said. “Edith had become involved with certain people, clients who, to say the least, were not of the best quality. In her eagerness to service those clients, she might have become involved in things she probably should not have become involved in.”

“Vic Trinchera being one of those clients.”

Hawkins paused long enough to look surprised. “Mr. Trinchera was a client of Edith’s, that’s true.”

“And now Trinchera is dead.”

Again Hawkins arranged to look surprised. “You’re aware of this?”

“The Canadian gangster found dead in Miami. It was on the local news.” Tree circumventing the truth once more. It appeared Hawkins knew nothing about Edith persuading him to meet with Trinchera.

Hawkins nodded and paused to contemplate the gravity of that statement before saying, “I don’t know if you were aware of the high regard in which Edith held you, Mr. Callister.”

“I liked Edith,” Tree said truthfully. “She got me out of a couple of bad jams. I’m very sorry about what happened.”

“I adored her. Another time, another place, well, who knows what might have happened between us. But the water is long since under that bridge, and has nothing to do with what brings us together today, does it?”

“I don’t know, Emmett. What does bring us together?”

Hawkins appeared not to hear him. “But we must move on.” He shifted in his chair, as if preparing to do exactly that. “As a result of Edith’s death, I’ve taken on several of her clients. One of those clients is in need of the kinds of services Edith admired you for, Mr. Callister. The kinds of services I believe you could provide.”

“I guess Edith forgot to tell you the part about me retiring.”

Hawkins once again did not seem to hear Tree. “Knowing you wanted to see me today, I took the liberty to have my client drop around.”

“Emmett, I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m not taking on any more clients.”

Hawkins rose to his feet. “This won’t take long. I’d like the two of you to meet, and then you can decide for yourself.”

Before Tree could issue further objections, Hawkins walked to a door at the side of the room and opened it. Almost immediately a man stepped in.

It was Vic Trinchera.

A dead man walking.

29

C
linton was on his feet, baring his teeth at the newcomer. “Keep that damn mutt away from me,” the newcomer said in a warning voice.

“Mr. Callister, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Carmen Trinchera,” T. Emmett Hawkins said.

Carmen Trinchera said, “My friends call me Sonny.”

Tree took his offered hand. “You look a lot like your brother,” he said.

“So everyone tells me,” Sonny Trinchera said. “I don’t see it myself.”

Sonny Trinchera had the same long horse-face as his brother, the difference being he was dressed in a dark suit, unlike his track suit-clad brother, and unlike his brother, he wasn’t wearing a Greek fisherman’s cap to hide his baldness. Sonny wouldn’t be playing bingo at a senior citizen’s home, Tree decided. But in that suit he would be a great addition to your uncle’s funeral.

“Mr. Trinchera has come from Montreal to make arrangements for his deceased brother,” said Hawkins.

“My shot-to-death, dead brother,” Sonny amended.

“I’m sorry to hear about your brother,” Tree said.

“Kind of predictable, don’t you think, given Vic’s line of work? He was always no good, that guy. I knew some day he would buy a bullet. What I didn’t figure is that it would happen in Florida. Just to make my life more complicated.”

“I’m going to leave the two of you so that you can have a chat,” Hawkins said.

“Yeah, why don’t you do that?” Sonny Trinchera said.

“I’ll come back in a few minutes.”

Hawkins glided out of the office. Clinton remained on his feet, tail stiff, ears pricked, not moving.

“What’s wrong with that dog?” Sonny Trinchera demanded.

“Clinton, settle down,” Tree said. Clinton wasn’t listening.

“I don’t like dogs,” Sonny said.

“Mr. Trinchera maybe you better tell me what you want,” Tree said.

“Can you keep that mutt under control?”

“Is that what you want from me?”

Sonny gave Tree something that passed for a smile. “Funny guy,” he said. “I suppose you think you’re a funny guy, is that it?”

“I think we may be wasting each other’s time.”

“Let’s go for a walk,” Sonny Trinchera said.

“You’re asking me to go for a walk?”

“I’m not asking,” Sonny said.

________

By the time they got onto the street, Clinton had relaxed, or at least become too preoccupied with various sidewalk smells to worry about Sonny Trinchera.

They walked a couple of blocks until they reached the Tôt Funeral Home, a squat two-story whitewashed building jammed between a pizza joint and a jewelry store advertising gold and silver at prices that could not be beaten.

“This place is part of the funeral business I run in Canada and the United States,” Sonny Trinchera said, opening the entrance door. “Follow me.” He didn’t sound as though he wanted to argue about it.

Inside, Sonny led Tree across a lobby to a long hall that ended at double doors. Sonny went through one of the doors, and Tree, leading Clinton, followed him into a high-ceilinged reception room, its hardwood floor covered with an intricately patterned Persian rug. The room was dark except for a shaft of light illuminating a golden coffin.

“I got him the best coffin money could buy,” Sonny said. “The least I could do for my good-for-nothing brother. Gold on solid bronze. Fifty thousand dollars. How do you like that?”

“I’m sorry,” was all Tree could think of to say.

