Ron Base - Tree Callister 04 - The Two Sanibel Sunset Detectives

by Ron Base

  They finished with a flurry of “I miss yous” and “I love yous” that were true enough, but left Tree feeling slightly uneasy by the time he hung up. Could Freddie see right through him? Was he in fact a lousy actor when it came to putting anything past her? Probably he was, but a couple of thousand miles away in Chicago she wasn’t about to press the point too much. If he wanted to avoid telling her certain things, then she would be patient and save that confrontation for another day.

  He was about to go inside to his pre-cooked rotisserie chicken when he heard the scream.

  It sounded as though it came from the direction of the Mucky Duck. It was not one of the enthusiastic whoops he usually heard coming from the pub.

  This was a genuine, hair-raising scream.

  Tree went out onto Andy Rosse Lane just as a police cruiser shot past, siren screaming. Tourists on bikes and strolling along the roadside gaped. Tree saw the cruiser slam to a stop at the end of the road abutting the beach. He jumped back as a second police cruiser whizzed past, and then a third. This was followed by an EMS vehicle, sirens going full blast.

  Tree joined other passersby hurrying toward the beach, anxious to discover what was going on. By the time he reached the end of the road, the crowd had grown thick around the cruiser and an EMS van, everyone craning forward, speaking in whispers. The patrons at tables outside the Mucky Duck were out of their seats, some standing on chairs, in order to get a better view.

  Behind him, Tree heard more police cars arriving. He pressed through the crowd until he found himself against one of the palm trees that marked the line where the street stopped and the stretch of sandy beach began.

  Beyond the palms, Tree could see Detective Owen Markfield walking toward the rolling surf. The sea glinted in tones of black and silver. The sky above was purple and ominous. What looked like a gray, waterlogged sack lay at the water’s edge.

  It was a moment before Tree realized that the waterlogged sack was in fact a body.

  5

  Because Freddie wasn’t there with an alarm that woke them both on the dot of six a.m., Tree slept in to almost seven. He padded into the kitchen and made himself coffee. There wasn’t much about the body on the radio news—a male, in his forties, not yet identified by police. They weren’t saying whether foul play was suspected.

  Tree sipped his coffee, listened to the radio some more—traffic was heavy along McGregor Boulevard; there was only a ten per cent chance of precipitation today; in addition to the body found on Captiva, unusual, a man had been shot to death in Fort Myers, not unusual. Tree finished his coffee, showered, dressed, and then headed into the office.

  As he did each morning, Tree drove past the Traven mansion, and each morning he kept his eyes averted so that he did not have to see the place and did not have to think about what had gone on behind those iron gates, inside those gray stone walls.

  Elizabeth Traven, the mansion’s beautiful, duplicitous, murderous inhabitant, was still too fresh—and too painful—a memory; a memory he would deny to anyone who asked him about her, particularly Freddie, who always suspected he was infatuated with the late Mrs. Traven. Infatuated or merely intrigued? Another question he chose not to answer, perhaps because he wasn’t sure himself. Better just to keep his eyes away and drive past the place—and forget.

  But not this morning.

  For weeks now there had been activity at the house, trucks arriving and departing. So this morning, on a whim, he pulled the Beetle through the open gates. His progress was blocked by an eighteen-ton dump truck, its hydraulics lifting up the truck bed to spill a load of quarry stone. Immediately, a John Deere skid steer moved forward, the operator lowering the steer’s bucket to pick up the stone.

  A man in a yellow hard hat, stripped to the waist and wearing dark glasses, appeared at the passenger side window. He leaned down and presented Tree with the blast furnace grin that could only belong to Ryde Bodie.

  Ryde said, “Park your car, Tree, and come have a look around.”

  Surprised—and a little embarrassed to be caught snooping—Tree nodded and pulled the Beetle forward until he found a parking spot beside a contractor’s white van. When he got out, Ryde was right there to offer one of his manly handshakes along with a megawatt smile. Ryde’s torso was tanned and gleaming with sweat.

