The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective

by Ron Base

  “I hate this being on the run,” Freddie said. “There’s too much going on at work for me to become a desperado.”

  “Desperado,” Tree said. “I like that word. A couple of desperadoes—like Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “We are too old to be Bonnie and Clyde,” Freddie said, gently shifting Clinton around so she could pull down the bed covers. “And besides, Bonnie and Clyde didn’t have a dog.”

  “They’d have been much better off if they did,” Tree said.

  Freddie stretched out beside Clinton who responded by rolling onto his back so that all four paws dangled in the air. Freddie reached over and stroked his belly.

  “I shouldn’t be falling for you, Clinton,” she said to him. “This is so crazy. We are hiding out because of a dog. If we told anyone that our lives have been totally upended for a hound, they would think we are nuts—and they would be right. We are nuts. That’s the only possible explanation.”

  “There’s another explanation,” Tree said.

  Freddie said, “What’s the other explanation?”

  “You’re married to me.”

  “That still qualifies as nuts.”

  “I’m the cause of all this. I keep getting you into these messes.”

  “Okay, but don’t think that’s an excuse. I’m still not going to divorce you.”

  “That’s the good news,” Tree said.

  “Even though it turns out you’re armed and dangerous.”

  “Well, I’m armed,” Tree said.

  “I don’t like you armed,” she said. Her voice had dropped to a murmur. “I like the retired Tree Callister, unarmed citizen of the world.”

  He finished undressing and crawled in on the other side of Clinton. “For now, let’s get some sleep. I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open.”

  When Freddie didn’t respond, he raised himself up on his elbow and saw that already she had fallen asleep, her hand still on Clinton.

  Tree lay down. Beside him, Clinton shifted contentedly, his paws poking at Tree’s chest. Tree drifted off, stroking Clinton’s belly.

  _________

  At ten o’clock the next morning, Freddie shot upright, announcing her panic at the lateness of the hour. During what was left of the night, Clinton had stretched out his long spindly legs, commandeering most of the available space, pushing Tree and Freddie to the outer extremities of the bed.

  Freddie trailed a series of complaints as she headed for the bathroom. The complaints included the fact that she was in a Comfort Inn with a dog and a husband and no toothbrush, no makeup, no change of clothes. She called down to the desk and had someone send up toothpaste and a toothbrush.

  The toothbrush arrived as Freddie was in the shower and at the moment when Tree’s cellphone sounded. He was immediately sorry he answered it.

  “Have you found my brother’s killer yet?” Sonny Trinchera at full snarl.

  “How did you get this number?”

  “When I want things, I get things. Have you found his killer or not?”

  “Sonny, come on, I haven’t even had my coffee,” Tree said.

  “I’m looking for results,” Sonny said. “I’m not a patient guy.”

  “I didn’t get much sleep last night, thanks to a visit from three bruisers in Mexican wrestling masks.”

  Sonny hesitated before he said, “What’s a Mexican wrestling mask?”

  “Masks worn by Mexican wrestlers.”

  “Why would they wear masks?”

  “Do you know someone named Johnny Bravo?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “That’s funny. He’s supposed to be a well-known Montreal gangster.”

  “I’m a mortician. I don’t know anything about gangsters.”

  “So you keep telling me,” Tree said.

  “What did these clowns want, anyway?”

  Tree decided this was not the time to tell Sonny about a dog named Clinton who seemed to be on everyone’s must-have list except Sonny’s. Instead, he said, “Maybe they wanted to know what I’m doing connected to you.”

  “How would they know we’re connected?”

  “I don’t know, but I no sooner am mixed up with you than these characters show up.”

  “You didn’t tell them anything, did you?” Sonny sounded deeply suspicious.

  “I told them to go to hell,” Tree said, feeling very much the tough guy first thing in the morning.

  Sonny now sounded skeptical. “Three guys wearing masks show up in the middle of the night, and you tell them to go to hell? Hey, don’t kid a kidder.”

