The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective (7 page)

She hesitated as though deciding whether to answer him. “To a safe place,” she finally answered.

“It couldn’t have been very safe,” Tree said.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Trinchera didn’t do as he was told. He put himself needlessly in harm’s way.”

“That’s not so good for you, then, is it Sergeant Spark?”

Her mouth renewed its twisting, as though she had tasted something she didn’t like. “It is most important we find the dog, Mr. Callister. Anything you could do to help us in that regard would be most appreciated.”

“What does the dog look like?”

“The animal is a French hound.”

“I’ve never heard of a French hound.”

“Apparently, these hounds are the French equivalent of the English foxhound. They use them for hunting.”

“Is that so?”

“Clinton. That’s the name he answers to. Clinton.”

“A French dog named Clinton?”

“Named after the U.S. president, apparently.”

“What’s so important about this dog?”

She regarded him with narrowed eyes. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. But there is a substantial reward if he is found.”

“What kind of substantial reward?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I will have to check with my superiors.”

“So it might not be so substantial.”

“As I say, I will check with my superiors.”

She placed a business card on the table. It contained the logo of the RCMP. She produced a ballpoint pen and then wrote a number on the back of the card. “This is my local cellphone. If you have more information or if you find the dog, don’t hesitate to call me at any time.”

She handed him her card and looked at him expectantly.

Tree said, “Like I told you, I’m retired. And now my prospective client is dead. I don’t think I’m going to be much help to you.”

For the first time since they met, Sergeant Melora Spark actually smiled. She had a very nice smile, Tree thought. With the smile on, she did not look so rigid and authoritarian.

The smile was gone quickly as she rose to her feet. “Please call me when you find the dog,” she said.

“I’m not looking for the dog,” Tree reminded her.

“I will be in touch, Mr. Callister.” She collected her shoulder purse and left the restaurant.

Kim the server returned with Tree’s grouper. Her smile was a bright hope for the future. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

8

A
mournful howl rose from inside the house on Andy Rosse Lane as Tree approached. Clinton, agitated, was alerting anyone looking for him as to his whereabouts.

He waited just inside the door, full-throttle tail wagging, one of Tree’s sneakers clasped between his jaws—a gift for his new pal, the forgiveness for desertion. Tree took the sneaker and thanked him with a soothing hand. “However, you’re supposed to be quiet so people can’t find you,” he admonished. “You are not supposed to be announcing your presence to the entire island.”

Clinton excitedly followed him into the kitchen. The dog had not touched his water or his food since Tree left. “What? You think I’m going to abandon you, is that it? So you’re saving your food, just in case. Is that what you’re doing?”

Tree opened the refrigerator for a Diet Coke while Clinton went over and sniffed at his food. He then helped himself to a long drink. The tips of his ears dipped into the water bowl.

“Here’s the thing, Clinton, you don’t have to worry,” Tree said, leaning against the counter. “No one’s going to desert you.”

Seemingly satisfied with this reassurance, Clinton began to wolf down his kibble. Tree watched him, shaking his head. “But what is it about you? First your owner is anxious to give you to me. Next my lawyer wants to know where you are, and now the Canadian police are after you. What kind of dog are you, anyway?”

Tree stroked Clinton’s head. Clinton looked up briefly at Tree with those big baleful eyes, and then returned to his food. Tree’s cellphone rang. It was Rex Baxter.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re at Fun Friday,” Rex said.

“I told you I was going to be there,” Tree said.

“I know what you told me,” Rex said, irritably. “I just want to make sure you do it, that’s all.”

“It’s important to you, so I’ll be there.”

“Maybe I just miss you, and I call you because I long to hear the dulcet tones of your voice.”

“That could be it all right,” Tree said.

“I’ll see you in a while,” Rex said, hanging up.

After Clinton finished eating, Tree took him along Andy Rosse, the hound relieving himself and marking his territory at intervals. The beach was crowded this afternoon, so Tree kept the dog on his leash. Clinton turned out to be quite the celebrity, everyone coming up and admiring this unusual dog. He’s a French hound, Tree explained in response to the questions, reciting what he had discovered online. They are known as Porcelaines, the French version of the English foxhound seen in those old hunting prints.

This explanation, repeated over and over, appeared to satisfy most of Clinton’s admirers, particularly children. Clinton took all this attention in stride. He permitted a little girl to play with his ears, and he waited patiently while a little boy decided whether or not he had the courage to touch his nose—patience paid off. He finally worked up the nerve, and, as he petted the dog, his face glowed with pleasure.

Tree found that he was enjoying himself, strolling along the beach beneath a late afternoon sun with this four-legged creature who overnight had become a fixture in his life. A couple of days ago, he would not even have thought of a dog. Now, he had to admit to himself, he was having trouble imagining life without one.

Back at the house, Tree changed into a pair of long pants, put on a fresh shirt, made sure Clinton had water in his bowl, and collected his keys. Clinton stood glumly watching him. When Tree opened the door, the dog tried to scramble out. Tree had to grab him by the collar. “No, boy, you stay here, okay? I’m going to be only an hour or so, and then I’ll be back, and we’ll go for another walk.”

As Tree got into his car, he could hear Clinton howl from inside. He worried all over again that if someone was looking for the dog, Clinton was doing a good job of providing his whereabouts. By the time Tree started the Beetle up, however, Clinton had gone silent. Relieved, Tree backed the car onto Andy Rosse Lane and threaded his way down Captiva, across Blind Pass onto Sanibel Island where the traffic became congested. Even taking the back way along West Gulf Drive didn’t save him much time. It was nearing six o’clock by the time he got off the crowded causeway and turned onto Port Comfort Road. The Lighthouse Restaurant parking lot at this time of night was nearly full, but he finally found a spot at the end, near the marina.

