by Ron Base
After an hour or so, the outline of Useppa Island appeared on the hazy horizon line. Closer, the gabled white rooftop of the Collier Inn came into focus. Tree directed Rex toward shore south of the inn, and Rex grew more nervous still, removing his sunglasses to more closely study the GPS screen.
“This is where it gets tricky,” Rex announced.
“How does it get tricky?” Tree said. “You’re headed for that long dock over there.”
“It gets tricky if we run into a sandbar,” Rex said.
Ahead, Tree could see movement on the dock where a low-slung powerboat was moored. As he watched, a couple of dark shapes pushed off the craft, its engines roaring to life. The bow rose high on the water before it came crashing down and the boat surged forward, coming directly for them at an alarming speed.
Rex swore and sounded a warning Claxton that howled across the bay but failed to deter the oncoming boat. Then, at the last possible moment, the boat veered left and came around the side of the Former Actor. Tree caught a glimpse of a muscular form in a white T-shirt aiming what looked to be a rifle.
“Get down!” Tree shouted.
Rex, at the wheel, looked at him blankly.
Something landed with a clatter on the Former Actor’s rear deck, not far from where Tree and Rex stood. It bounced and rolled around before coming to rest against the stern.
“What the hell is that?” said Rex.
Tree yanked Rex off the captain’s chair. Rex yelled, “What are you doing?”
“Get off the boat!” Tree said.
“What?” Rex said.
Tree wrestled him to the edge and pushed him over the side. He heard Rex holler something as he flopped into the water. Tree had a distinct memory of Rex bobbing in the boat’s wake still wearing his Mandarin peasant’s hat before putting his own foot onto the transom and launching himself forward an instant before the explosion erupted.
And the whole world turned red.
23
Tree under water, his mouth filling with the briny taste of salt water. His flailing feet struck sandy bottom—the bottom becoming a springboard he used to propel himself toward the surface.
When he broke above the waves, the view of the island and the hard blue sky was obscured by a black plume of smoke rising from the flames engulfing the Former Actor. Tree looked around, frantically calling Rex’s name. A moment later, Rex’s head broke the surface. Somewhere along the way, he had lost his mandarin’s straw hat.
“My boat,” he bellowed. “They blew up my boat!”
Already the Former Actor was settling into the water, stern down, emitting belching and gurgling sounds over the crackling of the devouring fire.
“Come on, Rex,” Tree said. “Let’s get to shore.”
“They blew up the boat!” Rex kept yelling as if, otherwise, he would never believe it.
The swimming didn’t last long. Their feet soon hit bottom and they were able to wade in the rest of the way. Shocked residents had gathered along the shoreline and huddled on the dock for a better view of the unfolding disaster. Helping hands pulled Tree and Rex onto the lawn fronting the houses. There was no sign of either Miram Shah or Joseph Trembath, the two people who should have been most interested in exploding boats.
Tree ignored everyone’s worried demands to tell them what had happened. He heard Rex announce, “Somebody blew up my damned boat, that’s what happened.”
One of the onlookers became particularly excited. “Aren’t you Rex Baxter? That guy who used to do the TV show in Chicago?”
Tree reached the steps leading to the porch of Miram Shah’s house. He expected security guards to appear, demanding to pat him down, the same as the last time. This time, though, no one stopped him as he opened the screen door.
He called, “Mr. Shah? Are you here? It’s Tree Callister.”
There was no answer.
He stepped into the entry hall, closing the screen door behind him. He stood there, dripping wet, the silence of the house roaring back at him, much as it had at Hank Dearlove’s place in Key West. Tree began to feel a similar sense of deep dread.
He forced himself along the passageway. Behind him, he could hear the screen door open and close. Rex said, “What’s going on?”
Tree didn’t answer. He reached a sitting room crisscrossed with impressive wood beams and big windows providing a panoramic water view.
Had he looked out one of those windows, Tree would have witnessed the final moments before the Former Actor disappeared beneath the waters of Pine Island Sound.
But Tree wasn’t looking out the window.
His attention was focused instead on Miram Shah, naked, hanging from one of the beams. His head was at an odd angle, probably because of the piano wire tied around his neck. Rex stood beside Tree, looking up at the body. “Gawd almighty,” he said in a low, wondering voice.
24
They blew up my boat!”
Rex kept reciting the same mantra to the detectives from the criminal investigation unit of the Lee County Sheriff’s Department. It turned out they had jurisdiction over boat explosions and murders.
Why exactly someone would blow up his boat was the question Rex could not answer. He was not even certain, he explained to investigators, what he was doing on Pine Island Sound, other than the fact that his longtime friend Tree Callister wanted a ride to Useppa Island, and he and Tree had been friends for forty years, since way back in Chicago when they were a whole lot younger, and they didn’t own boats that blew up.
It was left to Tree to explain what had happened. “A grenade,” he said.
The original detectives by now had been replaced by the head of the criminal investigation unit, an intense, iron-jawed recruiting poster for law enforcement named Major Brent Lawson.
Major Lawson squinted at Tree and said, “Grenade?”
“At first I thought the guy in the other boat had a rifle he was pointing at us.”