  “That’s what I told them.”

  “Then why aren’t you dead or in the hospital?”

  “I had a gun.”

  That reduced Sonny to unaccustomed silence. When he spoke again there was a little more respect in his voice. “Maybe I underestimated you, Callister.”

  “If you had that low an estimation of me, Sonny, why did you hire me in the first place?”

  “Phone me as soon as you get results,” Sonny said. And then he was gone.

  By now, Clinton was sitting up, his head slightly cocked, watching as Freddie appeared from the bathroom, naked and dripping wet from the shower. “Who was that?”

  “My new best friend, Sonny Trinchera.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He wanted to know why I haven’t found his brother’s killer.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I asked him what he knew about three characters wearing Mexican wrestling masks late at night.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wanted to know what a Mexican wrestling mask was.”

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” Freddie said, grabbing the toothbrush and toothpaste off the dresser where Tree had placed them. “Can you be ready to leave in ten minutes?”

  ________

  After dropping Freddie off at Dayton’s, Tree and Clinton drove to the Chamber of Commerce Visitors Center. Clinton followed him in the back door and up the stairs Tree had climbed so many times. His office was as he had left it. The pencil sharpener and the Scotch tape—property of the Chamber—had not been moved. Awaiting his return?

  No, Tree thought. Don’t even think about it.

  Clinton shuffled around the office while Tree sat behind the desk. It felt unexpectedly good to be sitting there. Why, he could even pretend to be a detective. He quickly dismissed those thoughts. He was retired. On the run, but retired.

  He picked up the telephone and called Jim Devereaux in Montreal.

  Devereaux said, “What’s going on down there? I hear they knocked off André Manteau.”

  “That’s what I understand,” Tree said.

  “I got reports that the Miami cops found him in a beaten-up Volkswagen registered to a certain Sanibel Sunset detective.”

  “One of these days, I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  “I’m looking forward to that,” Devereaux said. “There appears to be a whole lot more to you than I would have suspected from a guy crazy enough to be a detective on Sanibel Island.”

  “What can you tell me about a man named Sonny Trinchera?”

  “Carmen Trinchera, known to everyone as Sonny,” Devereaux said. “Don’t tell me he’s down there.”

  “He’s in town to bury his brother.”

  “The Mortician at work,” Devereaux said. “Although I’m sure he isn’t shedding many tears.”

  “He doesn’t appear to be,” Tree said. “Is he a gangster, too?”

  “Sonny always claims he isn’t,” Devereaux said. “He operates the funeral homes that he and his brother own throughout the province of Quebec, and also in New York State and Florida.”

  “Okay, he says he isn’t a gangster, Jim. But what do you say?”

  Devereaux chuckled. “I always get a kick out of Sonny’s protestations that he is, and I’m quoting here, ‘clean as the driven snow.’ But nobody I talk to in organized-crime circles believes it. I’d say at the very least, he moves
easily through his brother’s world. Incidentally, there has always been quite a rivalry between them. If you believe the rumors, Sonny wouldn’t mind taking over the Montreal mob and running it himself. He certainly thinks he could do a better job than either his brother or Johnny Bravo. Why are you so interested in Sonny?”

  “He hired me the other day.”

  “To do what?”

  “Find his brother’s killer.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Devereaux said.

  “That’s what he wants me to do—and he wants results ASAP.”

  “That sounds like Sonny all right.”

  Tree thought for a minute. “Let me throw another name at you,” Tree said.

  “Shoot,” said Devereaux.

  “Shay Ostler. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “Not a thing,” Devereaux said.

  “She was working for André Manteau before he died. They may have been linked romantically as well. But since his death, no one’s even mentioned her.”

  “The name doesn’t ring any bells, but just for fun, let me dig around, see what I can find.”

  “I appreciate this, Jim.”

  “Be careful, Tree. You are down there messing with some pretty dangerous people.”

