by Ron Base
Table of Contents
Also by Ron Base
Copyright © 2014 Ron Base
For Clinton and Marley
SanCapMap.jpg
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Afterword: The Real Clinton
Acknowledgments
Don’t Miss Previous Tree Callister Novels
Coming Soon
THE HOUND OF
THE SANIBEL SUNSET
DETECTIVE
a novel
RON BASE
Also by Ron Base
Fiction
Matinee Idol
Foreign Object
Splendido
Magic Man
The Strange
The Sanibel Sunset Detective
The Sanibel Sunset Detective Returns
Another Sanibel Sunset Detective
The Two Sanibel Sunset Detectives
Non-fiction
The Movies of the Eighties (with David Haslam)
If the Other Guy Isn’t Jack Nicholson, I’ve Got the Part
Marquee Guide to Movies on Video
Cuba Portrait of an Island (with Donald Nausbuam)
www.ronbase.com
Read Ron’s blog at
www.ronbase.wordpress.com
Contact Ron at
[email protected]
Copyright © 2014 Ron Base
All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by
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or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access
Copyright, the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency,
One Yonge Street, Toronto, Ontario, M6B 3A9.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Base, Ron, 1948-, author The hound of the Sanibel sunset detective / Ron Base.
ISBN 978-0-9736955-8-8 (pbk.)
I. Title.
PS8553.A784H68 2014 C813’.54 C2014-906530-2
West-End Books
133 Mill St.
Milton, Ontario
L9T 1S1
Cover design: Ann Kornuta
Text design: Ric Base
Electronic formatting: Ric Base
Sanibel-Captiva map: Ann Kornuta
FIRST EDITION
For Clinton and Marley
ART WORTH TWO MILLION
DOLLARS STOLEN FROM MUSEUM
MONTREAL (CP)—Thieves broke into the Montreal Museum of Fine Art over the Labor Day weekend and made off with jewelry and Rembrandt’s Landscape with Cottages.
According to police, three men, armed with sawed-off shotguns, employing the same equipment used to scale telephone poles, climbed a tree adjacent to the museum shortly after midnight Saturday in order to gain access to the two-story 1912 Beaux-Arts building through a skylight that was under repair.
A plastic sheet placed over the skylight had neutralized the security alarm. The trio opened the skylight and slid down a 15-meter nylon cord to the second floor, police say.
At 1.30 a.m., one intruder twice fired a 12-pump shotgun into the ceiling when a guard completing his rounds hesitated before dropping to the floor.
Two other guards were overpowered, bound, and gagged. All three guards were then held at gunpoint by one of their assailants.
After spending 30 minutes selecting paintings and jewelry, the thieves used a guard’s key to open the door of the museum’s panel truck parked in the garage. In the process, a side door alarm was tripped and the trio escaped on foot, abandoning 15 paintings by artists such as El Greco, Picasso, and Tintoretto, but stealing 39 pieces of jewelry.
They also got away with Landscape with Cottages, painted by the Dutch master Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn in 1654 and valued at one million dollars.
—Canadian Press news story, September 5, 1972
1
So you really are leaving,” Rex Baxter said.
“I’m not leaving, I’m retiring,” Tree Callister said.
“It comes down to the same thing,” Rex said. He did not sound happy. He and Tree had been friends since Tree was a young reporter in Chicago, and Rex, a former B-movie actor in Hollywood, hosted an afternoon cable TV movie show. This was long before Rex became president of the Sanibel-Captiva Chamber of Commerce and Tree, retired from the newspaper business, appointed himself Sanibel Island’s only private detective.
Rex, ageless and forever dapper—an old lion in his comfortable, sun-drenched winter—had returned from a two-week visit to the Windy City in time to witness Tree packing up the office Rex had “rented” to him at the Chamber of Commerce Visitors Center located just over the causeway on Sanibel Island. Rent was a rather loosely applied term, since Rex never actually collected it.
“Don’t even think about taking that Scotch tape dispenser,” Rex said as he watched Tree lift it off the shelf behind the office desk.
“Is it yours?” Tree said.
“It’s not mine,” Rex corrected. “It is the property of the Sanibel-Captiva Chamber of Commerce.
“Then I had better not take it,” Tree said.
He placed the dispenser back on the shelf and looked dolefully at the nearly empty box open on the desk.
“Not much to show for your life as a private detective,” Rex observed.
“I carry a lot of memories out into the world,” Tree said.
“Fond memories of all those people who shot you,” Rex said.
“Only two people shot me,” Tree said.
“Let’s face it, Tree. Most people get through an entire lifetime without being shot at all.”
Irrefutable logic there.