  “How are you, Tree? Out doing a little private detecting first thing this morning?”

  “I was just passing by and thought I’d drop in,” Tree said. “I had no idea this was your place.”

  “I’m probably out of my mind,” Ryde said. “But I couldn’t resist it. Like the house had my name on it or something. Come on, I’ll take you inside.” He turned to one of the workers and called, “Charlie, you got a hard hat for my friend?”

  Charlie quickly found Tree a hard hat, and handed it to him. Tree put it on and then followed Ryde up the steps to the entrance. Tree said, “Did you hear about the body?”

  “What body?” Ryde said.

  “A body washed up on the beach last night outside the Mucky Duck,” Tree said.

  “You don’t say? Is that near where you live?”

  “Just down the street.”

  “Another case for Tree Callister,” Ryde said.

  The familiar stone Great Danes that had glared so many warnings at him during the Traven days remained in place. If only he had listened to those stone dogs, Tree mused. The trouble he could have saved himself.

  The entrance doors were open. Ryde removed his sunglasses, stood back to allow a couple of workmen to pass, and then ducked inside, motioning for Tree to follow.

  To Tree’s amazement, the interior had been gutted so that now it was a vast, open space reverberating with the sound of construction jack hammers, cast in a chalky mist intersected by shafts of sunlight pouring in from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a wide lawn rolling off to the sea.

  “We’ve taken it pretty much right down to the walls,” Ryde shouted over the din.

  “Why don’t you just tear it down and start over?” Tree shouted back.

  Ryde shrugged. “There are things about the place I like. Besides, it’s a little less expensive to do it this way. Not much, but a little.”

  They wandered through the rooms, Tree marveling at how any sign of the previous owners had been so thoroughly stripped away.

  Once they were outside again, Ryde removed his hard hat, blinked in the sunlight before replacing his sunglasses, and said, “So what do you think, Tree?”

  “Well, it’s going to be something,” was all he could think to say.

  “I’ve got big plans for this place, I do. I’m settling on this island, Tree, and I intend to make it my home. It’s paradise here, my shelter from the storm, so to speak. A great place to raise kids.”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of a heavyset man with inky black hair. He had a thick mustache as black as his hair. He wore a loose-fitting navy shirt over white linen slacks.

  Ryde said, “Excuse me a minute will you, Tree?”

  He walked over to the man saying, “Hey, Diego.”

  Over the construction sounds, Tree could not make out what they were saying, but it sounded like Ryde was speaking Spanish to the black-haired man he had called Diego. The black-haired man shook his head and said angrily in English loud enough for Tree to hear: “To hell with you, man. Why didn’t you call me, like you said?”

  Ryde, looking unperturbed, spoke again in Spanish. The black-haired man replied in a raised voice but this time he, too, spoke Spanish.

  This back-and-forth in Spanish continued for several minutes. Finally, the black-haired man abruptly smacked his hand against Ryde’s chest, knocking him back. Tree went over to the two men and said, “Everything all right?”

  The black-haired man called Diego turned with lazy nonchalance to Tree, eyeing him as if measuring him for a coffin. “Who are you, hombre?” he said in English.

  Ryde had regained his composure and now stepped forward. “It’s okay, Tree. Diego and
I are old friends.”

  Diego looked at Ryde in a way that suggested many things, none of them friendship.

  Ryde added in a hopeful voice, “Diego sometimes loses his temper, but that’s all it is, right Diego?”

  The black-haired man didn’t answer, but continued to focus on Tree. “Who is your friend?” he said, addressing Ryde.

  “Tree’s all right, he’s fine,” Ryde said.

  “He should learn to mind his business,” Diego said.

  “Listen, I’m going to walk Tree back to his car, Diego. Why don’t you wait here and then we can finish our conversation.”

  “No, that’s okay,” Diego said, finally dragging his eyes away from Tree. “You and me, we can talk later.” He looked around at the dust-clogged space, the trucks and vans, the workmen moving back and forth. “Nice place,” he said. “Big man with a lot of money has a place like this.”