  ________

  Rex entered, carrying a Styrofoam tray containing two Starbucks Grande Lattes. He wore dark glasses this morning. He handed one of the cups to Tree and sat down in the chair in front of the desk. Clinton came over, looking to be petted. Rex obliged.

  “You’re missed around here,” Rex said. “It’s not every Chamber of Commerce that has its own private detective on the premises.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like a bag of dirt,” Rex said.

  Tree took the Glock out of his pocket and placed it on the desk in front of Rex. “I brought your gun back.”

  “Thanks,” Rex said.

  Tree said, “How did you know I’d be here this morning?”

  “I figured you’d come in to give me hell.”

  “Not me,” Tree said.

  “I’m a stupid old fart,” Rex said, giving Clinton another pat.

  “On occasion, I’d say that’s true,” Tree said.

  “By the way, I went around to the boat this morning. Looks like someone trashed it pretty good. Either that, or you and Freddie had one hell of a party after you drove me home.”

  “I’m sorry, Rex. We had some unexpected visitors last night. I thought I’d convinced them to leave.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “I showed them your gun.”

  Rex sipped his coffee and petted Clinton some more. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I keep thinking you’re retired.”

  “I keep thinking the same thing,” Tree said. “However, I might be mistaken. That’s why I need your help today.”

  “How can I say no,” said Rex.

  “I’m going to steal your Hellcat, and I need you to look after Clinton until I get back.”

  “My brand-new sixty-thousand-dollar, fire-engine red, Dodge Charger Hellcat?”

  “That’s the one,” Tree said.

  “This is a question I’ve asked you before,” Rex said.

  “Yes,” Tree said.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “How have I answered that question in the past?”

  “Usually in the negative.”

  “Good,” Tree said. “I see no reason to change that answer. Make sure you take good care of Clinton, will you?”

  “Better take this with you.” Rex pushed the Glock across the desk toward Tree.

  “I’m tough without a gun,” Tree said.

  “That’s Humphrey Bogart,” Rex said. “I’ve got some bad news for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re no Bogart.”

  Tree stared at the gun.

  34

  The Miracle Mile in Coral Gables was a mile long, but not much of a miracle. Lackluster storefront windows were mostly devoted to white wedding gowns for tradition-minded brides-to-be with piles of money to spend on the Big Day. No brides that Tree could see at this time of the morning, though, just a few pedestrians in what Freddie would describe as business casual exiting and entering a nearby Starbucks.

  Tree turned the Hellcat off the Miracle Mile onto Ponce de León and then made another left onto Navarre Avenue. The address Sonny Trinchera had given him was a three-story white-washed apartment building on the corner. The strip fronting the façade was choked with bushes and small palms facing a metered parking lot across the street. Tree pulled into the lot and positioned the car so that he had an unobstructed view of the street and the apartment building. He turned off the engine, snapped open the Diet Coke he had brought with him, and settled in.

  For the first hour or so no one came in or out of the building. Tree, as he usually did during these watches, contemplated the waste of his life. After he had thoroughly beaten himself up, he grew drowsy and fought to keep his eyes open.

  Into the second hour, he got out and walked along the block. It was a glorious morning in South Florida, a breeze cooling the warming effects of a bright sun in a cloudless sky. At the end of the street, he paused, listening to the insects and distant traffic sounds. For all he knew, he was the only person left in South Florida.

  He turned to start back and that’s when he saw the black and yellow Ducati Streetfighter motorcycle pull up in front of the apartment building. The rider removed a black Daft Punk helmet. He watched as Shay Ostler shook her hair loose, the way she had done it the first time Tree met her at Crimson’s studio. Then, carrying the helmet, she got off the motorcycle and went inside.

  Tree ran back to the Hellcat. He didn’t have to wait long before Shay Ostler emerged from the building. Melora Spark was with her.

  For one worrying moment, Tree thought they would walk straight across to where he was parked. Instead, they stopped at Shay’s Streetfighter. She put on her helmet while Melora eased herself onto the passenger seat. A moment later the bike roared to life, and Shay, with Melora’s arms wrapped around her, shot off down the block.