Everyone on Sanibel Island had thought Tree crazy to become a private detective in the first place. Even his wife, Freddie, who had stuck by him after he was downsized from the Chicago Sun-Times, the newspaper where he had worked for most of his adult life, wondered at his sanity. Maybe it was getting shot that second time, maybe that was the straw that broke the camel’s back—or the shot that killed the camel. Or something. But now Tree figured enough was enough, and he had decided he was not cut out for the life of a private eye so it was time to give up The Sanibel Sunset Detective Agency. Not that there was much to give up.
“You can put that electric pencil sharpener back while you’re at it,” Rex said.
“I was sure that was my pencil sharpener.”
“Strictly on loan from the Chamber of Commerce.”
Tree returned the pencil sharpener to its spot beside the tape dispenser.
“I don’t know why I bothered to bring in this box,” Tree said.
“I don’t know why you
’re doing this,” Rex said.
“You said it yourself. People keep shooting me.”
“I think it has a lot more to do with Freddie,” Rex said.
“There’s no doubt about it,” Tree said. “Freddie prefers a husband who is alive.”
“Come on outside,” Rex said.
“What? You’re going to beat me up because I tried to steal your pencil sharpener?”
“There’s something I want to show you,” Rex said.
A fire-engine red car, shimmering under the morning sun, was parked in the area reserved for Chamber employees. Rex led Tree over to it.
“How do you like it?” he asked Tree.
“You’re kidding. Is this yours?”
“The new Dodge Challenger Hellcat.”
“You’re driving a red car nicknamed the Hellcat?”
“Seeing as how I’m something of a hellcat myself,” Rex said.
“That’s certainly how I’ve always described you,” Tree said.
“Seven hundred horsepower. Six hundred and fifty pound-feet of torque.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means the car goes like a bat out of hell,” Rex said.
“Just what you need on Sanibel,” Tree offered.
He leaned down and peered into the car. “With that dashboard, you could land on the moon.”
“Super-charged Hemi V-8 engine,” Rex said.
“I have no idea what that means,” Tree said.
“I met someone in Chicago,” Rex said.
That stopped Tree. “What’s that got to do with a Hemi V-8?”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with it. That’s what they call a segue, in case you didn’t know.”
“It’s a lousy segue,” Tree said. “Besides which, I don’t understand. You’re Rex Baxter. You meet people all the time. You can’t walk down the street without meeting someone.”
“No, no,” Rex said. “I met someone. As in I met someone.”
“You mean a member of the opposite sex.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean,” Rex said. “Boy, sometimes you are pretty damn slow on the uptake. Maybe you really shouldn’t be a detective.”
“That’s been suggested any number of times,” Tree said.
“She’s coming here,” Rex said.
“You mean this member of the opposite sex you met in Chicago?”
“Correct,” Rex said.
“She’s coming here.”
“Let me know which parts of this you’re having trouble with, and I will gladly repeat them slowly for you,” Rex said.
“That’s great,” Tree said. “She’ll like the Hellcat.”
“I didn’t get the car because of her,” Rex insisted.
“It’s high time you met someone,” Tree said. “When’s she coming?”
“Tomorrow,” Rex said.
“That was quick,” Tree said.
Rex looked at Tree uneasily and then shrugged. “I’ve been alone too long. It’s time I did something about it.”
“I’m glad for you, Rex,” Tree said.
“Besides, you’re deserting me.”
“All I’m doing is moving out of the office. Except, it turns out, there’s nothing to move.”
“I saw you put a pen in your pocket,” Rex said. “That’s Chamber property, too.”
Tree sighed and gave him back the pen.
__________
Tree arrived home to an empty house on Andy Rosse Lane. Freddie would not return for hours. She was busy running five Florida supermarkets, including Dayton’s on Sanibel Island, that she recently had acquired. Well, to be accurate, Freddie herself had not purchased the stores, but she had put together the syndicate of investors that had, and now oversaw day-to-day store operations, a job that kept her away from home a lot more than Tree would have liked, but also a job that was making her, and by extension, him, rich.
It was certainly a job that did not need the distractions that came with the Sanibel Sunset Detective Agency, distractions that to the surprise of both of them, had left Freddie concerned that her husband would not live long enough or stay out of jail long enough to enjoy the financial fruits of her endeavors.
Well, now he would live, Tree mused as he thumped around the empty house, wondering what to do for lunch. He was no longer the Sanibel Sunset Detective. He was plain W. Tremain Callister, former Chicago newspaperman, a retiree living on Sanibel-Captiva just like so many others. Who was he, then? And what was his purpose in life? His purpose, he reckoned, was not to get himself killed, and to make Freddie happy. That should keep him busy.
Shouldn’t it?