  He delivered one last hot-eyed glare at Tree and Ryde before turning on his heel and walking away.

  “Your friend’s not very happy,” Tree said.

  “Diego’s okay,” Ryde said. “We’re involved in a couple of business things. He’s a bit of a hothead, gets a little impatient.”

  “That’s the business of bringing people together?” Tree said.

  Ryde grinned and said, “That’s all it is, Tree. Bringing people together for mutual benefit.”

  He draped his arm across Tree’s shoulders, old pals. “Tell you what, Tree, I might be in need of the services of a private investigator like yourself in the next little while.”

  “To protect you from guys like Diego?”

  Ryde looked at him for a long beat before he said, “I don’t think you’d be much use to me where Diego is concerned.” Then he smiled and slapped Tree’s arm. “I’ve got your card. How be I give you a call?”

  “Sure, Ryde,” Tree said. “Why don’t you do that?” Tree remembered to remove his hard hat. He could not imagine how goofy he looked wearing it. “You’d better take this,” he said, handing the hat to Ryde.

  “It’s great to see you Tree,” he said. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  Tree started into his car, feeling as he always felt when visiting the Traven mansion—uneasy. He turned to look at the stone dogs peering down at him through the mist of dust thrown off by the workmen tearing away at the house. Their eyes were, as always, blank yet somehow full of warning.

  6

  Marcello was already in the office by the time Tree arrived. “You’re like gonna have to get here earlier if we’re partners,” Marcello said. He didn’t sound as though he was kidding.

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Tree said, seating himself at his desk. “I thought you were coming after school.”

  “My clients would rather do it during their lunch hour,” Marcello said.

  “Where are they?”

  “They’ll be here in a few minutes,” Marcello said. “In the meantime, we should talk about what they call the financial arrangements.”

  “What financial arrangements?”

  “For our partnership.”

  “Marcello,” Tree said, “there is no partnership.”

  “I would say we split things fifty-fifty,” Marcello said.

  “You would, would you?”

  “Unless you got a better idea.”

  “My idea is that right now you should concentrate on school work and not worry about being a private detective. I can take care of that end of things just fine.”

  “No offense, but from what I can see, you could use some help,” Marcello said.

  “Well, that’s your opinion,” Tree said.

  “Isn’t just my opinion.” Marcello rose in his chair to peer out the window behind Tree. “Here they are now.”

  Tree swiveled around in time to see a Lincoln Town Car pull into the parking lot and come to a stop. A young man with a shaved head, wearing a dark suit, emerged from the car and held open the passenger door. A moment or so later, a boy and a girl clambered out and disappeared into the Visitors Center.

  Tree turned back to Marcello. “Those are your clients?”

  Marcello gave him a look of satisfaction. “Told you they’d be here.”

  “Marcello, what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your clients arrive in a chauffeured town car?”

  Marcello grinned.

  The boy and girl climbed the stairs and appeared at the door. The boy was about twelve years old, with sandy hair, neatly dressed in gray linen pants topped by a crimson Ralph Lauren Polo shirt. The girl was a year or so younger, a budding blond beauty in a white top and pink shorts. They both wore smart-looking backpacks and looked like models in an ad for expensive children’s clothing, solemn-faced as they shook Tree’s hand and Marcello made introductions.

  “This is Madison and Joshua,” he said in a formal voice. “Madison and Joshua, I want you to meet Tree Callister, the very important private detective I was telling you about.”

  The boy Joshua said in a somber voice, “Who’s your favorite WWE wrestler?”

  “I told you not to ask that question,” Madison snapped.

  “I’m just asking,” defended Joshua.

  “It’s a stupid question,” Madison pronounced.

  “I’m not certain I have a favorite wrestler,” Tree said.

  “Mine is Rey Mysterio,” Joshua said.

  The little girl, Madison, addressed Tree in a businesslike voice. “Mr. Callister, do you mind if I speak frankly?”