  Tree started the Hellcat, swung it around, and drove after them.

  They didn’t go very far, straight down Southwest Forty-second Avenue and then right on Anastasia to the Biltmore Hotel. The Streetfighter swung into the parking lot beside the hotel. Tree watched Shay and Melora get off the bike and walk toward a side entrance.

  Tree parked in the street adjacent to the parking lot. He opened the glove compartment containing the Glock, thought about it, then closed the glove compartment again and got out of the car.

  The Biltmore lobby with its vaulted ceilings and artfully potted palms was as cool and empty as it was the last time he visited. Wherever the denizens of Coral Gables escaped, it was not to the lobby of the Biltmore.

  There was no sign of Shay and Melora in any of the cabanas adjacent to the pool, so he went up some steps to the terrace. They were seated at the other end with Johnny Bravo. Tree debated what to do, then decided he had come this far, and, taking a deep breath, he walked to their table.

  To his credit, Johnny managed not to look surprised when he saw Tree approach. Melora satisfied herself with a frown, Tree being one more irritant in a day full of them. Shay gave him a cool, appraising look, as if her beauty would not permit her to be surprised by anything as controllable as a man.

  “There you are, Tree Callister, Monsieur Detective,” Johnny Bravo called, as though a long lost friend had arrived for lunch. “Come. Join us. You’re just in time. We’re about to order.”

  Tree sat on the empty wrought iron chair between Melora and Shay. Melora held a large menu, but ignored it and kept her eyes on Tree. “What are you doing here?”

  “It looks like I’m having lunch with you.”

  Johnny Bravo raised his hand and called to a distant waiter. “Could we have another menu, please?”

  The waiter, a young man with thinning blond hair,
hurried over and handed Tree a menu. “Can I get you something to drink, sir?” he said.

  Tree asked for a glass of water, and the waiter scurried away.

  “What? No wine?” Johnny Bravo said. “I guess I am not in Montreal, am I?”

  “Tree, you shouldn’t be here,” Melora said.

  “I’m not so sure about that, Sergeant,” Tree said equably. “This could be an opportunity for the four of us to be a little more honest with each other than we have up until now. I know that Johnny is a gangster. That’s clear enough.”

  “I’m a Montreal businessman,” Johnny protested. “I have nothing to do with gangsters.”

  “But I’m not so sure about you, Melora. Are you really a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police?” Tree continued. “I’m beginning to think you aren’t.”

  Johnny Bravo allowed his eyes to go wide with surprise. “Melora? Not a Mountie? Don’t tell me you’ve been lying, Melora.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this,” Melora said. “This is so ridiculous. I’m not going to be part of it.”

  “So, Tree.” Johnny’s eyebrows were lifted up in delight. “If she isn’t who she says she is, who do you think she is?”

  “Vic Trinchera’s mistress, perhaps,” Tree said.

  Melora, red-faced, slapped Tree hard. His head jerked back, his ears ringing. Blood gushed from his nose. “You have no manners,” she said.

  “Take it easy, Melora,” Johnny said. “He could have called you something much worse.”

  “I’m not that,” she said in a hurt voice. “I’m not what he says I am.”

  Tree was holding his nose. Johnny Bravo tossed him one of the white linen napkins on the table. “Here you go, Tree. You’re bleeding.”

  Tree took the napkin and looked at Shay. “And then there is Shay. The mystery woman. Partner of the late André Manteau? Muse? What were you to him? How do you play into this?”

  “Tree has a point, Shay,” Johnny said. “You’re not exactly biker babe material. André usually liked them in denim with lots of tattoos.”

  Shay gave Johnny a cool, appraising look. “No tattoos, Johnny.”

  “And no André,” Johnny shot back.

  This isn’t getting us anywhere,”she said.

  Johnny met her gaze, unblinking. “It gets us to who you really are, Shay. And what it is you want.”