“A rifle.”
“But then a grenade landed in the back of the boat. That’s what exploded.”
“Probably fired from a grenade launcher. Maybe an M32.”
“You know about grenade launchers?”
“I’m ex-military,” Lawson said. “M32 cartridge has a low-pressure chamber. Makes it almost silent. Forty millimeter grenade in all likelihood. High explosive fragmentation. Gets the job done. Why do you suppose anyone would launch a grenade at you?”
Tree thought of Edgar Bunya. The man in the white T-shirt on the other craft could have been Edgar or one of his men, and a fellow who would cut off your hand would certainly be capable of throwing a grenade at you.
Aloud, Tree said, “Maybe whoever it was had just killed Mr. Shah and thought we were attempting to stop him escaping.”
“Were you?”
“Was I?”
“Attempting to stop him?”
Tree shook his head. “I was coming to see Mr. Shah.”
“About what?”
“Like I told the other officers. I’m a private detective on Sanibel Island. Mr. Shah is—or was—a client.”
Lawson said, “I didn’t know there was such a thing as a private detective on Sanibel.”
“There is. Me.”
“So Mr. Shah had hired you.” Lawson made it sound as though he had deduced this after clever questioning.
“Correct.”
“To find this woman you told us about earlier?”
“Elizabeth Traven. He’d been involved in a relationship with her. He asked me to locate her.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. She told me she wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship with Mr. Shah. I was coming out to the island to tell him that in person when this afternoon’s events occurred.”
“Do you know where Elizabeth Traven is now?”
“I don’t,” Tree lied.
“Any idea who would want to harm Mr. Shah?”
“Do you mean do I have any idea who would want to hang him by piano wire from the rafters in his o
wn house? No. To me, he was an older man rather recklessly pursuing a younger woman who, it has become apparent, wants nothing to do with him.”
It went on like that for another hour or so before everyone simply ran out of questions to ask—or maybe they got tired of hearing Rex going on about his lost boat. At dusk, a Sheriff’s Department helicopter with Tree and Rex on board lifted off from the island. The crimson light of a failing sun illuminated the black oil patch marking the spot where the Former Actor went down.
As the green-painted chopper with “SHERIFF in big letters along its tail, swung south, Tree patted a forlorn Rex on the shoulder and tried to sound hopeful. “Maybe your insurance will cover it.”
“Absolutely,” he said. “There is a proviso in every boat insurance policy covering grenade attacks.”
The chopper landed outside the Sheriff’s Department headquarters at Six Mile Cypress Road. Freddie was waiting. “The two of you look as though you got blown out of a boat,” she said.
“How did you guess?” Tree said.
She embraced him and said, “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” Tree said.
“They blew up my boat,” Rex said to her. Tree thought he might cry. Freddie embraced him too, and that seemed to make him feel better.
She invited him back to the house for dinner, but Rex declined. He just wanted to go home and get some rest.
They drove over the causeway onto Sanibel Island and dropped Rex off at his house. Tree walked him to the door while Freddie waited in the car.
“You sure you’re going to be all right?” Tree asked.
“I’ll be okay. I just need a little time, that’s all. For you, this is business as usual, but for me, getting blown up and finding corpses hanging from the rafters, it’s emotionally draining.”
“I’m sorry,” Tree said. “I shouldn’t have gotten you involved in all this.”
“I know this is a question Freddie has asked you before, but let me add my voice to the chorus wondering if you’re sure you know what you’re doing.”
“The answer to that is no,” Tree said.
Rex grinned and said, “Somehow I find that reassuring.” Then, more seriously: “Watch yourself, okay? About the time the boat exploded, I began to get the distinct impression you are in over your head.”
“Not me,” Tree said. “You must be thinking of someone else.”
“I don’t think so,” Rex said.
He gave Tree a look before going into his house and closing the door.
25
Tree stripped off his damp clothes and stepped into the shower. He stood under the hot spray for a long time, debating if he would ever leave. He couldn’t get into trouble if he just stood here forever. Could he?
Don’t be ridiculous, he concluded. Tree Callister could get himself into trouble anywhere.
Even in the shower.
By the time he changed into a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of shorts, Freddie had finished preparing her signature turkey burgers—filled with fresh, chopped basil, sundried tomatoes, crumbled goat cheese—accompanied by a spinach salad. They ate on the terrace, Freddie sipping a glass of wine. The familiar nighttime routine lulled Tree into believing everything was as it always had been, when in fact nothing was the same.
He told her about finding Elizabeth Traven at the Island Inn, the decision to go out to Useppa Island and confront Miram Shah. He told her about the powerboat, the grenade that blew up Rex’s Former Actor, how they had swum to shore only to discover Shah’s body hanging from a cross beam.
As he finished, the frown was back on Freddie’s face—as it usually was when the twin subjects of Elizabeth Traven and dead bodies arose. Her burger was untouched. Only the wine received attention.
“How much of this did you tell the police?” she asked.
“I didn’t tell them about Elizabeth Traven,” Tree said.
“Why not?”
“Because she says she has information about Cailie Fisk and why she is harassing us.”