  “Not at all,” Tree said.

  Madison said, “You seem a little old to be a private detective.”

  “I told you about that,” interjected Marcello. “I said he looked old but he can still do what he has to do.”

  Joshua glared at his sister. “Madison, you shouldn’t talk like that. It’s rude.”

  “I’m just saying,” Madison replied. “We should talk about these things, shouldn’t we?”

  Tree raised his voice to say, “Why don’t you all tell me why you are here. After that, we can decide whether I’m too old or not.”

  Madison looked at Joshua. “Go ahead. You tell him.”

  Joshua shook his head. “No, you tell it. It’s your idea.”

  “My idea?” Madison seemed appalled at the suggestion. “It was not my idea I can tell you that much.”

  “I’m saying it’s your idea, stupid,” Joshua hissed, “because we are not supposed to say whose idea it was.”

  “Then say it’s your idea.”

  Tree looked at Marcello, who shrugged and said, “They’re worried about their father.”

  “That’s right,” Joshua piped up, suddenly enthusiastic, not wanting Marcello to steal the spotlight. “We are worried.”

  “Concerned,” amended Madison. “The correct word is concerned.”

  “Concerned, worried, they’re the same thing,” Joshua said.

  “No, they are not.” Madison, adamant. “Worried is, like, we’re not sleeping at night. Concerned is, you know, we’re a little worried.”

  “What are you worried about?” Tree, attempting to get the conversation back on track.

  “We are concerned that ever since he moved here, Father has been acting strangely,” Joshua said.

  “Where are you from?” Tree asked.

  “We lived in Charlotte,” Joshua said.

  “We liked it there, but we don’t like it here so much,” Madison added.

  “Why not?” Tree asked.

  “That’s when the weird stuff started happening,” Joshua said.

  “Father began going out at night and not coming back until almost dawn,” Madison asserted.

  “He didn’t do that in Charlotte?” Tree asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Joshua said.

  “He thinks we’re asleep,” added Madison.

  “We have no idea where he goes,” said Joshua.

  “Have you asked him? Maybe there is a reasonable explanation.”

 
“Then there are the phone calls,” Joshua said.

  Madison: “People phone and when we answer, they hang up.”

  “Also,” Joshua said, “people are watching the house.”

  “Watching the house? Are you sure about that?”

  Joshua and Madison traded glances. “Yes,” Madison said with a decisive nod. “It’s creepy.”

  “Very creepy,” Joshua emphasized.

  Tree asked, “What does your father do for a living?”

  Once again Madison and Joshua shot glances back and forth. “We don’t know,” Madison said.

  “That’s the trouble,” Joshua said. “We don’t.”

  “But we suspect,” Madison said.

  “I wouldn’t exactly say we suspect,” Joshua said. “It’s more like we are worried.”

  “Concerned,” Madison amended.

  “About what?” Tree demanded.

  “That he’s involved in some sort of … criminal enterprise.”

  The words seemed to hang ominously in the air, bringing silence to the room.

  Tree broke that silence when he said, “What would you like me to do?”

  The two children looked at him in disbelief. “We want you to find out, of course,” Madison said.

  “Find out what?”

  Madison said, “Find out what he’s up to.”

  “After all,” Joshua added, “this is Florida. Who knows what goes on?”

  “Marcello says the two of you are partners,” Madison said. “He said you would help us.”

  “First of all, Marcello and I aren’t partners,” Tree said.

  Madison shot Marcello a dirty look. Marcello shrugged and said, “We’re in what they call a negotiation.”

  “Look,” Tree said, “I understand the concern you have about your father. I used to wonder what my father did when I was a kid. However, I discovered the best way to find out was not by hiring a private detective.”

  “What was that?” Madison trained pale blue eyes directly at Tree. “What was the best way?”

  “I asked him,” Tree said.

  Madison said: “We tried that.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t say anything,” Madison said.

  “What about your mother? What’s she have to say about all this?”