He thought about phoning Rex to see if he wanted to have lunch, but decided against it seeing as how he had just come from the Visitors Center, and if he phoned Rex this soon, Rex would correctly divine that Tree, having just vacated the detective business an hour earlier, had no earthly idea what to do with himself.
Instead, he left the house and wandered down Andy Rosse Lane toward the beach to the Mucky Duck restaurant hoping to find a table outside and order a sandwich. But the Mucky Duck was full of lunching tourists with a lineup outside waiting to get in. He walked a few yards farther to the beach, marveling yet again at how many people of all ages and skin colors baked under a hot noonday sun, unafraid of the looming horrors of skin cancer—unlike himself, the pasty Chicago guy who feared the sun would melt him.
Tree made his way back along the street choked with noonday crowds checking out the various shops, trying to get into the restaurants. He wondered yet again if he and Freddie had known about all the traffic, whether or not they would have bought a house on the street.
His cellphone in the pocket of his cargo shorts awakened with an electronic buzz. He awkwardly fished it out and tried to swipe it open. Only it wouldn’t open. Damn! The smartphone continually outsmarted him. After the third try, he finally got it open, punched the green icon, and heard Edith Goldman say, “Tree? Is that you?”
“It’s me, Edith,” Tree said. Edith was Tree’s lawyer from nearby Fort Myers. She had the habit of looking him up and down as though measuring him for an orange jumpsuit. Maybe it was because she had had to bail him out of jail more times than he liked to think about.
“I’ve been phoning your office, trying to get hold of you.”
“I’m not there,” Tree said.
“I know you’re not there. Where are you?”
“I’m retired,” he said.
“You’re what?” As though she had not heard right.
“I’ve closed the agency. I’m retiring. I thought I told you.”
“You never said a word.” Edith sounded irritated by this news. “What are you doing retiring?”
“No one should know better than you why I’m quitting,” Tree said. “Considering the number of times you’ve had to get me out of jail, I thought you’d be pleased.”
She did not sound at all pleased. “You can’t retire. Not yet, anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Because I need you to do something for me. I need you to do it quickly, and I need you not to ask too many questions.”
“Like I said, Edith, I’ve closed the office. I’m out of it.”
“Be out of it tomorrow,” Edith said curtly. “Today I want you to drive to Miami and speak to a client.”
“Edith, I can’t do that.”
“I’ll pay you one thousand dollars, Tree. My client needs a private detective and you’re the only one I could come up with on short notice.”
“Thanks a lot,” Tree said.
“All you have to do is speak to this guy.”
“What guy?”
“He’s Canadian. A client from Montreal. An older gentleman. I’ve represented him for a number of years now. He wants to hire a private detective, and I recommended you. Just drive down there this afternoon and talk to him. Then everybody’s happy.”
“Edith, Freddie’s going to kill me.”
“If there’s any problem, I�
��ll remind Freddie of the number of times I bailed you out of trouble. Besides, I’ve already said you’d meet him this afternoon. Do this for me. Please.”
Tree exhaled loudly as he reached the front of his house. “What’s the address?”
“Thank you, Tree.” Edith sounded relieved. “My client’s name is Vic Trinchera. He’s a Montreal businessman who retired to Miami a few years ago. Do you know where the Biltmore Hotel is in Coral Gables?”
“Vaguely,” Tree said.
“He lives down the street from the hotel. He’s expecting you around two o’clock.”
“What did you tell him about me?”
“What do you think I told him? I told him you were the best private detective in Florida.”
“Edith, I am not the best private detective in Florida,” Tree said.
“I know that, and you know that,” Edith said. “But for the moment, let’s not tell Vic.”
2
As his battered Volkswagen Beetle convertible rumbled and clattered along I-75, the ribbon of four-lane asphalt known as Alligator Alley bisecting the flat swath of the Florida Everglades, Tree tried calling Freddie on his smartphone.
“I can barely hear you,” Tree said.
“I asked how you’re enjoying your retirement so far.” Freddie’s voice broke up in a rain of static.
“You’re not going to like this,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m crossing Alligator Alley. Headed for Miami.”
“There’s something wrong with this connection. I thought you said something about Alligator Alley.”
“I’m driving to Miami.” Tree was yelling into his phone.
Freddie said, “Why would you be going to Miami?”
“Edith Goldman called. She has a client she wants me to talk to.”
“Did you say Edith? As in Goldman?”
“He needs a private detective. She suggested me.”
“Except you are no longer a private detective.”
“That’s right,” Tree agreed. “But Edith was insistent. He’s a Canadian businessman, apparently. I’m just going to meet with him, that’s all.”
Freddie’s voice rose over the static: “Tree, you’ve barely left your office, and already you’re taking another assignment.”
“I’m not taking an assignment. Like I say, I’m just going to talk to this guy—as a favor to Edith.”