That surprised Freddie enough to cause her to put the wine glass down. “You’re kidding.”
“I don’t want to implicate her until I find out what she knows.”
“She’s blackmailing you—again.”
From inside the house came the sound of someone pounding on the front door. “Who could that be at this time of night?”
“Elizabeth Traven?” Freddie said caustically.
Tree got out of his chair and went through the sliding glass doors into the kitchen. The pounding grew louder. He continued into the living room. “Who is it?” he called out.
“Police,” a voice called out. “Open up!”
Tree unlocked the door. Sanibel Island Detectives Owen Markfield and Cee Jay Boone stood on the walkway. Behind them, Tree could make out half a dozen uniformed officers.
“Tree Callister,” Markfield said in a brittle, formal voice, “I’m looking for your son, Chris.”
Tree looked past Markfield to Cee Jay. She averted her gaze. Cee Jay had put on quite a bit of weight since the last time he saw her. Everything strained against the dark blue pantsuit she wore.
“He’s not here.” He could sense Freddie behind him.
“We want to come in and look around,” Markfield said in the official voice of authority young police officers tended to use to make themselves feel more important. Markfield was blond and good-looking and, in Tree’s estimation, an officious jerk. The grave authoritarian tone fit him perfectly.
“Do you have a warrant?” Tree demanded. Topping the list of questions he never thought he would ask.
“Do we need one?” Markfield said.
Tree traded glances with Freddie. She moved her head slightly. Tree turned to the detectives. “Come in. Take a look around.”
He stepped back to allow the blue herd inside. Tree confronted Cee Jay with yet another question he never thought he would ask: “Is Chris under arrest?”
“We just want to talk to Chris,” Cee Jay said.
“Call him on the phone. You don’t need to send a platoon of cops after him at this time of night.”
“Come on, we’re wasting time,” Markfield growled.
Cee Jay nodded to the men and they immediately spread out through the house.
“We’ll be out by the pool when you’re finished,” Tree said.
Fifteen minutes later, Cee Jay came out without Markfield to where Freddie and Tree waited. “Do you have any idea where your son is?” she asked.
“I thought he was at his apartment or working,” Tree said.
“He’s not at the Holiday Inn and he’s not at his apartment. When was the last time you saw him?”
“I spoke to him this morning at my office.”
“If you’re talking to your son again,” Cee Jay said, “it’s important that he contacts us as soon as possible.”
“He didn’t kill his wife, Cee Jay. The case was closed. What’s happened to change that?”
“Just make sure he calls or comes in to police headquarters.”
Cee Jay turned and left.
“Were we ever in Paris?” Freddie asked wistfully.
They were, Tree thought. But that was trouble, too.
26
Freddie, as usual, was awake at six the next morning.
Tree, as usual, stumbled out of bed, found the worn cargo shorts he liked to wear, and lurched into the kitchen to make coffee for Freddie. He no longer drank coffee. It didn’t agree with him. Nothing did these days, not coffee, not booze, not rich food or meat. He ate minimally, drank nothing, but still he felt crummy.
He fought off the feelings of anxiety and depression that arrived with increasing regularity. What was wrong with him? The dead bodies he kept finding, the son accused of murder, the thugs trying to cut off his hands, people who launched grenades at him, the lies women told him, the lies he told the woman he loved. Maybe all those things had something to do with this morning’s misery.
By the time the
coffee was ready, he was feeling pretty sorry for himself.
Freddie entered, setting the kitchen aglow in something cool and light by Eileen Fisher. Freddie most definitely was not feeling sorry for herself today. Or any day, for that matter. She wouldn’t allow that. You got on with things. You did not sit around brooding. Tree swore he would take a page from her playbook.
Soon.
“How are you doing Tree?”
“Actually, I was thinking about you. In the midst of all this, I never asked where you and your investors are with Vera and the Dayton stores.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say we’re exactly moving forward.”
“No?”
“Mrs. Ray is having second thoughts. At least that’s what she’s telling us.”
“You think it’s something else?”
“I don’t know what to think. I suspect it’s real. That she is hesitating to give up the connection to Ray’s memory. But I’m not sure. She’s hard to read.”
Freddie put the untouched coffee on the counter and glanced at the wall clock. “I’d better get out of here. I’ve got an early meeting with my people.”
“With your people?”
She grinned. “The people with whom I am associated in this potential acquisition. We have to go over strategy and decide on next steps.”
“I’m sorry, my love, I haven’t been much help to you lately.”
“As long as you’re okay.”
“I’m fine. As soon as I get into the office, I’m calling Edith Goldman, alert her to what’s happening to Chris.”
“Are you worried the police are looking for him and he has run away?”
“I’m afraid he’s not thinking straight, about me or anything else right now.”
She came and wrapped her arms around him, and then held his face between her hands. “Promise me you’re going to be careful, darling. There are a lot of dangerous things going on here. Promise you will think before you act and not do anything rash.”
“I’m calling Edith Goldman. How rash is that?”
She kissed his mouth. “I’ll see you tonight?” With a hopeful question mark attached.
“Of course.” He held her tight against him. “I love you,” he said.