The two young women behind the reception desk greeted him with smiles that gave him hope. He went into the crowded bar. He couldn’t see any sign of Freddie, but Todd Jackson, elegantly turned out as always, stood at the bar beside Rex Baxter who, for the moment, had his back to Tree. When he turned, Tree could see that Rex had his arm around an attractive woman. He recognized her with a start.

Kelly Fleming.

Anyone from Chicago would have recognized her. At one time she was the Windy City’s best-known newscaster.

She was also Tree Callister’s second wife.

9

K
elly produced one of her glittering smiles as he approached the bar. Kelly specialized in those smiles, her stock in trade back in the day: the smile, the charm, Kelly lighting up every room she entered, her audience immediately in the palm of her hand.

As a broadcaster, you could debate her merits, but as a charmer, Kelly Fleming had no equal. That’s what had brought Tree down. He stood no chance against her full court press. However, as soon as the conquest was final, Tree swearing for once to be a good husband or at least a
better
husband, the thrill of victory soon faded. Kelly grew bored and was off in search of other rooms to light up. Tree was left in darkness; single again.

She looked great in a white skirt and fuchsia-colored knit top, he thought as he embraced her. Face a little rounder, figure slightly fuller, but Kelly still; the hair, the makeup, the jewelry, the familiar scent of Guerlain—everything pretty much unchanged.

“How have you been, Tree?” Kelly said, embracing him warmly, as if he were her best friend in the world. But then everyone was Kelly’s best friend in the world.

Until you weren’t.

“I’m fine, Kelly. How about you?”

“Didn’t you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“I’ve been downsized, of course,” she said brightly. Personal adversity had to be promptly admitted to, accompanied by assurance that the essential Kelly was unbowed.

“They had me anchoring news at four. Ratings were great, everyone was happy—I knew I was doomed. Sure enough. Out on the street. Age, I assume. But what can you do, Tree? It’s television. It’s not
if
they cancel you, it’s
when
they cancel you. What about you? Rex tells me you’ve upset everybody on Sanibel Island with this private detective business.”

“I’m retired.” Tree said it like an announcement.

Kelly looked surprised. “Retired? How can you retire?”

“People keep shooting him,” Rex said. Until now, he had been silent, although that was hardly an unusual state for the men in Kelly’s life. When Kelly was present, she held court, all eyes focused on her.

Still, Tree thought Rex uncharacteristically tense; but then it wasn’t every day you showed up with your best friend’s ex-wife. Maybe that had something to do with it.

“When you were a reporter in Chicago, I marveled that more people didn’t shoot you, Tree,” Kelly said with a grin. “Could be your past is finally catching up to you.”

“In more ways than one,” Tree couldn’t help but note.

Kelly arched her eyebrows, the only indication that she had caught the irony. Freddie chose that moment to make her entrance, also no shrinking violet in the perfection department, Tree mused as he went to greet her. If there was ever a day Tree wanted Freddie to look wonderful, this was it. She did not disappoint. What’s more, she could easily match Kelly’s smile dazzle for dazzle.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Kelly said when they were introduced.

“Isn’t that funny?” Freddie said. “I’ve heard almost nothing about you, Kelly. Tree doesn’t talk much about his ex-wives.”

“There are so many of them, he hardly knows where to begin,” Kelly said.

Tree caught Roberto the bartender’s eye and ordered Freddie a glass of chardonnay. Rex was watching him as though not certain what to make of all this. What was he expecting? Tree throwing punches? Not tonight, he decided, handing Freddie her wine. “What about you, Kelly? Would you like something?”

“No, I think I’m fine, thanks, Tree,” Kelly said. “I didn’t get in from Chicago until late this afternoon after we sat on the runway for an hour. So I’m kind of beat.” She looked at Rex. “What do you say, Rex? Are you ready to get out of here?”

“Yes,” Rex said quickly. His relief was almost palpable. He wanted this encounter, but then seemingly did not want it at all.

Tree put his hand on his friend’s arm and said, “How are your contacts in Miami television these days?”

Rex looked at him. “Pretty good. Why do you ask?”

“Earlier today on WBBH they interviewed a Canadian writer named James Devereaux. I’d like to get in touch with him.”

“Did you try Googling him?”

“First thing I did. But there’s no phone for him. I’m hoping you might know somebody at the station who can get me his number.”

“Let me see what I can do,” Rex said.

“I appreciate that, Rex. Thanks.”

“Although I’m not sure what that has to do with you being retired.”

Freddie said to Kelly, “How long are you going to be here?”

“I’m never letting her go,” Rex said. He said it with more vehemence than he probably intended.

Freddie broke the ensuing awkward silence, saying, “Well, that settles that, doesn’t it?”

________

Clinton was waiting at the door when Tree and Freddie arrived home. He presented them with one of the high-heeled shoes Freddie could no longer wear because of the arthritis in her big toe.

“Dries Van Noten,” Freddie observed, carefully removing the shoe from Clinton’s jaws. “You have fine taste, Clinton, I’ll give you that.”

They attached Clinton’s leash and walked him along Andy Rosse Lane toward Captiva Drive. Friday night, the street was jammed with tourists swarming in and out of the shops, filling the restaurants. Tree told Freddie about his lunch with Melora Spark of the Mounties.

When Clinton paused to relieve himself, Freddie said, “So how are you feeling?”

“About Melora Spark?”

“About your ex-wife with your best friend.”

“I don’t have a problem with it,” Tree said.