“Don’t feel sorry for this guy.” Sonny rapped his knuckles against the coffin. “This guy brought nothing but shame to our family. We are a family of undertakers, the best—a reputation second to none in the Montreal area. But thanks to this guy, our name is forever tainted. People hear the name Trinchera, they don’t hear respected funeral homes across the United States and Canada, they hear gangster.”

Sonny Trinchera fell silent, glaring at his brother’s expensive coffin. Clinton embarked upon a meticulous investigation around the table legs. Sniffing at the dead, Tree thought.

“I’m sorry you’re going through this, Mr. Trinchera,” he finally offered. His voice echoed in the room. “But I’m not quite sure how I can help you.”

“I need someone local, an investigator who can help me track down the creep who whacked my brother. Hawkins says you’re the guy for the job.”

“I’m not the guy,” Tree said. “This is the sort of thing the police are equipped to handle.”

Sonny Trinchera made a derisive snorting sound. “Police,” he said with a sneer. “You gotta be kidding me. The Miami police aren’t gonna do anything. An old gangster from Montreal happens to get blown away in their town. Nothing to do with them. They’re not going to spend any time on this.” Sonny shook his head. “No, it’s up to me to avenge my brother’s death, and you’re the guy who’s gonna help me do it.”

“Emmett should have told you that I’m retired,” Tree said.

“For now, you are un-retired.” Sonny Trinchera stated this with such certainty there seemed no point in arguing with him—as if arguing with Sonny might be a possibility.

“You know, Sonny, I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this before, but the way you talk, someone might mistake
you
for the gangster.”

“Nah, not me,” he said. “I’m a mortician. That’s all I am. Tôt Funeral Homes. U.S. and Canada branches. We take care of dead people.”

“So supposing I find out who killed your brother, what do you propose to do about it?”

“Let’s get out of here,” Sonny said.

Clinton was on his feet, tail wagging, eager to leave. Tree put his hand on Sonny’s arm. Sonny looked Tree up and down. “Did I mention this earlier? I don’t like to be touched.”

Tree took his arm away. “No, Sonny, you didn’t say anything.”

“In Montreal they know better. No one touches the Mortician.”

“They call you the Mortician?”

“Not to my face, they don’t.”

“Okay, Sonny, it would be helpful if you could give me some sort of idea who you think might have killed your brother.”

“I know who killed my brother.”

“Who?”

“His mistress.”

“Vic’s mistress killed him?”

“What? You don’t understand English? You got a problem with the language?”

“No, I understand what you’re saying. You’re saying it wasn’t a mob hit?”

Sonny looked even more irritated. “Mob hit? What’s all this crap about a mob hit? It wasn’t no mob hit. It was that dame.”

“What dame is that?”

“Melora Spark.”

Tree hid his surprise with a question: “That’s her name?”

“Yeah, that’s her name.”

“Who is she?”

“She’s the dame who killed my brother.”

“There must be more to her than that.” Like maybe working as a Canadian Mountie, Tree thought.

“You don’t need more. She’s a tramp. A killer. End of story.”

“It might be helpful to know where I can find this Melora Spark.”

“He keeps her in an apartment down in Coral Gables. I’ll give you the address.”

“Okay. So what do you want me to do?”

Sonny looked impatient. “I want you to prove she killed my brother, what do you think I want you to do?”

“And just suppose, for the sake of argument, she didn’t kill him.”

“She did it. Don’t you worry about that.” Sonny glared at him. “All you got to do is worry about pleasing me.”

He reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a wad of money held together by a rubber band.

“There’s five thousand dollars,” Sonny said. “That should get you started. There’s more when you get results.”

“I can’t take this,” Tree said.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not at all sure I can get you the results you’re after.”

“That’s not what I want to hear.” Sonny’s voice was hard. He shoved the money into Tree’s hands “I don’t like hearing things I don’t want to hear.”

Tree gave Sonny back the money. “Then let’s make sure I’m in a position to tell you something you want to hear.”

“Fair enough,” Sonny said. “You please the Mortician, everything’s hunky-dory. You don’t please the Mortician . . .”

“Everything’s not hunky-dory?”

“Say, you may not be as dumb as you look.” Sonny Trinchera cracked a smile.

The wad of bills disappeared back inside his jacket.

30

F
reddie returned to the
Former Actor Too
that night carrying a couple of grocery bags. Tree came to meet her on the dock and took the bags on board. Clinton gave himself a good shake before happily jumping up on Freddie. She rubbed his ears and said, “What we’re doing for you, puppy dog, hiding out on a boat, eating out of cans. I hope you appreciate it.”

Tree found a cold bottle of chardonnay in one of the bags, used a corkscrew to pull the cork, and poured her a glass. They sat together on the deck, Clinton lying beside Freddie. Tree filled her in on the day’s confusing series of events involving the unexpected appearance of Vic Trinchera’s brother, Sonny.

“Let me get this straight,” Freddie said. “Neither Emmett Hawkins nor Sonny Trinchera appear to know anything about Clinton?”